SSTE Chp1Pt3 MobileOptTEST

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Sleep is not merciful. Not to you. Perhaps it was once, long ago. When you wandered palace halls and played in fountains and climbed trees. You can hardly remember if you used to dream then, or what you might have dreamed about. Maybe your nights were filled with play and laughter, the way your days were. Or maybe they were blissfully silent. You were afraid of silence, once. Silence spelled death. Silence was the dull echo of a heartbeat beat, beat, beating out its last pulse before going horribly, dreadfully, awfully quiet. Silence was what followed a last ragged breath drawn over cracked lips, heavy tongue still wet with the taste of iron. Silence was the eerie still of unsinging birds, right before an ambush. Silence was a killer. Now, you long for silence. For an end to the endless buzz in your head, to the ceaseless thrumming of every thread of fate, their persistent humming a cacophany of noise so deafening you can scarcely hear yourself think most nights. Your goddess's borrowed sight is both a blessing and a curse—a parting of the veil that obscures the past and the future from those rooted in the present, an open door you cannot close. A dreamless sleep scared you once. Now, sometimes you cannot help but think it sounds...peaceful. It would be better than this, surely. [[Continue|Chp1-1.1]]

Currently Not Yet Implemented

<<if $statsList>>[[Stats]]<<endif>>\ <<if $codexList>>[[Codex]]<<endif>>\ <<if $achievementsList>>[[Achievements]]<<endif>>\ [[Credits]] [[Restart|MainMenu]]

<span class="bigtexttitle">''Profile''</span> ---- ''Name:'' <<if $mcnickname is "$mcname">>$mcname<<else>>$mcname ($mcnickname)<</if>> Al'Teia ''Pronouns:'' $they/$them/$theirs ''Age:'' 22 \ <<set $mainpersonality to "gentle">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $gentle>>\ <<if $confrontational > $mainpersonalitynum>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "confrontational">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $confrontational>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $dignified > $mainpersonalitynum>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "dignified">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $dignified>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $imposing > $mainpersonalitynum>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "imposing">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $imposing>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $charismatic > $mainpersonalitynum>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "charismatic">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $charismatic>>\ <<endif>>\ \ <span class="bigtext">''Personality''</span> ---- ''__Disposition:__'' <<if $mainpersonality is "gentle">>\ You tend to be kindly, tender, and gentle, preferring to show mercy and consideration to others where you can. You tend to avoid confrontation, finding it distasteful, and will usually try to find a way to mediate when things get heated. <<elseif $mainpersonality is "confrontational">>\ You tend to be hot-headed and abrasive. Eloquence has never been something that has come easily to you; rather, you tend to speak before you think. You can be impulsive and you have few reservations when it comes to confrontations. <<elseif $mainpersonality is "dignified">>\ Dignified and above it all, you tend to exude an imperious disposition. Duty comes first for you, and your courtly stoicism and reserved politeness can at times make you come across as distant, if not a bit cold. <<elseif $mainpersonality is "imposing">>\ Imposing and imperious, you tend to exude a rather intimidating aura. Your formal and impersonal mannerisms can often make you come across as austere and unapproachable. <<else>>\ Charming and agreeable, your warm and charismatic mannerisms render you a rather approachable person. You tend to beguile those around you with practiced smiles and witty conversation. <<endif>>\ <<set $secondarypersonality to "manipulative">>\ <<set $secondarypersonalitynum to $manipulative>>\ <<if $sincere > $secondarypersonalitynum>>\ <<set $secondarypersonality to "sincere">>\ <<set $secondarypersonalitynum to $sincere>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $aloof > $secondarypersonalitynum>>\ <<set $secondarypersonality to "aloof">>\ <<set $secondarypersonalitynum to $aloof>>\ <<endif>>\ \ <<if $secondarypersonality is "sincere">>\ You are also usually rather honest and straightforward in your feelings and intentions. Genuine and sincere, you say what you mean—sometimes to the point of coming across as a bit blunt. <<elseif $secondarypersonality is "aloof">>\ <<if ($mainpersonality is "gentle") or ($mainpersonality is "charismatic")>>\ Despite your pleasant personality, you tend to be reserved regarding your true feelings and intentions. You keep your emotions close to your heart; sometimes it can make you come off as a bit detatched and aloof. <<else>>\ You also tend to be reserved and taciturn regarding your true feelings and intentions. You keep your emotions close to your heart, and your stoicism and reluctance towards sincerity can render you detatched and stiff, if not a bit standoffish. <<endif>>\ <<else>>\ <<if ($mainpersonality is "gentle") or ($mainpersonality is "charismatic")>>\ Your pleasant personality can often be a front, however. Those who don't know you well might miss the cunning tilt to your artful smiles. You are manipulative, crafty, and deceitful; you don't shy away from underhanded tactics if it gets you your way, and you often are evasive with your true feelings and intentions. <<else>>\ You wear your emotions like a mask, as you are a thespian at heart. You are manipulative, crafty, and deceitful; you don't shy away from underhanded tactics if it gets you your way, and you often are evasive with your true feelings and intentions. <<endif>>\ <<endif>>\ \ <<if $selfesteemchosen is true>>\ ''__Self-esteem;__'' <<if $selfesteem is "confident">>\ You are confident and self-assured, both in mannerisms and in appearances. <<elseif $selfesteem is "apathetic">>\ You don't have much of a sense of self-esteem; rather you are largely apathetic to how most people perceive you. <<else>>\ You are self-conscious and often second-guess yourself. You are inhibited by your own hesitance at times, and you are discomfited with your appearance. <<endif>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $mannerschosen is true>>\ ''__Manners:__'' <<if $manners is "impeccable">>\ Your years of etiquette lessons have not been lost on you; your manners are impeccable. You are polite and well-behaved in most every social situation that requires it. <<elseif $manners is "mediocre">>\ Your manners are mediocre at best. You think you can recall most of your etiquette lessons if you think hard enough about it, but sometimes you simply do not care enough to follow proper social protocol. <<else>>\ Your manners are, to put it bluntly, poor. You are often too impatient or apathetic enough to follow proper social etiquette. <<endif>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $hobbychosen>>\ ''__Hobbies:__'' <<if not ($hobby is "music") and not ($hobby is "reading") and not ($hobby is "sparring")>>\ While you haven't had as much time for it since you were younger, you like $hobby. You've kept up with it sporadically over the years, but you think you'd perhaps like to pick it up in earnest again someday, given the chance. <<elseif $hobby is "sparring">>\ You haven't had the luxury for anything like hobbies since you were a $kid. Anything not related to your training was considered a waste of time growing up, so in your free time, you usually prefer to spar. <<elseif $hobby is "music">>\ While you haven't had as much time for it since you were younger, you like music and singing. You've kept up with it sporadically over the years, but you think you'd perhaps like to pick it up in earnest again someday, given the chance. You prefer to play the $instrument. <<else>>\ You've always liked reading, and although you haven't often had the luxury to read simply for pleasure, you've found you have a fondness for $bookgenre especially. <</if>>\ <</if>>\ <<if $outlookchosen is true>>\ \ ''__Outlook:__'' <<if ($outlooknum >= 0) and ($outlooknum <= 40)>>\ <<set $outlook to "cynical">>\ <<elseif ($outlooknum >= 41) and ($outlooknum <= 59)>>\ <<set $outlook to "realistic">>\ <<else>>\ <<set $outlook to "optimistic">>\ <<endif>>\ \ <<if $outlook is "realistic">>\ You have a realistic outlook on things. You try to see the bigger picture and acknowledge both the good and the bad. <<elseif $outlook is "optimistic">>\ You have an optimistic outlook on things, despite everything. You try to see the good in everything and everyone and always look for the silver lining. <<else>>\ You have a rather pessimistic outlook on things. You are cynical and skeptical, and find it difficult to look past the bad side of things. <<endif>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $politicschosen is true>>\ \ ''__Ideology:__'' <<if ($politicsnum >= 0) and ($politicsnum <= 40)>>\ <<set $politics to "prog">>\ <<elseif ($politicsnum >= 41) and ($politicsnum <= 59)>>\ <<set $politics to "mid">>\ <<else>>\ <<set $politics to "trad">>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $politics is "prog">>\ For royalty, you tend to have a more open mind regarding ideas that strain against the traditional values you've been conditioned to uphold. <<elseif $politics is "trad">>\ You've been conditioned to uphold a set of traditional values maintained by your family's long and proud dynasty for generations. You are beholden to your goddess' teachings and your family's legacy and can be prideful and obstinate regarding challenges to those beliefs. <<else>>\ You tend to strike a middle-ground when it comes to tradition and progress; you are beholden to your goddess' teachings and your family's legacy, yes, but you also recognize the usefulness of change. <<endif>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $magicchosen is true>>\ <span class="bigtext">''Magic and Combat''</span> ---- ''__Magical Affinity:__'' <<if $magic is "fire">>\ While you are primarily proficient in the art of divination and foresight, you also have always had a natural affinity for fire magic. Summoning and manipulating flames comes effortlessly to you, as does wielding sunlight itself, at times with the gentleness and warmth of a sunbeam and at others with the scorching intensity of the most unforgiving desert suns. <<elseif $magic is "illusion">>\ While you are primarily proficient in the art of divination and foresight, you have always had a natural affinity for illusory magic. You can tap into people’s thoughts and emotions, influencing how they perceive the world around them. Creating illusions is no large feat for you—you manipulate and bend light to your whim, influencing it to take shape. <<elseif $magic is "healing">>\ While you are primarily proficient in the art of divination and foresight, you also have a natural affinity for healing and protective magic. You wield sunlight with all the gentleness of a sunbeam, coaxing flesh to mend and fevers to break. Your magic is at once warm and forgiving, but also severe and remorseless, punishing those who would seek to break wards you cast to protect those under your care with all the blazing intensity of an inferno. <<else>>\ While you are primarily proficient in the art of divination and foresight, you also have a natural affinity for manipulating gravitational fields, bogging down your enemies with unforgiving increases in gravity or pulling them in closer to enable you to make the final kill. Conversely, you can make your own body movements quick and light as a feather by decreasing your own gravity or traverse difficult terrain like cliffsides and ceilings with ease by adjusting your own direction of gravity. Your magic can be incredibly useful, but it is difficult to master and very dangerous if not used correctly. <<endif>>\ <<endif>>\ \ <<if $weaponchosen is true>>\ ''__Weapon:__'' <<if $weapon is "sword">>\ You prefer the sword to other weapons in combat. Since Castor's death, you've taken to using his sword. <<elseif $weapon is "spear">>\ You prefer the spear to other weapons in combat. Since Parim's death, you've taken to using his spear. <<elseif $weapon is "axe">>\ You prefer the axe to other weapons in combat. Since Aurora's death, you've taken to using her axe. <<else>>\ You prefer the bow to other weapons in combat. If you can't avoid close-range combat, you use a dagger. Since Ember's death, you've taken to using his bow. <<endif>>\ <<endif>>\ <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

<a href="https://www.patreon.com/FenofCattails">Patreon</a> <a href="https://ko-fi.com/fennyth">Ko-Fi</a>

<span class="bigtexttitle">Stygian Sun: Total Eclipse</span>

An interactive story by <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/stygiansun-totaleclipse">Fen</a>

<<run UIBar.unstow();>><<run UIBar.show();>>\  <<cacheaudio "desertmain" "music/desert-storm-ii-114904.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "desertfantasybg" "music/desertfantasybg.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "indiantemple" "music/indiantemple.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "traditionalindian" "music/traditionalindian.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "desertstorm" "music/desertstorm.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "cinematicsuspense" "music/cinematicsuspense.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "egyptianflute" "music/egyptianflute.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "fireplace" "music/fireplace.wav">> <<cacheaudio "indianharp" "music/indianharp.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "sadpiano" "music/sadpiano.mp3">>  <<set $chapter to "Chapter 1">> <<set $statsList to false>> <<set $codexList to false>> <<set $achievementsList to false>>  <<set $luca to false>> <<set $aurynn to false>> <<set $farah to false>> <<set $samira to false>> <<set $nour to false>> <<set $mother to false>> <<set $consorts to false>> <<set $safina to false>> <<set $najaat to false>> <<set $aurora to false>> <<set $castor to false>> <<set $ember to false>> <<set $helia to false>> <<set $soleil to false>> <<set $father to false>> <<set $kieran to false>> <<set $nihm to false>> <<set $lilithlucien to false>> <<set $grandmother to false>> <<set $parimteaset to "intact">> <<set $chp1nourvision to false>> <<set $farahdivination to false>> <<set $momtalkgrandmother to false>>\ <<set $talkedtofarah to "">>\ <<set $talkedluca to "">>\ <<set $chp1interrogatedAurynn to false>>\ <<set $chp1MeetAurynnFlashback to false>>\ <<set $chp1TalkedAurynnVault to false>>\ <<set $SamCharList to "">>\  <<set $lucathey to "he">> <<set $lucathem to "him">> <<set $lucatheir to "his">> <<set $lucatheirs to "his">> <<set $lucathemself to "himself">> <<set $lucagender to "boy">> <<set $lucachild to "son">> <<set $lucaThey to $lucathey.toUpperFirst(),$lucaTheir to $lucatheir.toUpperFirst()>> <<set $kthey to "he">> <<set $kthem to "him">> <<set $ktheir to "his">> <<set $ktheirs to "his">> <<set $kthemself to "himself">> <<set $kgender to "man">> <<set $ktitle to "prince">> <<set $ksibling to "brother">> <<set $kchild to "son">> <<set $kkid to "boy">> <<set $kfuturetitle to "king">> <<set $kspouse to "husband">> <<set $kThey to $kthey.toUpperFirst(),$kTheir to $ktheir.toUpperFirst(),$kTitle to $ktitle.toUpperFirst()>> <<set $kfiance to "fiancé">> <<set $kliege to "lord">> <<set $kmiliege to "milord">> <<set $lthey to "he">> <<set $lthem to "him">> <<set $ltheir to "his">> <<set $ltheirs to "his">> <<set $lthemself to "himself">> <<set $lgender to "man">> <<set $ltitle to "lord">> <<set $lmiliege to "milord">> <<set $lsibling to "brother">> <<set $lchild to "son">> <<set $lkid to "boy">> <<set $lspouse to "husband">> <<set $lnickname to "Luci">> <<set $lThey to $lthey.toUpperFirst(),$lTheir to $ltheir.toUpperFirst(),$lTitle to $ltitle.toUpperFirst()>>   <<set $plural to true,$they to "they",$them to "them",$their to "their",$theirs to "theirs",$themself to "themself">> <<set $They to $they.toUpperFirst(), $Their to $their.toUpperFirst()>>\ <<set $liege to "liege">> <<set $Liege to $liege.toUpperFirst()>> <<set $person to "person">> <<set $title to "prince">> <<set $sibling to "sibling">> <<set $child to "child">> <<set $kid to "boy">> <<set $dynast to "dynast">> <<set $Title to $title.toUpperFirst()>> <<set $Sibling to $sibling.toUpperFirst()>> <<set $Child to $child.toUpperFirst()>> <<set $Dynast to $dynast.toUpperFirst()>> <<set $skin to "tan">> <<set $eye to "brown">> <<set $hairlength to "long">> <<set $haircolor to "black">> <<set $hairtexture to "straight">> <<set $hairstyle to "ponytail">> <<set $height to "tall">> <<set $build to "slender">> <<set $attraction to "both">> <<set $trans to false>> <<set $sigil to "shoulder">>  <<set $mcname to "">> <<set $mcnickname to "">> <<set $L to "Lucien">>  <<set $favcolor to "blue">> <<set $favtea to "chai">> <<set $favteamixin to "honey">> <<set $favmeal to "lentil stew">> <<set $favdessert to "rice pudding">> <<set $favflower to "undecided">> <<set $magic to "fire">> <<set $magicchosen to false>> <<set $weapon to "other">> <<set $weaponchosen to false>> <<set $selfesteem to "apathetic">> <<set $appearance to "apatheticmin">> <<set $selfesteemchosen to false>> <<set $clothes to "dress">> <<set $pretty to "pretty">> <<set $manners to "impeccable">> <<set $mannerschosen to false>> <<set $hobby to "carving">> <<set $hobbychosen to false>> <<set $instrument to "none">> <<set $bookgenre to "none">>  <<set $imposing to 0>> <<set $dignified to 0>> <<set $charismatic to 0>> <<set $manipulative to 0>> <<set $confrontational to 0>> <<set $gentle to 0>> <<set $sincere to 0>> <<set $aloof to 0>> <<set $prog to 50>> <<set $trad to 50>> <<set $politics to "prog">> <<set $politicsnum to 50>> <<set $politicschosen to false>> <<set $mainpersonality to "gentle">> <<set $secondarypersonality to "manipulative">> <<set $mainpersonalitynum to 0>>\ <<set $secondarypersonalitynum to 0>>\ <<set $optimistic to 50>> <<set $cynical to 50>> <<set $outlook to "realistic">> <<set $outlooknum to 50>> <<set $outlookchosen to false>>  <<set $lookaway to false>> <<set $embrace to "">> <<set $dressmyself to "self">> <<set $chp1guilty to "guilty">> <<set $dranksamstonic to false>> <<set $dunkedbyaurynn to false>> <<set $kissedaurynn to false>> <<set $bitaurynnstongue to false>> <<set $toldaurynnnoforbook to false>> <<set $chp1aurynnsaidcantsing to false>>\ <<set $heardaboutraya to false>> <<set $momrelationship to "close">> <<set $momrelationshipchosen to false>>\ <<set $gavesamcoronationpapers to false>> <<set $chp1askedsamaurynnflowers to false>>\ <<set $askflowercount to 0>> <<set $chp1findaurynnvault to false>>\  <<set $flirtedAurynn to 0>> <<set $flirtedSam to 0>> <<set $flirtedKieran to 0>> <<set $flirtedL to 0>> <<set $flirtedNihm to 0>> <<set $crushonA to false>> <<set $crushonS to false>> <<set $crushonL to false>>

<<widget "are">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>are<<case false>>is<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "Are">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>Are<<case false>>Is<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "were">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>were<<case false>>was<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "Were">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>were<<case false>>Was<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "have">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>have<<case false>>has<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "ve">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>ve<<case false>>s<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "s">><<switch $plural>><<case true>><<case false>>s<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "re">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>re<<case false>>s<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "try">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>try<<case false>>tries<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "y">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>y<<case false>>ies<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "es">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>es<<case false>>s<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "name">><<print $mcname.toUpperFirst()>> <</widget>> <<widget "es2">><<switch $plural>><<case true>><<case false>>es<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "do1">><<switch $plural>><<case true>>do<<case false>>does<</switch>><</widget>> <<widget "scicon">><span @class="'sc-icon sc-' + $args.raw" alt="' + $args.raw + '"></span><</widget>>

\ <span class="bigtext">$chapter</span>

<a href="https://www.motoslave.net/sugarcube/2/docs/">Sugarcube 2 Documentation</a> <a href="https://github.com/ChapelR/custom-macros-for-sugarcube-2">Chapel - custom macros collection</a> <a href="https://github.com/cyrusfirheir/cycy-wrote-custom-macros">Cycy's custom macros</a> <a href="https://nyehilism.itch.io/twine-template">nyehilism's Twine Sugarcube template</a> <a href="https://mistyriousness.itch.io/fade-to-black-macro">Mistyriousness's fade to black macro</a> <a href="https://pixabay.com/users/17147719/?tab=music&order=latest&pagi=1">A Desert Tale - Ethnic & Fantasy Background Music by OB-LIX</a> <a href="https://pixabay.com/users/dvr00000-42010167/">Indian Temple music by dvr00000</a> <a href="https://pixabay.com/users/grafiqindia-37108373/">Traditional Indian music by GrafiqIndia</a> <a href="https://pixabay.com/users/artslop_flodur-1985637/">Desert Storm II music by ArtSlop_Flodur</a> <a href="https://pixabay.com/music/build-up-scenes-dark-cinematic-documentary-suspense-226709/">Dark Cinematic Documentary Suspense music by ArctSound</a> <a href="https://pixabay.com/music/world-akhet-the-inundation-of-the-nile-egyptian-double-reed-flute-music-176525/">Akhet, the Inundation of the Nile - Egyptian Double Reed Flute Music by ArizonaGuide</a> <a href="https://pixabay.com/music/ambient-indian-summer-ambient-harp-117810/">Indian Summer - Ambient Harp by Dream-Protocol</a> <a href="https://freesound.org/people/silencyo/sounds/81801/">Fireplace by silencyo</a> <a href="https://pixabay.com/music/nostalgia-a-sad-piano-163372/">A Sad Piano by Music_For_Videos</a> \  \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

<h3>StoryInterface</h3> The StoryInterface special passage, used by creating a special passage titled StoryInterface, allows you to override the default UI layout of Sugarcube. At its most basic, it consists of a div with the id "passages" that displays the data from your passages on the screen, as shown in example 1. You can add more complex layouts by adding more elements to this passage, such as menu bars, splash screens, headers and footers, as shown in example 2. Defining these divs is as simple as adding the necessary HTML to the StoryInterface passage; however, note that if a div is assigned a "data-passage" property, you should not add content to it within the StoryInterface passage. This property assigns a passage to that div. In example 2, the div with the id "ui-bar" has the data-passage property "UIBar", meaning it pulls its content data from a passage with the same name. These designations are case-sensitive. If you're just starting out with Twine/Sugarcube, it's a good idea to familiarize yourself with the language and the UI before working with StoryInterface. ''Example 1'' {{{<div id="passages"></div>}}} ''Example 2'' {{{<div id="ui-bar" data-passage="UIBar"></div>}}} {{{<div id="passages"></div>}}} {{{<div id="footer" data-passage="Footer"></div>}}} This will create a layout with three basic elements: the UI bar, the passage, and the footer. Content for the UI bar is found in the UIBar passage; likewise with the Footer passage & div. <h3>Accessing the UI functions</h3> Using StoryInterface by nature removes the built-in UI bar and the links contained within (Saves, Settings, Restart etc); these can all be replaced using their relevant APIs. The most common & useful of these are listed below. These commands can be placed inside links or buttons. {{{UI.saves() - opens the save UI}}} {{{UI.settings() - opens the settings UI}}} {{{UI.restart() - restarts the game}}} {{{Engine.backward()/Engine.forward() - undoes the previous action and returns the player to the previous passage/moves the player forward one action}}} Similarly to the above, you can use {{{<<back>>}}} to create a button that automatically undoes the last action, or {{{<<return>>}}} to return to the previous passage without undoing any variable changes made. <h3>Dialog functions</h3> You can set up dialog options to pop up upon clicking a link or button, which allows you to share information with the player without adding a new passage to the player's history or changing the state of the game. In order to do this, you need to set up the Dialog box, tell it what passage contains the content you want to display, and optionally, add a title. {{{Dialog.setup("Dialog Box Title");}}} {{{Dialog.wiki(Story.get("PassageName").processText());}}} {{{Dialog.open();}}} Any of these commands can be used in the default layout as well as StoryInterface - if you want extra save buttons, back buttons etc. <<back "Return">> <<link "Settings">><<script>>UI.settings();<</script>><</link>> <<button "Saves">><<script>>UI.saves();<</script>><</button>>

<img src="images/sstelogo.png" width="95%"/>

<<set $lucaThey to $lucathey.toUpperFirst(),$lucaTheir to $lucatheir.toUpperFirst()>>\ <<set $luca to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-1.2") <= 1>>\ <<notify>>Luca Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You try to look up at $lucatheir face, but your vision swims, and all you can make out is the hazy silhouette of a young $lucagender, barely thirteen, the outline of $lucathem grainy and distorted at the edges, unfocused and blurry like a foggy memory—one that brings with it a wave of nostalgia and fondness, of loss and heartache. Though you cannot make out $lucatheir features, you have no doubts about $lucatheir identity. You would know $lucathem by shape, by sound, by smell alone—like sand and spices. Like home. "You’re here," you croak, hoarsely. Your throat feels raw and ragged. "Mmm," Luca hums. "You were gone a while, this time. Longer than usual." $lucaThey sighs. "I see you are going to ignore my advice." "What advice?" "About //not. Speaking.//" <div class="choice"><<link '"When do I ever heed your advice?"' 'Chp1-1.2tease'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link '"Ah. Right." You go quiet.' 'Chp1-1.2quiet'>><</link>></div>

<<if visited("Chp1-1.3yes") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Yes," you say simply. "I do." Were it anyone else, pride might have stayed your tongue in asking for help. But pride has never been an obstacle between you and Luca. Well, not for //you.// Perhaps, if you were honest with yourself, you could do this on your own. But the fact is you do not want to. You don’t want to be alone. You don’t know what it is that keeps Luca here, what it is that summons $lucathem to your dreams at night—your own loneliness? Manifestations of guilt, maybe? Or perhaps it is some sort of connection beyond the planes of life and death that your goddess, Theia, has graciously granted you. Regardless, you fear that if you did not need Luca’s help anymore, you would cease to see $lucathem. Dreams are the only place you can see $lucathem now, after all. You turn to look at Luca. "I still need your help." You cannot see Luca’s face, but you can feel the smile in $lucatheir voice. "Well," $lucathey says. [["I suppose I’ll have to lend you a hand, then."|Chp1-1.4]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.3no") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "No…" you lie. Perhaps, if you were honest with yourself, you could do this on your own. But the fact is you do not want to. You don’t want to be alone. You don’t know what it is that keeps Luca here, what it is that summons $lucathem to your dreams at night—your own loneliness? Manifestations of guilt, maybe? Or perhaps it is some sort of connection beyond the planes of life and death that your goddess, Theia, has graciously granted you. Regardless, you fear that if you did not need Luca’s help anymore, you would cease to see $lucathem. Dreams are the only place you can see $lucathem now, after all. "I can do this on my own." You sit up straighter, trying not to look as exhausted as you feel. Luca lets out a small hum of amusement. "Oh?" $lucathey says, slouching forward to rest $lucatheir elbow on $lucatheir knee. $lucaThey props $lucatheir chin on $lucatheir fist. "Well, this I have to see." You cave instantly. "I lied," you admit. "I know," Luca says, and you can hear the self-satisfied smile in $lucatheir voice. [["I suppose I’ll just have to lend you a hand, then."|Chp1-1.4]]

"Thank you," you say. "I mean it." Luca shifts a bit uncomfortably next to you. "It’s not a big deal." $lucaThey sits up straight, crossing $lucatheir legs a bit tighter, and rests a hand on each knee. Though you cannot see $lucatheir face, $lucatheir features lost against $lucatheir dark silhouette, you feel as though you can sense $lucathem eyeing you out of $lucatheir periphery. "You’ve grown impatient," Luca chastises you. "You remember how your mother taught us, don't you? You must grow roots before you can begin to branch out. Focus. Center yourself." "Help me." "Tch. Start small. Who are you?" "You know who I am." "I do. But do //you//?" "I am..." <<textbox "$mcname" "Your name" "Chp1-1.5">> (Press enter to continue after typing your name) <<link 'See suggestions for gender neutral names.'>> <<script>> Dialog.setup('Gender Neutral Names'); Dialog.wiki(Story.get('gender neutral names').processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</link>> <<link 'See suggestions for male names.'>> <<script>> Dialog.setup('Male Names'); Dialog.wiki(Story.get('male names').processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</link>> <<link 'See suggestions for female names.'>> <<script>> Dialog.setup('Female Names'); Dialog.wiki(Story.get('female names').processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</link>>

Sol Auriel Aurelian Blaze Ymir Sunni Lucir Elio Aarya Auria Saffire Rubi Solstice Leo Leonor Laurel Renaedra Skye Skylis Ambyr Lustre Amayr Azar Aster Spark Flare Singe Flicker Sybil Delphi

Dawn Cyra Helena Cassandra Aurelia Amina Aaliyah Zahra Lumina Lumiera Saadiya Ellenoura Ylira Ellira Araya Sunniva Austra Goldis Scorcha Marisol Phaedra Lucina Amra Cressida Astra Althea Hestia

Amir Aurelius Cyrus Anwar Nuri Elio Lioran Leo Orion Aaziya Phoenix Solar Seraphim Aurum Zahran Ravi Azaran Aidynn Ardyn Sorriel Mars Azharan Selosion Austerion Horus Mehr Apollo

<<if $mcname is "">>\ Your mind swims as you try to recall your name, but nothing comes to mind. You press a hand to your temple as your head throbs painfully. <<link '"It\'s alright. Try again," Luca says, $lucatheir voice gentler this time.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Aurynn">>\ "My name is Aurynn," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "Is it now?" Luca asks, tilting $lucatheir head. "I think a certain retainer of yours would have some words about that." //That's right,// you think. //Aurynn is my retainer's name.// <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Theia">>\ "My name is Theia," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "Is it now?" Luca asks, sounding amused. "Don't go letting anyone else hear you say that. Rather blasphemous, don't you think?" //That's right,// you think, face heating with embarrassment. //Theia is my goddess.// <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Celestyl">>\ "My name is Celestyl," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "Is it now?" Luca asks, sounding amused. "Don't go letting anyone else hear you say that. Rather blasphemous, don't you think?" //That's right,// you think, face heating with embarrassment. //Celestyl is the moon god.// <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Starfell">>\ "My name is Starfell," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "Is it now?" Luca asks, sounding amused. "Don't go letting anyone else hear you say that. Rather blasphemous, don't you think?" //That's right,// you think, face heating with embarrassment. //Starfell is what we call the nameless god of stars, whose true name has been long forgotten.// <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Maia">>\ "My name is Maia," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "Is it now?" Luca asks, sounding amused. "Don't go letting anyone else hear you say that. Rather blasphemous, don't you think?" //That's right,// you think, face heating with embarrassment. A prickle of dread swirls in your stomach and you offer a silent prayer to Theia that the slumbering earth goddess did not hear you. <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Kieran">>\ "My name is Kieran," you say, although that immediately doesn't sound right. "No it isn't," Luca says dryly. "No, it isn't," you agree. <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Luca">>\ "My name is Luca," you say. If Luca could fix you with a dry look, $lucathey would. Instead $lucatheir silhouette flickers. "Very funny," $lucathey says. <<link '"Now try again."' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Lucien">>\ "My name is Lucien," you say, although that immediately doesn't sound right. Luca's silhouette flickers strangely. "No..." $lucathey says, $lucatheir voice sounding somewhat hollow. "That...that doesn't sound right." You give Luca an odd look, but $lucathey doesn't say anything more. <<link 'You\'ll try again.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Lilith">>\ "My name is Lilith," you say, although that immediately doesn't sound right. Luca's silhouette flickers strangely. "No..." $lucathey says, $lucatheir voice sounding somewhat hollow. "That...that doesn't sound right." You give Luca an odd look, but $lucathey doesn't say anything more. <<link 'You\'ll try again.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Samira">>\ "My name is Samira," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "Is it now?" Luca asks, tilting $lucatheir head. "I think you're mixing yourself up with a certain priestess." //That's right,// you think. //Samira is my acolyte's name.// <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Nihm">>\ "My name is Nihm," you say, although that immediately doesn't sound right. "No it isn't," Luca says dryly. "No, it isn't," you agree. <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Alektis">>\ "My name is Alektis," you say, although that immediately doesn't sound right. "No it isn't," Luca says dryly. "No, it isn't," you agree. <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Nour">>\ "My name is Nour," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "Is it now?" Luca asks, tilting $lucatheir head. "An understandable mistake, I suppose. You are flesh and blood after all." //That's right,// you think. //Nour is my sibling's name.// <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Farah">>\ "My name is Farah," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "Is it now?" Luca asks, tilting $lucatheir head. "An understandable mistake, I suppose. You are flesh and blood after all." //That's right,// you think. //Farah is my little sister's name.// <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Ember">>\ "My name is Ember," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "No," $lucathey says, $lucatheir voice pained. "That isn't your name..." It takes you a moment to part through the fog in your head just briefly enough to remember why that name sounds familiar to you. //That's right,// you think, sadly. //Ember is my older brother's name.// Was. //Was my older brother's name.// <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says, gentler this time.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Parim">>\ You struggle to think of a name, and say the first that comes to mind. "My name is Parim," you say, knowing immediately that is wrong. A stabbing pain grips your heart as you remember the way he crumpled to the ground, his neck torn open and twisted at an unnatural angle. "No," $lucathey says, $lucatheir voice pained. "That isn't your name..." "No," you agree quietly. <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says, gentler this time.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Castor">>\ "My name is Castor," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "No," $lucathey says, $lucatheir voice pained. "That isn't your name..." It takes you a moment to part through the fog in your head just briefly enough to remember why that name sounds familiar to you. //That's right,// you think, sadly. //Castor is my older brother's name.// Was. //Was my older brother's name.// <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says, gentler this time.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Aurora">>\ "My name is Aurora," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "No," $lucathey says, $lucatheir voice pained. "That isn't your name..." It takes you a moment to part through the fog in your head just briefly enough to remember why that name sounds familiar to you. //That's right,// you think, sadly. //Aurora is my older sister's name.// Was. //Was my older sister's name.// <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says, gentler this time.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Soleil">>\ "My name is Soleil," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "Is it now?" Luca asks, tilting $lucatheir head. "I doubt your mother would have named you after Soleil. The two can't stand each other." //That's right,// you think. //Soleil is Castor's, Ember's, and Farah's mother.// Was. //She was Castor's and Ember's mother. Now she only has Farah.// <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Najaat">>\ "My name is Najaat," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "Is it now?" Luca asks, tilting $lucatheir head. "I doubt your mother would have named you after Najaat. The two can't stand each other." //That's right,// you think. //Najaat is Nour's mother.// <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Safina">>\ "My name is Safina," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "Is it now?" Luca asks, tilting $lucatheir head. "I doubt your mother would have named you after Safina. The two can't stand each other." //That's right,// you think. //Safina is Parim's and Aurora's mother.// Was. //She// was //their mother.// <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Helia">>\ "My name is Helia," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "Is it now?" Luca asks, tilting $lucatheir head. "Well, she is a sweet woman. Better than that pit of vipers your father calls his consorts, anyway. But that name doesn't belong to you, does it?" //That's right,// you think. //Helia is my father's newest consort.// <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Solis">>\ "My name is Solis," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "Is it now?" Luca asks, tilting $lucatheir head. "An understandable mistake, I suppose. You are flesh and blood after all." //That's right,// you think. //Solis is my father's name.// <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Phoebe">>\ "My name is Phoebe," you say, and while that name sounds familiar to you, it doesn't sound right. "Is it now?" Luca asks, tilting $lucatheir head. "An understandable mistake, I suppose. You are flesh and blood after all." //That's right,// you think. //Phoebe is my mother's name.// <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<elseif $mcname is "Novan">>\ "My name is Novan," you say, although that immediately doesn't sound right. Luca's silhouette flickers darkly. "No. No, that isn't right." "Do you know someone by that name?" you ask, giving $lucathem an odd look. Luca shakes $lucatheir head. "No...I just have a feeling, I suppose. The owner of that name...their thread of fate is connected to yours." $lucaThey shakes $lucathemself off, moving on before you can press $lucathem further. <<link '"Try again," $lucathey says.' 'Chp1-1.4ReenterName'>><</link>> <<else>>\ "$mcname Al’Teia," you say, confidently. Luca's silhouette flickers. "And do I know you by any other name?" $lucathey asks. <div class="choice">[[Yes. Those close to me sometimes refer to me by another name.|Chp1-1.5yes]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link 'No, $mcname is what I am called.' 'Chp1-1.6'>><</link>></div> <<endif>>\

"And that is?" <<textbox "$mcnickname" "Your nickname" "Chp1-1.6">>

<<if $mcnickname>>\ "$mcnickname," you answer. <<else>>\ <<set $mcnickname to "$mcname">>\ <<endif>>\ \ Luca’s silhouette becomes a little more focused, more solid. "$mcnickname, then. Good," $lucathey says. "But would you recognize yourself?" The air in front of you seems to shimmer and ripple like the crystal waters of the fountains you and Luca used to play in long ago, and you have to force yourself to swallow the lump rising in your throat. //Focus.// You concentrate on the reflection before you and soon [[you recognize a face staring back at you.|Chp1-1.7Character Creator Pronoun Preset]]

The face before me belongs to a… <label><<radiobutton "$person" "man" checked>>Man.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$person" "woman">>Woman.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$person" "person">>Person.</label> And this figure uses what title? <label><<radiobutton "$title" "prince" checked>>Prince.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$title" "princess">>Princess.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$title" "princeps">>Princeps.</label> Though this figure is not first-in-line, if you were to succeed the throne, what title would you take? <label><<radiobutton "$dynast" "emperor" checked>>Emperor.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$dynast" "empress">>Empress.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$dynast" "dynast">>Dynast.</label> Others may refer to this figure as? <label><<radiobutton "$liege" "lord" checked>>Lord.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$liege" "lady">>Lady.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$liege" "liege">>Liege.</label> And among siblings, this figure prefers to be referred to as...? <label><<radiobutton "$sibling" "brother" checked>>Brother.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$sibling" "sister">>Sister.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$sibling" "sibling">>Sibling.</label> And among parents, this figure prefers to be referred to as...? <label><<radiobutton "$child" "son" checked>>Son.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$child" "daughter">>Daughter.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$child" "child">>Child.</label> This figure prefers that their child-self be referred to as a...? <label><<radiobutton "$kid" "boy" checked>>Son.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$kid" "girl">>Daughter.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$kid" "child">>Child.</label> [[Continue|Chp1-1.7.1]]

<<if $person is "man">>\ <<set $kid2 to "boy">>\ <<elseif $person is "person">>\ <<set$kid2 to "kid">>\ <<else>>\ <<set$kid2 to "girl">>\ <<endif>>\ The figure uses what pronouns? <div class="choice">[[They/them/theirs|Chp1-1.7.2Trans][$plural to true,$they to "they",$them to "them",$their to "their",$theirs to "theirs",$themself to "themself"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[He/him/his|Chp1-1.7.2Trans][$plural to false,$they to "he",$them to "him",$their to "his",$theirs to "his",$themself to "himself"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[She/her/hers|Chp1-1.7.2Trans][$plural to false,$they to "she",$them to "her",$their to "her",$theirs to "hers",$themself to "herself"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Xe/xem/xyrs|Chp1-1.7.2Trans][$plural to false,$they to "xe",$them to "xem",$their to "xyr",$theirs to "xyrs",$themself to "xemself"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Input your own pronouns.|Chp1-1.7.CustomPronouns]]</div>

<<if not ($hairlength is "bald")>>\ The color of your hair is… <label><<radiobutton "$haircolor" "blonde" checked>>Blonde.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$haircolor" "strawberry blonde">>Strawberry blonde.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$haircolor" "golden">>Golden.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$haircolor" "ginger">>Ginger.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$haircolor" "red">>Red.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$haircolor" "auburn">>Auburn.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$haircolor" "light brown">>Light brown.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$haircolor" "dark brown">>Dark brown.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$haircolor" "black">>Black.</label> And the texture is… <label><<radiobutton "$hairtexture" "straight">>Straight.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairtexture" "wavy">>Wavy.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairtexture" "curly">>Curly.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairtexture" "loose coils">>Loosely coiled.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairtexture" "tight coils">>Tightly coiled.</label> <<endif>>\ \ <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved")>>\ And how is the figure's hair styled? <label><<radiobutton "$hairstyle" "traditional" checked>>In the traditional manner of Theian royalty, ornately styled around gold bangles.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairstyle" "none">>Loose and unstyled or minimally styled.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairstyle" "ponytail">>Tied back or up.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairstyle" "ponytails">>Tied back or up in two or more ponytails.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairstyle" "bun">>In a bun.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairstyle" "buns">>In two or more buns.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairstyle" "braid">>In a braid.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairstyle" "braids">>In two or more braids.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairstyle" "dreads">>In dreadlocks.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairstyle" "cornrows">>In cornrows.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairstyle" "headscarf">>Covered with a headscarf.</label> <<endif>>\ \ <<if ($hairlength is "bald") or ($hairlength is "shaved")>>\ The face before me is... <label><<radiobutton "$hairstyle" "headscarf" checked>>...wearing a head covering.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairstyle" "none">>...not wearing a head covering.</label> <<endif>>\ \ The figure before me is... <label><<radiobutton "$height" "very short" checked>>Very short.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$height" "short">>Short.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$height" "average">>Of average height.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$height" "tall">>Tall.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$height" "very tall">>Very tall.</label> And the figure's physique is... <label><<radiobutton "$build" "slender" checked>>Slender.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$build" "lean">>Lean.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$build" "lanky">>Lanky.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$build" "average">>Average.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$build" "muscular">>Muscular.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$build" "stout">>Stout.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$build" "chubby">>Chubby.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$build" "fat">>Fat.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$build" "curvaceous">>Curvaceous.</label> You have been traditionally attracted to...? (This choice will NOT lock you out of any romances) <label><<radiobutton "$attraction" "men" checked>>Men.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$attraction" "women">>Women.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$attraction" "anyone">>Both/any gender.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$attraction" "none">>Neither/no one.</label> [[Continue|Chp1-1.7.4]]

<<set $Title to $title.toUpperFirst()>>\ <<set $Liege to $liege.toUpperFirst()>>\ <<set $Sibling to $sibling.toUpperFirst()>>\ <<set $Child to $child.toUpperFirst()>>\ <<set $Dynast to $dynast.toUpperFirst()>>\ <<set $They to $they.toUpperFirst(), $Their to $their.toUpperFirst()>>\ The face before me has a complexion that is… <label><<radiobutton "$skin" "porcelain" checked>>Porcelain.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$skin" "fair">>Fair.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$skin" "beige">>Beige.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$skin" "tan">>Tan.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$skin" "tawny">>Tawny.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$skin" "copper">>Copper.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$skin" "bronze">>Bronze.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$skin" "umber">>Umber.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$skin" "twilight">>Twilight.</label> With eyes that are... <label><<radiobutton "$eye" "green" checked>>Green.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$eye" "blue">>Blue.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$eye" "brown">>Brown.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$eye" "gray">>Gray.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$eye" "black">>Black.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$eye" "red">>Red.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$eye" "yellow">>Yellow.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$eye" "gold">>Gold.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$eye" "violet">>Violet.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$eye" "hazel">>Hazel.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$eye" "amber">>Amber.</label> And hair that is... <label><<radiobutton "$hairlength" "bald" checked>>Bald.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairlength" "shaved">>Shaved.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairlength" "very short">>Very short.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairlength" "short">>Short.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairlength" "medium">>Medium-length.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairlength" "long">>Long.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$hairlength" " very long">>Very long.</label> [[Continue|Chp1-1.7.3]]

''Name:'' $mcname ''Nickname:'' $mcnickname ''Gender:'' $person ''Title:'' $title ''Inheritance:'' $dynast ''Familial (sibling):'' $sibling ''Familial (child):'' $child ''Kid:'' $kid ''Prounouns:'' $they/$them/$theirs ''Gender:'' <<if $trans>>trans/other<<else>>cisgender<<endif>> ''Complexion:'' $skin ''Eye color:'' $eye ''Hair length:'' $hairlength <<if not ($hairlength is "bald")>>\ ''Hair color:'' $haircolor ''Hair texture:'' $hairtexture <<endif>>\ ''Hair style:'' $hairstyle ''Height:'' $height ''Build:'' $build ''Attraction:'' $attraction "So, is this you?" Luca asks you. <div class="choice">[[Yes, this is me.|Chp1-1.8]]</div> <div class="choice">[[No, I don’t recognize this face. I want to start over.|Chp1-1.7Character Creator Pronoun Preset]]</div> <div class="choice">[[I recognize this face, but I want to change my name.|Chp1-1.7.4ChangeName]]</div>

<<set $talkedluca to "chp1wolfchat">>\ The fog in your head parts, your vision becoming sharp and clear. Your nausea eases away and the throb in your head fades to a distant, dull ache. You breathe out a sigh of relief and Luca swipes a hand through the air, dissolving your reflection. Beside you $lucathey sits solid and tangible, a tattered brown cloak drawn around $lucatheir shoulders. Narrow citrine yellow eyes peer up at you from under sharp angled bangs, $lucatheir dark brown hair hanging loose and choppy over $lucatheir chest, as if $lucathey had cut it $lucathemself with a pair of scissors far too big for $lucatheir hands—which, knowing Luca, $lucathey probably had. "Took you long enough," says Luca. You smile. "Thank you, my friend," you say, reaching out to tousle $lucatheir hair. An embarrassed flush blossoms up like watercolor over $lucatheir porcelain cheeks at the sincere gratitude in your voice and $lucathey bats your hand away, averting $lucatheir gaze. "Right. Well. Not like you could’ve done it without me," $lucathey mutters, busying $lucathemself with plucking at a frayed thread on $lucatheir singed beige sleeves. //And you are more right than you know,// you think to yourself. Luca’s long bangs shift slightly as you pull your hand away, revealing those places where flame melted flesh. Sometimes, when your nightmares are especially cruel or perhaps when you are just in a mood to self-torture, Luca appears before you with charred and mottled skin, hungry flames still not finished feeding on $lucatheir flesh—which you suppose is more realistic. The fire in Lord Sandstrider’s manor was merciless, after all, leaving you with not even a body to mourn. Your smile falters and you look away, guiltily. Luca frowns. "I’m sorry," you say. "We’re not getting into this right now." "I—" "Don’t," $lucathey says, voice soft but firm. "I am in no mood to play your tormentor tonight. You do well enough a job of that by yourself." You go quiet at that. After a pause, you nod in understanding, and force a smile. "You say that like you did not enjoy tormenting me constantly at the palace when we were children, always teasing me or dunking me in the fountains. I think you quite like being mean." $lucaThey smirks. "I seem to remember plenty of instances where it was the other way around." "Your memory must be faulty then, surely. I am and always have been a perfect model of decorum." "It seems the definition of decorum must have changed drastically since last I checked. You better embody the definition of..." $lucaThey pauses for a moment, tapping a finger to $lucatheir chin thoughfully. "...boorish. Uncouth. Uncivilized. Unmannered. I could go on." You raise a hand to your chest in mock offense. "It’s in rather ill taste to insult a $title, you know? I could have you flogged for that." $lucaThey shrugs. "Go ahead, if it makes you feel better. Add to the collection." $lucaThey gestures to the scars marring $lucatheir face, with a lopsided grin. Your expression falters and Luca’s smile immediately falls. "I’m sorry," $lucathey whispers. You are silent for a few moments before you speak again. "Did you suffer?" you ask quietly, as you always do. "No," Luca lies, as $lucathey always does. A heavy silence descends over the two of you. Luca plucks self-consciously at a hole in $lucatheir pants, studiously avoiding your gaze. "What do you think it means?" You ask after a while. Luca looks up. "Hm? What does what mean?" <<if $lookaway is false>>\ "The wolf," you say. Next to you, Luca fidgets. You can’t seem to get the image of the beast snapping Parim’s neck with a quick, cruel twist of its jaws out of your head. Your skin prickles with dread and something else when you remember that unblinking stare, those huge yellow eyes. You turn to look at Luca. "Do you think it’s an omen of some kind?" <<else>>\ "The wolf," you say. Next to you, Luca fidgets. You can’t seem to get the sound of the beast snapping Parim’s neck with a quick, cruel twist of its jaws out of your head. Your skin prickles with dread and something else when you remember that unblinking stare, those huge yellow eyes. You turn to look at Luca. "Do you think it’s an omen of some kind?" <<endif>>\ Luca shrugs stiffly. "I don’t know," $lucathey says. "Maybe." "I just have a bad feeling." "You always have a bad feeling." "So do you, usually. You’ve been quiet. Quieter than usual." You shoot Luca a questioning look. "Where were you this time? While you were gone." "I don’t remember." "That’s what you say every time." "Because it’s true." "You said you would look into the shadow I was seeing. The wolf." "I did," Luca agrees. "So?" "So?" You feel your temper flare. "Are you being difficult on purpose? Did you find anything out?" Luca heaves a bone-weary sigh. "No. I don't know. I can't really remember." You start to protest, but Luca cuts you off. "I am tired," $lucathey says. "I wish to sleep. You should probably be waking soon, anyway." $lucaThey moves to stand, but you catch $lucathem by the elbow. "Wait," you say. Luca looks back at you. You want to press $lucathem further, but after a few moments, you sigh in defeat. You are tired, too. "Don’t go. Not yet. Stay with me. Just a little while longer." "Alright," $lucathey agrees softly, settling back down cross-legged. You lay down and Luca guides your head back down to $lucatheir lap. You breathe in, and $lucathey smells of tree bark and sand, just as $lucathey did when you were children. It is a bit odd, you think, to watch yourself age over the years while Luca looks the same as ever. Some part of it brings you a small comfort, as if you could pretend nothing had changed and you were both carefree children. And another part of it pains you everytime you look at $lucathem, knowing $lucathey will never get the chance to grow up. $lucaThey used to say $lucathey wanted to travel the world when $lucathey was older; $lucathey'd made you promise to come with. $lucaThey doesn't speak much of such things anymore. You close your eyes. "You should sing me a lullaby," you say, a small smile tugging at your lips as you imagine the annoyed frown forming on Luca’s face. "You're not a baby." "Lullabies aren't just for babies." "You’re supposed to be waking up while //I// go to sleep," $lucathey scoffs. "//You// should be singing //me// a lullaby." "Do you want me to?" You crack an eye open to peek up at $lucathem. "No," $lucathey says flatly. "Then //you// sing for //me//." "I don’t sing." "Sure you do. You've sang at my birthday parties, when we were both children. I remember." "That's different." "How so?" "Everyone else was singing, too." "Ah, so it's singing //alone// you're afraid of," you note. Luca glares at you, $lucatheir cheeks heating. "I don't sing," $lucathey repeats. "Hum then." Luca sighs. "You’re relentless. Fine." $lucaThey is quiet for several long moments before $lucathey settles on humming a simple melody that brings with it memories of bright sunny days spent hanging upside down in olive trees watching the hoop dancers, of swimming in the palace fountains after courtly lessons, of you and a dark-haired yellow-eyed $lucagender chasing your siblings through the palace gardens, laughter ringing out among you as you flitted like twittering birds between cactus plants and desert palms. Luca’s fingers still stroke the side of your head absently, $lucatheir mellow voice still humming along and you chance one last glimpse at your oldest friend, catching a troubled expression on $lucatheir face before you finally drift off, your vision dissolving like sand scattered upon the wind. <<fadestart>><<link "Continue">><<passagefade "Chp1-1.9WakeUpWithFarah" 3000>><</link>>

"My name is..." <<textbox "$mcname" "Your name" "Chp1-1.7.4ChangeNickname">>

"And those close to me call me..." <<textbox "$mcnickname" "Your nickname" "Chp1-1.8">>

"I am..." <<textbox "$mcname" "Your name" "Chp1-1.5">> <<link 'See suggestions for gender neutral names.'>> <<script>> Dialog.setup('Gender Neutral Names'); Dialog.wiki(Story.get('gender neutral names').processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</link>> <<link 'See suggestions for male names.'>> <<script>> Dialog.setup('Male Names'); Dialog.wiki(Story.get('male names').processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</link>> <<link 'See suggestions for female names.'>> <<script>> Dialog.setup('Female Names'); Dialog.wiki(Story.get('female names').processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</link>>

<<set $farah to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-1.9WakeUpWithFarah") <= 1>>\ <<notify>>Farah Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You startle as you wake, your head jerking up as it slips from your propped up fist. You throw an arm out to steady yourself before you fall backwards and scatter several of your papers as you do so. A sizeable stack of envelopes slide off the top of your head to the floor as well. Your Theian serval, Farwah, yawns and stretches languidly across your lap. He stands, giving you a grumpy, tired look, before retreating to a far corner of the room, where he circles a few times before plopping down, falling promptly back asleep. Someone snickers quietly. You glance up, wild-eyed and heart racing, fearing you must have fallen asleep rather rudely during another council meeting, but you relax somewhat when you realize it is only your little sister who sits across from you in your bedroom. "Farah," you breathe, letting out a sigh of relief and taking a moment to regain your composure. The last remnants of dread from your dream settle low in the pit of your stomach like tea dregs. "How long have I been asleep?" She shrugs. "An hour, maybe." She plucks an envelope off of the ground. "I was seeing how many letters I could balance on your head before you woke up." "How many—never mind that. You said an //hour//?!" She nods. "Why didn't you wake me?" "You seemed like you needed the sleep." You scrub a hand over your face, looking over the parchment strewn across the floor and start shuffling them back up into a pile. You had hoped you could work through this stack of correspondence before the end of the day, and now you're behind an entire hour. Farah gets on her knees to help you scoop up the remaining papers. "It was only an hour," she says, looking at you askance from behind a curtain of long red-brown hair. "I didn't think it would be a big deal..." <div class="choice">[["Next time, wake me up please."|Chp1-1.9.1]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You paste on a practiced smile, though it doesn't completely hide the sharpness to your stare. "It's fine. Next time, wake me up please."|Chp1-1.9.1manip]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link '"It\'s alright. It\'s not a big deal."' 'Chp1-1.9.2'>><</link>></div>

<<if visited("Chp1-1.9.1") <= 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 3>>\ <<notify>>+ Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You let out a frustrated sigh. You have been exhausted and overworked since returning to the palace, and while you know rationally that it isn't Farah's fault, you cannot help the irritation from bubbling up. "It's fine," you huff. "Just wake me up next time, please." You gather up the last papers, smacking them against the tea table a bit too aggressively in your effort to straighten out your stack. Farah eyes you warily from your periphery. "Sorry," she mutters. A twinge of guilt tugs at your chest, but you remain quiet, settling back on your seat cushion and folding your legs criss-crossed beneath you. Farah sits down without a word across from you. Since your return, you have been having a difficult time getting all of your work done with her constantly clinging to you and following you everywhere. She's never been able to sit still or stay quiet for long, making it difficult for you to concentrate, but you know she's been lonely while you and the rest of your siblings were away, and most days you just don't have the heart to refuse her company. Regrettably, the more she follows you around the less work you are able to finish and you've had to pull several all-nighters just to finish your responsibilities. As such, you've been more irritable as of late, and sometimes you cannot help lashing out even when you don't mean to. [[Continue|Chp1-1.10]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.9.2") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 3>>\ <<notify>>+ Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "No," you say, your shoulders sagging tiredly. "I'm sorry. It's fine, Farah. It's not a big deal." "Okay..." she says, though she doesn't sound very convinced, and keeps eyeing you warily out of your periphery as you gather up the last papers, smacking them against the tea table a bit too aggressively in your effort to straighten out your stack. You settle back on your seat cushion, folding your legs criss-crossed beneath you. Farah sits down without a word across from you. Since your return, you have been having a difficult time getting all of your work done with her constantly clinging to you and following you everywhere. She's never been able to sit still or stay quiet for long, making it difficult for you to concentrate, but you know she's been lonely while you and the rest of your siblings were away, and most days you just don't have the heart to refuse her company. Regrettably, the more she follows you around the less work you are able to finish and you've had to pull several all-nighters just to finish your responsibilities. As such, you've been more irritable as of late. You glance up to find Farah watching you. You offer her a small tired smile. "It's fine, Farah. Really." [[Continue|Chp1-1.10]]

<<set $statsList to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-1.10") <= 1>>\ <<notify>>Stats Page Unlocked<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You pick up back where you left off before you'd drifed off to sleep and sift through the stack of letters until you happen upon an envelope in your favorite color, <<cycle "$favcolor" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__red.__''" "red">> <<option "''__orange.__''" "orange">> <<option "''__yellow.__''" "yellow">> <<option "''__green.__''" "green">> <<option "''__blue.__''" "blue">> <<option "''__purple.__''" "purple">> <<option "''__pink.__''" "pink">> <<option "''__black.__''" "black">> <<option "''__brown.__''" "brown">> <<option "''__gray.__''" "gray">> <<option "''__white.__''" "white">> <</cycle>> "What’s that?" Farah leans across the low table between you, her long braids trailing over the table as she cranes her neck to get a glimpse at the letter you’re holding. At eleven years old now, she has grown so much since you last saw her, her latest growth spurt having stretched her tiny frame into long, lanky limbs that stick awkwardly out of her sleeveless red silk tunic. Her own body must seem awkward and unfamiliar to her as well, given the way her elbow bumps into your teacup for the fifth time this afternoon. Your free hand darts out to stabilize it before it spills over the clutter of correspondence laid out before you. [[Continue|Chp1-1.11]]

"Farah," you say, not glancing up from your letter. "What have I told you about leaning over the tea table while I’m working?" "Sorry," she mumbles, and to her credit, she has the decency to look somewhat chastised as she slumps back to sit cross-legged on her cushion, an indignant flush painting her sand-colored cheeks. She gestures to the $favcolor envelope you’d pulled the letter from, nearly knocking the teapot—painted with indigo birds—over, which you quickly steady. "Is that from Nour?" You nod. You always knew when a letter was from your older $sibling Nour just by the color of the envelope—$they liked to seal $their letters in people’s favorite color. Normally, Nour would have spoken to you about the letter's contents in person, but since becoming heir to the throne $they <<have>>n't had much time to meet with you or Farah face-to-face, always stuck in council meetings or parleying with bickering nobles. In fact, since your return to the palace, you've hardly seen Nour at all. $They even had to pass $their letter off to $their retainer, Zain, who handed it to your retainer, Aurynn, who then handed it to you. You know the letter must be important for Nour to trouble Zain with such a mundane task as delivering correspondence. "What’s it say?" Farah leans across the table again and you have to put a hand on her forehead and push her back into her seat. "Let me read it, will you?" Farah huffs and props her elbows up on the table, cupping her chin in both hands. Even without looking up, you can feel her cool gray eyes burning a hole through your head. The corners of your lips quirk up, but you ignore her and draw a sip from your teacup—<<cycle "$favtea" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__chai__''" "chai">> <<option "''__chamomile__''" "chamomile">> <<option "''__peppermint__''" "peppermint">> <<option "''__hibiscus__''" "hibiscus">> <<option "''__matcha__''" "matcha">> <<option "''__ginger__''" "ginger">> <<option "''__cinnamon__''" "cinnamon">> <<option "''__black tea__''" "black">> <<option "''__white tea__''" "white">> <<option "''__green tea__''" "green">> <<option "''__herbal tea__''" "herbal">> <<option "''__oolong__''" "oolong">> <<option "''__rooibos__''" "rooibos">> <</cycle>> with <<cycle "$favteamixin" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__honey__''" "honey">> <<option "''__mint__''" "mint">> <<option "''__lemon__''" "lemon">> <<option "''__sugar__''" "sugar">> <<option "''__milk__''" "milk">> <<option "''__almond milk__''" "almond milk">> <<option "''__oat milk__''" "oat milk">> <<option "''__soy milk__''" "soy milk">> <<option "''__coconut milk__''" "coconut milk">> <<option "''__ginger__''" "ginger">> <<option "''__cinnamon__''" "cinnamon">> <<option "''__nothing else__''" "nothing else">> <</cycle>>—only to frown when you realize it’s gone cold by now. <div class="choice">[[Luckily, you’ve always found fire magic comes easy to you and you rewarm the tea.|Chp1-1.11.1Fire]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Unfortunately for you at this moment, fire magic was not among the powers that manifested for you as you matured. Like your mother, your powers have always been more subtle, making you adept at illusory magic.|Chp1-1.11.2Illusion]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Unfortunately for you at this moment, fire magic was not among the powers that manifested for you as you matured. You’ve always been better at healing and protective magic.|Chp1-1.11.3Healing]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Unfortunately for you at this moment, fire magic was not among the powers that manifested for you as you matured. You’ve always been better at gravitational manipulation.|Chp1-1.11.3Gravitational]]</div>

While you are primarily proficient in the art of divination and foresight, you also have always had a natural affinity for fire magic. Summoning and manipulating flames comes effortlessly to you, as does wielding sunlight itself, at times with the gentleness and warmth of a sunbeam and at others with the scorching intensity of the most unforgiving desert suns. Does this sound right? <div class="choice">[[Yes.|FireConfirm]]</div> <div class="choice">[[No, I excel at something else.|RepromptMagicAsk]]</div>

While you are primarily proficient in the art of divination and foresight, you—like your mother—have always had a natural affinity for illusory magic. You can tap into people’s thoughts and emotions, influencing how they perceive the world around them. Creating illusions is no large feat for you—you manipulate and bend light to your whim, influencing it to take shape. Does this sound right? <div class="choice">[[Yes.|IllusionConfirm]]</div> <div class="choice">[[No, I excel at something else.|RepromptMagicAsk]]</div>

While you are primarily proficient in the art of divination and foresight, you also have a natural affinity for healing and protective magic. You wield sunlight with all the gentleness of a sunbeam, coaxing flesh to mend and fevers to break. Your magic is at once warm and forgiving, but also severe and remorseless, punishing those who would seek to break wards you cast to protect those under your care with all the blazing intensity of an inferno. Does this sound right? <div class="choice">[[Yes.|HealingConfirm]]</div> <div class="choice">[[No, I excel at something else.|RepromptMagicAsk]]</div>

<<set $magic to "fire">>\ <<set $magicchosen to true>>\ Yes, fire magic has always been your forte, much like Nour. You wince when you catch yourself almost thinking //And Ember.// A persistent lump rises in your throat and you struggle for a moment to swallow it down, earning you a confused yet concerned glance from Farah. You offer her a tight smile. It does not seem to reassure her. Clearing your mind of those lingering threads of guilt and grief takes a moment longer, but afterwards you direct your focus to your cold tea. Cupping your palms around your teacup, the veins in your hand begin to glow a soft gold and you feel the cup begin to warm within your hands. After a moment, you inhale the comforting scent of your tea—carried up to you on a trail of rising steam. You take a sip and it warms you to your toes, warmth pooling in your stomach, as gentle and as pleasant as an afternoon sunbeam. Feeling slightly reinvigorated, you return your attention to Nour’s letter. [[Continue|Chp1-1.12]]

<div class="choice">[[Luckily, you’ve always found fire magic comes easy to you and you rewarm the tea.|Chp1-1.11.1Fire]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Unfortunately for you at this moment, fire magic was not among the powers that manifested for you as you matured. Like your mother, your powers have always been more subtle, making you adept at illusory magic.|Chp1-1.11.2Illusion]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Unfortunately for you at this moment, fire magic was not among the powers that manifested for you as you matured. You’ve always been better at healing and protective magic.|Chp1-1.11.3Healing]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Unfortunately for you at this moment, fire magic was not among the powers that manifested for you as you matured. You’ve always been better at gravitational manipulation.|Chp1-1.11.3Gravitational]]</div>

<<set $magic to "illusion">>\ <<set $magicchosen to true>>\ Yes, illusory magic has always been your forte. Unfortunately, that does you little good when it comes to fixing cold tea. You sigh, wishing at this moment Nour was here to warm your tea for you. You wince when you catch yourself almost thinking //Or Ember.// A persistent lump rises in your throat and you struggle for a moment to swallow it down, earning you a confused yet concerned glance from Farah. You offer her a tight smile. It does not seem to reassure her. Clearing your mind of those lingering threads of guilt and grief takes a moment longer, but afterwards you set your teacup down with a resigned sigh, directing your attention back to Nour’s letter. [[Continue|Chp1-1.12]]

<<set $magic to "healing">>\ <<set $magicchosen to true>>\ Yes, healing and warding has always been your forte. Unfortunately, that does you little good when it comes to fixing cold tea. You sigh, wishing at this moment Nour was here to warm your tea for you. You wince when you catch yourself almost thinking //Or Ember.// A persistent lump rises in your throat and you struggle for a moment to swallow it down, earning you a confused yet concerned glance from Farah. You offer her a tight smile. It does not seem to reassure her. Clearing your mind of those lingering threads of guilt and grief takes a moment longer, but afterwards you set your teacup down with a resigned sigh, directing your attention back to Nour’s letter. [[Continue|Chp1-1.12]]

You’d have drawn the curtains to let in the afternoon light to read by—you always enjoyed the way it paints your room in fiery shades of gold and amber. And when the light catches the gold embroidery on the fluttering ruby curtains, the room glitters like desert sand. However, today you cannot seem to chase away a rather persistent migraine, and so you’ve holed yourself up in your dark dreary room doing endless paperwork by the dim light of a few burning candles, one of which you shift slightly closer to to illuminate your parchment as you begin to read. <<if not $favteamixin is "honey">>\ The contents seem innocuous enough upon first glance—a simple request for the pleasure of your company for afternoon tea under the gazebo in the palace gardens, just the two of you. Nour finishes the letter off with the words, //I'll prepare your tea with honey, just as you like it.// Nour knows well you prefer your tea with $favteamixin—it's how you've always enjoyed your tea since you were young—but you and your siblings have been using that line as code for //'Come alone; I need to talk to you about something serious'// for ages now. $They must wish to speak with you about something rather pressing. Something $they <<do1>>n't want others to know about, or $they wouldn't have bothered using that little code. $They must have been concerned about someone reading your letter. <<else>>\ The contents seem innocuous enough upon first glance—a simple request for the pleasure of your company for afternoon tea under the gazebo in the palace gardens, just the two of you. Nour finishes the letter off with the words, //I'll prepare your tea with milk, just as you like it.// Nour knows well you prefer your tea with $favteamixin—it's how you've always enjoyed your tea since you were young—but you and your siblings have been using that line as code for //'Come alone; I need to talk to you about something serious'// for ages now. $They must wish to speak with you about something rather pressing. Something $they <<do1>>n't want others to know about, or $they wouldn't have bothered using that little code. $They must have been concerned about someone reading your letter. <<endif>>\ You glance at the clock mounted over your bed, chewing your lip. You'll have to leave now if you want to meet Nour on time in the gardens. "Well?" Farah looks at you expectantly. Her eyes flit to the envelope. "What's it say?" You sigh, tiredly scrubbing a hand over your face. A mountain of paperwork is still strewn about the table before you, but you’ll have to put off completing it for now. "I’m sorry, Farah, but I have to get to a meeting now," you say, gathering up your papers into a pile. You set Nour's envelope aside at the edge of the table. "Don’t linger in here too long, please. I can’t have you burning my room down again." You stand and your sister scrambles to her feet as well. "That was only one time. And it was only a teensy tiny fire," She follows you to the polished wooden cabinet across from your bed, where you file your papers away for later. You raise an eyebrow at her. "//Teensy tiny// fires don’t destroy entire bookcases—" "I managed to put it out eventually!" "—full of //exceedingly rare, priceless, limited edition// books." Farah crosses her arms, her lower lip thrust out in a pout. "It was an accident. I said I was sorry." You roll your eyes and go to pat her head but she ducks under your hand. Closing the cabinet, you turn on your heel and make your way to the mirror to quickly fix your appearance. <div class="choice">[[Your ornate floor length mirror, embossed with delicate gold trim and flowering rubies, allows you to admire your entire figure, one you are quite pleased with aside from the tired dark circles under your eyes.|OrnateMirror]]</div> <div class="choice">[[A modest mirror sits mounted atop your vanity. You have no strong feelings regarding your appearance; you aren’t self-conscious but you don’t love the way you look either.|ModestMirror]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You keep a small simplistic mirror hidden away in your wardrobe, which you only ever use to touch up your face before leaving your room. You do not like your appearance.|HiddenMirror]]</div>

<<set $selfesteem to "confident">>\ <<set $selfesteemchosen to true>>\ A great many battle scars adorn your figure, but you've grown to like the way they look. Your face may not be pretty and pristine in the sense that others at court are—untarnished by sun, sand, or steel, but you are <<cycle "$pretty" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__pretty__''" "pretty">> <<option "''__beautiful__''" "beautiful">> <<option "''__handsome__''" "handsome">> <<option "''__lovely__''" "lovely">> <</cycle>> all the same. You carry yourself with confidence. You've always taken great pride in your appearance. Indeed, even when mucking about in the dirt with the other soldiers, you always maintained more than a modicum of decorum. You may have been stuck out in the field, always covered in blood, sand, and dirt, but by Theia's grace you would be the fairest soldier on that wretched battlefield. Eventually even your soldiers began referring to you as the //'Jewel of Theia.'// <div class="choice">[[Since your return to the palace, you find it much easier to maintain your immaculate appearance.|Chp1-1.12OrnateImmaculate]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Since your return to the palace, however, you hardly see such a need anymore to keep up with obnoxiously long routines to keep up your appearance. You taken to a more modest approach—you look good either way.|Chp1-1.12OrnateMinimum]]</div>

<<set $selfesteem to "selfconscious">>\ <<set $selfesteemchosen to true>>\ A great many battle scars mar your figure, and while you never had much time to worry over your appearance during your time on the battlefield, now you feel you cannot go anywhere without being conscious of how you look. Being back at the palace, you can never quite escape your own reflection. You see your face reflected back to you in the polished marble columns lining the throne room, in the garden’s bubbling fountains, in your goblet at dinner. The people at court are not soldiers; their faces are pretty and pristine, untarnished by sun, sand, or steel. You feel dirty and unsightly compared to them, as though you can never quite wash away the grime from the battlefield or the dirt and blood from beneath your nails. You hate your scars, as they will forever serve as a reminder of all you've endured, all you've lost. <div class="choice">[[Since your return to the palace, you've retaken to the painstaking ordeal of maintaing an immaculate appearance.|Chp1-1.12HiddenImmaculate]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Since your return to the palace, you've taken to the most modest approach to maintaining your appearance that you can get away with.|Chp1-1.12HiddenMinimum]]</div>

<<set $selfesteem to "apathetic">>\ <<set $selfesteemchosen to true>>\ Once, long ago, you had spent your days preening and grooming yourself to play the proper, <<cycle "$pretty" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__pretty__''" "pretty">> <<option "''__beautiful__''" "beautiful">> <<option "''__handsome__''" "handsome">> <<option "''__lovely__''" "lovely">> <</cycle>> $title, always aware of people's eyes on you, even as a child. A $title is expected to be pleasing to the eye and so that is what you were. Your time as a commander—more importantly, as a soldier—put you in a position where you did not have the time nor the energy to care about cosmetics. While you would always be expected to maintain a certain degree of decorum appropriate to your station, you, like everyone else, were dirty, bloodstained and covered in scars. There was little point in so diligently maintaining your appearance when no one really cared, so you stopped caring as well. <div class="choice">[[Since your return to the palace, however, you have retaken to the ostentatious routine of maintaining your appearance.|Chp1-1.12ModestImmaculate]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Since your return to the palace, you've only taken to doing the bare minimum to maintain your appearance.|Chp1-1.12ModestMinimum]]</div>

"I've got to get going now," you say. "Don't dally in here, alright?" "You’re meeting with Nour," she says. "I want to come too." "Not this time, Farah." "Why not?" "This meeting is strictly business. We have important things to discuss." "I’ll be quiet. You won’t even know I’m there." "I’m not sure you know how to be quiet, Farah," you shoot her a teasing grin, expecting her to roll her eyes good-naturedly, but she fixes you instead with an uncharacteristically serious look. You avert your eyes. "I’m sorry. Nour and I just have a few things to discuss in private. I’ll come find you afterward, alright?" Farah stomps her foot, rather childishly, you think. You’d have thought she’d have outgrown that habit by now, though you find some relief that she hasn’t completely grown up while you were away from the palace. She had only been five years old when you had left to join the rest of your siblings in the war effort against Celestyl. Though you had seen her rather infrequently during those six long years of bitter fighting, seeing her so big now had been quite a shock to you at first. That she has retained some of her more immature habits lightens your heart somewhat, as though no time has passed at all and she is still the little girl toddling after you through the palace halls, always underfoot, clinging to your $clothes and hanging from your arms. "What does it even matter if I’m there?" Farah protests, her delicate brows furrowed so tight you want to reach out and ease the knot between them. "I’ll stay out of your way." "You'll be bored out of your skull. Why don't you go play with Lady Mirage's son, Magnus?" Farah scowls, gritting her teeth, and your brow knits in confusion. She’s always gotten along with Magnus since they were both very young; it isn’t like the suggestion should come as a shock. "I don’t want to play with Magnus." she says. "He’s stupid anyway." "Did you two get into a fight?" Farah clenches her fists. "We aren't friends anymore." "Why? What’s wrong with Magnus? You two have always gotten along." "Yeah, well things change." "What’s changed?" "//Everything's// changed. You're leaving to talk to Nour." Her eyes flicker to the envelope on the edge of the table, a furrow forming between her brow. When she speaks again, her voice pitches higher, a desperate edge to her tone. "I want to come with you and Nour." You frown. "What's this about, hm?" "What did the letter say?" "Nour wants to meet with me." "That's all?" "Yes." She glances between you and the envelope again, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides as she shifts on her feet. "I want to come with you and Nour," she repeats. "Let me come, too." "I told you, Farah, you can’t—" Her breath hitches and she lets out a screech, picking up your abandoned teacup and hurling it into the wall. It shatters, tea staining the ornate rug splayed out beneath the tea table. You stare at the broken teacup in horror, pieces of indigo wings having landed next to your feet. That belonged to Parim's tea set. In the corner of the room, Farwah grumbles irritatedly at having been woken up again. <div class="choice">[[You bite back your initial shock and force yourself to keep calm. You don’t understand why she’s acting out like this.|Chp1-1.13staycalm]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Your head aches and you are exhausted. Though you don’t mean to, you snap at her.|Chp1-1.13snap]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Your hand flies to your mouth, stifling an agonized gasp as tears spring to your eyes. You stare at her in horror.|Chp1-1.13upset]]</div>

Your fists clench at your sides but you keep your voice even and firm. "Farah," you say, your voice steely and authoritative. She blinks several times, taking a small step back. Your expression falls at that and you take a deep breath. You are not speaking to a soldier, but a child. Your little sister. "Nour asked to meet privately. I will find you later and we can talk about…" You gesture vaguely at Farah standing among shards of porcelain. "...this." "NO! I want to come with you and Nour!" Her voice rises to a shrill scream, making your temples throb. She stamps her foot and you find the gesture less endearing this time. Farah’s face flushes furiously, her fists trembling at her sides. Now more than ever, she looks just like her older brother, Ember, whose fiery temper was rivaled only by Farah’s, and your heart pangs at the thought. Castor had always been best at cooling the two down, his ice cold enough to put out their flames. But with him gone now, you find yourself wishing Nour was here to help you. $They always seemed to know what to say to calm Farah down. "If you think this is supposed to convince me to let you attend, think again. I said no, Farah. I won’t say it again." [[Continue|Chp1-1.14]]

Fingers trembling, you reach down to pick up the shard next to your feet, ghosting your fingers over the jagged edge. Your temples are pounding, and her screeching is making your headache even worse. You glower at the stained rug, fingernails biting into your palms as you struggle to even out your breathing. "Get out of my room," you say quietly. Farah simply scowls at you. "No," she says. "I //said// Get. Out!" your voice rises to a shout, and you jab a finger at the door. She stays rooted to the spot. Farah’s face flushes furiously, her fists trembling at her sides. Now more than ever, she looks just like her older brother, Ember, whose fiery temper was rivaled only by Farah’s, and your heart pangs at the thought. Castor had always been best at cooling the two down, his ice cold enough to put out their flames. But with him gone now, you find yourself wishing Nour was here to help you. $They <<were>> always more patient at dealing with Farah’s temper than you. "I want to come with you and Nour," she replies, flatly. "I already told you," you yell. "No!" [[Continue|Chp1-1.14]]

<<set $aurynn to true>>\ <<set $parimteaset to "broken">>\ <<set $talkedtofarah to "blew up">>\ <<if visited("Chp1-1.14") <= 1>>\ <<notify>>Aurynn Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "//No,//" Farah says, sounding the word out slowly, like she is tasting it. She grimaces. Her whole body is trembling, knuckles turned white as she digs her nails into her palms. "No. //No.// No, of //course// you'd say no," Farah seethes. When she looks at you, her pupils are pinpricks against wide, bloodshot eyes. "You //always// say no. You //never// have time." She takes a step forward. "//Neither// of you ever has time. No, //none of you// ever had the time! //'Oh, we're too busy, Farah,'//" She grabs her teacup and flings it against the cabinet, spraying tea and porcelain everywhere. "Hey—!" "//‘Oh, maybe next time, Farah,’//" she says, voice rising hysterically. "//'Maybe next month, next year?!'// Maybe, maybe, maybe?! You said you'd come home—you //promised// me you'd come home!" she shouts, and it is like she isn't seeing you anymore—her eyes are glazed over, her chest rising and falling in short, rapid, panting breaths. "You //promised!//" "What are you talking about? I—" Her wide-eyed stare finds the envelope on the table again and her eyes refocus on you, her chest heaving, her voice coming out in strained shrieks over her shaky, shallow breathing. "You can't go! You //promised!//" She screams and picks up the teapot, lifting it over her head. Your breath hitches in panic as you realize what she is about to do and you surge forward to wrestle it from her grasp only for her to sink her teeth into your forearm. You pull back with a yelp and she smashes the teapot against the floor with a loud //CRASH!// Cold tea splatters your legs as you cradle your arm. "What has gotten into you?!" You cry, incredulous and accusatory. "That tea set was Parim's!" Farah tenses at that, her fingers twitching, but she doesn't speak or move. Her head hangs low and her breathing is heavy, her trembling shoulders rising and falling with each ragged breath. Neither of you say anything in the charged silence. The silence is only broken by your bedroom door creaking open just a crack. A head of long silky chestnut hair and copper skin—your retainer, Aurynn—tentatively peeks through the door a moment later, amber eyes flitting warily between you, Farah and the mess of shattered porcelain strewn at your feet. He scans the rest of the room quickly, as if checking for any intruders. Shifting uneasily on both feet, he looks increasingly uncomfortable at having intruded on such a tense and private moment. Farwah gets up and slinks out the open door, snaking through Aurynn's legs, mewing a rather annoyed farewell as he disappears down the hall. "Just, um," he says, glancing at you. Farah does not look up at him, her head still hung low and face shrouded by her hair. "Just making sure no one is getting murdered in here. Which it looks like no one is. Except the china. So I'll just—" He jabs a thumb at the door. Farah finally looks up and you see her eyes are red and puffy, her cheeks stained with tears. She looks you dead in the eyes. "//I hate you,//" she whispers. Then, without another word, she turns on her heel and throws open the door, shoving past a very bewildered Aurynn as she disappears down the hallway, leaving you alone with your retainer in your room, your heart in pieces among the shattered porcelain on the floor. Aurynn is quiet for a few moments, gloved fingers anxiously stroking the polished shaft of his glaive, before he finally pipes up, voice low. "Do you need a minute?" <div class="choice">[[You nod. You need a moment to collect yourself.|Chp1-1.14collectself]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You nod. You feel close to breaking and you don't want him to see you.|Chp1-1.14hide]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You try to answer but only barely manage to choke back a sob.|Chp1-1.14cry]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You shake your head, swallowing any emotion that had been bubbling up and fix him with a severe look.|Chp1-1.14stoicharsh]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link 'You shake your head, swallowing any emotion that had been bubbling up and don a mask of composure.' 'Chp1-1.14stoic'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link 'You shake your head. You\’re fine. You\’re //fine.//' 'Chp1-1.14denial'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link 'You shake your head, forcing a smile. You\’re fine. You\’re //fine.//' 'Chp1-1.14denialsmile'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice">[[You immediately bristle and order him out of the room.|Chp1-1.14bristle]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-1.14collectself") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified, + Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Your face is studiously neutral and you refuse to meet Aurynn's eyes, instead keeping your gaze focused stubbornly in front of you. Too afraid to risk speaking, you nod. Aurynn bows and dips quietly out of the room without another word, his long flowing brown hair trailing behind him as he shuts the door with a soft click. Your eyes flutter several times, threatening tears. You squeeze your eyes shut. It takes you several moments to recompose yourself and to swallow the persistent lump in your throat. When you finally manage to get your breathing under control, you step over the shattered tea set and ease the door open, shutting it quietly behind you. [[Continue|Chp1-1.15]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.14hide") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle, + Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You have to bite your lower lip to keep it from trembling. Your eyes sting with unshed tears. Too afraid to risk speaking, you nod. Aurynn bows and dips quietly out of the room without another word, his long flowing brown hair trailing behind him as he shuts the door with a soft click. As soon as he is gone, the tears spill freely from your eyes, rolling over your cheeks and pattering against the rug under your feet like raindrops. You bite down on your fist to stifle your sobs, not wanting to be heard. It takes you several moments to recompose yourself and to swallow the persistent lump in your throat. When you finally manage to get your breathing under control, you step over the shattered tea set and ease the door open, shutting it quietly behind you. [[Continue|Chp1-1.15]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.14cry") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You cannot hold back and soon the tears begin to fall freely, rolling over your cheeks and pattering against the rug under your feet like raindrops. Your shoulders shake with soft sobs. Aurynn slips past the door, stepping carefully over shards of porcelain with sandaled feet until he is standing next to you. He fidgets with a ruby on his glaive for a few moments, before opening his mouth to speak, only to shut it again a moment later. He tries again, trailing off awkwardly. "Do you want...?" <div class="choice">[[You reach for him. You need comfort.|Chp1-1.14cry-reachcomfort]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You don't want anyone to touch you right now, but you want him to stay.|Chp1-1.14cry-stay]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You want comforting but would die before asking for it.|Chp1-1.14cry-comfort]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You gesture for the door. You need a moment alone.|Chp1-1.14cry-alone]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-1.14stoic") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified, + Imposing<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You close your eyes, a stirring of emotion rises up within your chest, like shifting sand in the wind, but you force it down, pleading with your heart to obey. You swallow the lump in your throat and when you open your eyes, you have donned a dutiful mask of composure. //Dignified and above it all,// as your mother always says. Lifting your chin, you turn to Aurynn. "No," you say. "Let's go. I have a meeting with Nour to get to." Aurynn shoots you a skeptical look, but upon seeing the cold look on your face, he sagely decides not to press the issue. You step over the shattered tea set and ease the door open. Aurynn follows, shutting the door behind you. [[Continue|Chp1-1.15]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.14denial") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified, + Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Your eyes slide closed, shuttering off the wreckage around you, but the look on your little sister's face when she told you she hated you is burned into your retinas. You can still see the fragments of your brother's tea set scattered across the rug—that tea set which you two had shared smiles and small talk over. That tea set which your brother had said was his favorite because his mother and your sister Aurora had painted it for him as a gift for his eighteenth birthday. That tea set, which was one of the few things you had left of him. And now it's gone. It's all gone. You take a shuddering breath, swallowing the surge of emotion that threatens to spill, pushing it down, down, down until you cannot feel it. You're fine. You're //fine.// Your face goes blank as you don a dutiful mask of composure. //Dignified and above it all,// as your mother always says. You turn to Aurynn. "I'm fine," you say. "Let's go. I have a meeting with Nour to get to." Aurynn shoots you a skeptical look, but upon seeing the look on your face, he sagely decides not to press the issue. You step over the shattered tea set and ease the door open. Aurynn follows, shutting the door behind you. [[Continue|Chp1-1.15]]

<<audio ":playing" stop>>\ <<audio "traditionalindian" loop play>>\ <<set $samira to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-1.15") <= 1>>\ <<notify>>Samira Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ The bright corridor outside your room seems to almost taunt you with how cheery it is; surrounded on either side by a stretch of open balcony flanked by a row of sandstone columns, an afternoon sun sets the hall aglow with slices of buttery sunlight, painting the interior in shades of saffron and terra-cotta, in turmeric and tangerine. Nestled between each pair of pillars are painted pottery on pedestals and potted plants with curls of yellow-green leaves. Your head throbs and you have to squint for a few moments as your eyes readjust from your dimly lit room. Hovering nearby is a statuesque woman with broad shoulders and gleaming bronze skin—your acolyte, Samira, a priestess-in-training. She must have finished up with her duties at the temple and made her way here to wait for you outside your room with Aurynn, as she usually does each afternoon. You’ve tried telling her there is really no need for her to wait on you after her duties each day and that she should enjoy her free time, but each evening you find her waiting with Aurynn outside your room anyway, and on nights you do not leave your room, she leaves meals and medicines at your door. Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, she looks over you in concern. "Your Highness," she says, dipping into a low bow, and her long dark brown braids—laced with criss-crossing gold thread—cascade over the lavender silk of her priestess robes. She readjusts her flaring headscarf as she straightens, eyes flicking briefly down the hall in the direction Farah had run off in. You grimace slightly, wondering just how far the sounds of your fight with your sister had carried. "We were worried about you when we heard..." She trails off as Aurynn makes a very unsubtle //cut it out// motion, slicing his hand through the air next to his neck. She blinks, her warm brown eyes darting between the two of you. "Ah...I meant..." Her mouth falls open wordlessly as she flounders. Not quite wishing to relive your fight with Farah right now, you cut in. "I must apologize for cutting things short, but I have an important meeting to get to. Nour is awaiting my presence in the garden gazebo," you say. Samira, looking grateful for the subject change, inclines her head gracefully. "Of course, Your Highness." You’ve already turned on your heel and begun striding stiffly away down the corridor by the time Samira finishes her sentence, leaving her and Aurynn to hurry after you. Thankfully, the two seem to take the hint that you have no desire for conversation right now, and your walk to the gardens is mostly quiet, save for the hushed bickering you suppose both Aurynn and Samira must think is discreet enough for you not to overhear. [[Continue|Chp1-2.1HallArguing]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.14cry-comfort") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You wrap your arms around yourself and squeeze your eyes shut, turning your head away. You are mortified that you let yourself break down like this in front of Aurynn. "Aw, don't be like that," Aurynn coos softly. He holds his arms out for an embrace. You sniffle and glare at him. "Absolutely not," you say. "So prickly." "Ugh." "C'mon, my arms are getting tired." You only turn your nose up at him in response. He rolls his eyes and steps forward to wrap you in a hug. You bristle at first, but after several moments, you begrudgingly relax against his chest. <<if ($height is "short") or ($height is "very short")>>\ "Aww, see? Isn't this nice?" He looks down at you, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. <<elseif ($height is "very tall")>>\ "Aww, see? Isn't this nice?" He looks up at you, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. <<else>>\ "Aww, see? Isn't this nice?" He looks at you, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. <<endif>>\ Well. He's always known how to ruin a perfectly good moment. You immediately shove him away with a withering glare, brushing yourself off and crossing your arms. He backs off with a small laugh, his hands raised in surrender, and turns to look the other way as you recover your dignity. It takes you several moments to recompose yourself and to swallow the persistent lump in your throat. When you finally manage to get your breathing under control, you step over the shattered tea set and ease the door open, Aurynn following. He shuts the door quietly behind you. [[Continue|Chp1-1.15]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.14cry-stay") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You wrap your arms around yourself and glance at him out of the corner of your eyes. "Stay," you whisper. His warm amber eyes meet yours and he nods, standing next to you silently while you cry. His presence alone is comforting, warm and bright and familiar. It takes you several moments to recompose yourself and to swallow the persistent lump in your throat. When you finally manage to get your breathing under control, you step over the shattered tea set and ease the door open, Aurynn following. He shuts the door quietly behind you. [[Continue|Chp1-1.15]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.14cry-reachcomfort") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You reach for him and he immediately understands, <<cycle "$embrace" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__stepping forward and into your embrace.__''" "">> <<option "''__wrapping his arms around you in an embrace.__''" "">> <</cycle>>\ <<if ($height is "short") or ($height is "very short")>>\ His arms settle around your waist as you lean against his chest, his skin warm against your cheek, the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat easing the throb in your temple. You both stay like that for several moments, neither of you saying a word. <<else>>\ His arms settle around your waist as you crook your head over his shoulder, his skin warm beneath your chin, the gold choker around his throat cool against your cheek. You both stay like that for several moments, neither of you saying a word. <<endif>>\ It takes you several moments to recompose yourself and to swallow the persistent lump in your throat. When you finally manage to get your breathing under control, you disentangle yourself from Aurynn and step over the shattered tea set, easing the door open as Aurynn follows. He shuts the door quietly behind you. [[Continue|Chp1-1.15]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.14cry-alone") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You shrink away from him, needing to be alone, and gesture at the door. He takes the cue immediately and steps away. With a bow, Aurynn dips quietly out of the room without another word, his long flowing brown hair trailing behind him as he shuts the door with a soft click. As soon as he is gone, you wrap your arms around yourself and cry. It takes you several moments to recompose yourself and to swallow the persistent lump in your throat. When you finally manage to get your breathing under control, you step over the shattered tea set and ease the door open, shutting it quietly behind you. [[Continue|Chp1-1.15]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.14denialsmile") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic, + Manipulative<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Your eyes sting with unshed tears and your throat bobs but you swallow down the emotion threatening to bubble up, smoothly replacing it with a forced smile. You turn to Aurynn. "No, it's alright. I'm fine, really." you say. "Uh huh." Aurynn says, shooting you a skeptical look. "What, are you worried about me?" He points at your face. "Increasingly. You're doing that thing again." "What thing?" "The thing where you start smiling in a way I think //you think// is reassuring—it's not, by the way—every time something bad happens even though you look totally dead inside." He props a hand on his hip. "I should know; I do it all the time." You put a hand on your hip, mirroring his posture but with an irritated flair. "Ex-//cuse// me? I look //'totally dead'// inside right now?" He holds out a placating hand. "In...like...a very flattering, attractive way, of course." He immediately cringes. "Wait no, not like that." "I think it will be better for you if you stop talking." "Agreed." He pauses. "But—" "I'm //fine,//" you repeat. Leaving no further room for discussion, you add, ""Now let's go. I have a meeting with Nour to get to." Aurynn looks ready to protest, but upon seeing the look on your face, he sagely decides not to press the issue. You step over the shattered tea set and ease the door open. Aurynn follows, shutting the door behind you. [[Continue|Chp1-1.15]]

(Please note: the Codex is still currently under construction and its UI and layout is still a work in progress. Currently, only character entries have been added, but entries for history, magic, lore etc and and other images and UI changes will be added and implemented in future updates. Thank you for your patience.) <h2>[[Characters]]</h2> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

<span class="chapterhead">Chapter One</span> <<link 'View content warnings?'>> <<script>> Dialog.setup('Content Warnings'); Dialog.wiki(Story.get('content warnings').processText()); Dialog.open(); <</script>> <</link>> <<link [[Begin|Start]]>><<audio "desertfantasybg" loop play>><</link>>

It is your brother who sits across from you in his war tent this time. Dreams are the only place you can see him now, after all. His thread was cut cruelly short. "My scouts have returned with their report on the attack outside of Thisstle," he says, voice sharp and commanding. "Every last one of our troops. //Obliterated.// A bloody massacre..." He scrubs a frustrated hand through his hair. "Ember and Castor have reported the same." He rolls up a large map, tying a piece of twine around it to secure it. "Oddest thing, too," he continues. "I had scouts posted at every possible entry point. I covered //everything.// As did Ember and Castor. They didn't see anyone approach. Or any//thing.// One minute there was nothing, the next, bloody chaos. Their damn mutts showed up out of...of..." He swirls a hand through the air agitatedly. "Out of thin air." He sighs, setting the rolled map aside. "Ember says he's got a lead on where their beasts retreated to. He's an excellent tracker. If anyone can find them, it'll be Ember." You nod quietly, though you already know your brother will never find those war beasts, but you don't tell Parim this. What is the point? You keep your head stubbornly lowered. Parim pauses, then lets out a small, apologetic chuckle. "You have my apologies, little bird," he says somewhat sheepishly. "I promised I would not speak of war over tea today, and here I am already breaking my promise. We'll talk about something else." When you don't speak after several moments, Parim clears his throat, shifting on the cushion he sits cross-legged upon. "Have you heard from Farah recently? She has stopped responding to my letters. I think she must still be angry with me." You've spoken with your little sister since your return to the palace, of course. She has been all but attached to your hip. But while you were away, she had eventually stopped sending you letters, as well. It must have been sometime after you missed her tenth birthday, having been too occupied to make it back home for her party. So you shake your head. Your brother sighs. "You as well, then...? I wonder if she's still speaking with her brothers, or with Nour. Perhaps I'll try writing my mother again, and ask her to check in on her for me. I know she doesn't particularly like Farah, but..." He trails off, murmuring to himself. You can feel his stare on you, but you continue to refuse to meet his gaze. You can't do this tonight. "Won't you look at me, little bird?" Parim asks, his voice rich and gentle. When you do not answer, he sighs and leans forward, reaching across the low table between you and pouring you a steaming cup of tea. He sets the teapot—embellished with painted indigo birds flitting between the branches of an olive tree—down in the center of the table and picks up his own cup, drawing a small sip as he watches you carefully over the rim of his teacup. If he notices the tea muddied with bright crimson streaking down the skin of his throat after each sip, he does not acknowledge it. You swallow, keeping your gaze low and focused studiously on your lap. "You are upset with me," your brother says, finally. He sets his cup down and folds his hands in his lap, fixing you with those dark, piercing brown eyes, softened by his affection for you. "Tell me why." You drag your gaze, slowly, painfully, from your lap to his face. Sitting across from you now, his spine rigid and posture flawless, he almost looks every bit the perfect prince. Flowing red silks curve over broad shoulders, his crimson regalia a fire lighting the copper glow of his skin—a warm, earthy red-brown, as though each exquisite feature from his strong sharp jaw to his chiseled nose were sculpted painstakingly from clay. His dark brown hair, once long and ornately styled, is now cut short, your brother having grown tired of maintaining his hair and always having it get in the way. It was easier this way, he had told you. The only stain on his otherwise perfect appearance is the vicious, ragged, red gash torn into the side of his throat, the flesh pulped like the meat from a pomegranate. It is a struggle to keep your eyes from drifting down to the angry, pulsing wound every time a spurt of blood dribbles down the front of his chest with an awful wet gurgling sound. [[Continue|Chp1-1.1Parim2]]

<<set $lookaway to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-1.1TurnAway") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You squeeze your eyes shut, turning away. You don’t want to see. You don’t want to see this. //It isn’t real,// you tell yourself over and over. //It isn’t real.// The hulking wolf snarls. Wood crunches beneath its heavy paws and you clamp your hands over your ears too late. There is a sickening wet //snap// and then…nothing. Just the sound of your own ragged breathing, the pounding of your pulse against your temple. You do not even hear the wolf’s breathing, and after a few moments, you open your eyes to the carpet beneath you. Your eyes drift to the wrecked tea table. Across from it, your brother lies crumpled and motionless, like a puppet with no one to hold him up. Your breath catches in your throat and you struggle to even breathe, your chin trembling. You shut your eyes again, shaking your head as a silent tear rolls down your cheek. //It’s not real. This isn’t real.// You twitch as a warm puff of breath blows over you and you turn, eyes opening to find yourself face to face with the massive snow-white wolf, the fur around its lips stained a bright red, its head bowed and ears flat. A choked whimper escapes your lips and you scramble backwards, but the wolf closes the distance, its tread eerily quiet. Frost clings to the ground beneath its every step. It watches you unblinkingly, great golden eyes boring into yours. Something tugs at the back of your mind, something strangely familiar about those eyes, about the way it looks at you. Never have you seen something so beautiful and terrifying as this creature. The wolf’s snout brushes against the side of your face. It huffs a warm breath through its nose and swipes a tongue across your cheek, causing you to flinch as you draw in a shuddering breath over your lips. When the wolf pulls away with a low whine, it leaves a warm wet smear of blood on your face. It pulls back just far enough to look at you, something in its wide gaze almost…reluctant. And then, with a sudden shake of its great head, any trace of hesitation in its eyes is gone. Its stare hardens with animalistic cruelty, snout wrinkling and lips peeling back over wet black gums and long glistening canines. A low, rumbling growl reverberates from deep within the wolf's throat. It crouches low, legs tensing. Then it springs forward. You barely have time to close your eyes before the wolf's jaws clamp shut around your throat and twist. //Snap!// <<fadestart>><<link "Everything goes black…">><<passagefade "Chp1-1.1WakeupwithLuca" 3000>><</link>>

<<if visited("Chp1-1.1Paralyzed") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Every muscle in your body screams at you to fight, to flee, to //do something,// but you lay there, prone and sprawled out among the tattered tent, frozen to the spot. You aren't used to this—feeling helpless. Useless. Your heart pounds in your chest, and you want to look away, but you cannot. The hulking wolf snarls. Then it yanks its jaws to the side and you hear your brother’s neck break with a sickening //snap.// A splatter of blood sprays across the beast’s snow-white fur. It drops Parim’s body limply to the ground, where he crumples like a puppet with no one to hold it. You don’t even scream. Your breath catches in your throat and you struggle to even breathe, your chin trembling. The wolf turns its unblinking penetrating stare on you, its great golden eyes boring into yours. Something tugs at the back of your mind, something strangely familiar about those eyes, about the way it looks at you. Never have you seen something so beautiful and terrifying as this creature. The wolf creeps slowly toward you, stepping carefully over your brother’s broken body and shattered pieces of china. Its tread is eerily quiet, its head bowed and ears tucked back. Frost clings to the ground beneath its every step. Blood stains the fur around its lips. Your fingers dig into the rug beneath you as the beast comes to a stop in front of you, and a silent tear rolls down your cheek. A weak, choked whimper escapes your lips as the wolf’s snout brushes against the side of your face. It huffs a warm breath through its nose and swipes a tongue across your cheek, causing you to flinch as you draw in a shuddering breath over your lips. When the wolf pulls away with a low whine, it leaves a warm wet smear of blood on your face. It pulls back just far enough to look at you, something in its wide gaze almost…reluctant. And then, with a sudden shake of its great head, any trace of hesitation in its eyes is gone. Its stare hardens with animalistic cruelty, snout wrinkling and lips peeling back over wet black gums and long glistening canines. A low, rumbling growl reverberates from deep within the wolf's throat. It crouches low, legs tensing. Then it springs forward. You barely have time to close your eyes before the wolf's jaws clamp shut around your throat and twist. //Snap!// <<fadestart>><<link "Everything goes black…">><<passagefade "Chp1-1.1WakeupwithLuca" 3000>><</link>>

You spring to your feet, furious. What good is your power to part the veil, to peer into both past and future, if you cannot change things? You will not be able to change the outcome of this scene as it plays out—you know that, and it infuriates you. You are forever haunted by your mistakes, your failures. You know you will not be fast enough, but you lunge for your brother’s spear anyway, propped up on the other side of the tent, just above his sleeping mat. The hulking wolf snarls. Then it yanks its jaws to the side and you hear your brother’s neck break with a sickening //snap.// A splatter of blood sprays across the beast’s snow-white fur. It drops Parim’s body limply to the ground, where he crumples like a puppet with no one to hold it. <div class="choice">[[You unleash a guttural scream, your blood boiling.|Chp1-1.1AttackContinue][$attackscream to true]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You do not scream, your fury cold and silent. Your stare hardens, jaw set in determination.|Chp1-1.1AttackContinue][$attackscream to false]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-1.1AttackContinue") <= 1>>\ <<if $attackscream is true>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational<</notify>>\ <<else>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Imposing<</notify>>\ <<endif>>\ <</if>>\ <<cycle "$weapon" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__You twirl your brother’s spear masterfully, being most comfortable and familiar with spears, your preferred weapon of choice.__''" "spear">> <<option "''__You heft your brother’s spear into your hands, the feel of it a bit uncomfortable and unfamiliar as you are more proficient with a different type of weapon.__''" "other">> <</cycle>> You angle the point of the spear at the wolf menacingly, but it simply stares at you—quietly, unblinkingly—its great golden eyes boring into yours. The wolf creeps slowly toward you, stepping carefully over your brother’s broken body and shattered pieces of china. Its tread is eerily quiet, its head bowed and ears tucked back. Frost clings to the ground beneath its every step. Blood stains the fur around its lips. You hold your ground, your grip tight on the shaft of the spear, but something stays your hand, makes you hesitate to end the wolf. Something tugs at the back of your mind, something so strangely familiar about those eyes, about the way it looks at you. Something you can’t quite understand. The wolf stops just short of the point of your spear and whines softly, eyeing your weapon warily. Even on your feet, the beast still towers above you. Never have you seen something so beautiful and terrifying as this creature. When it looks at you again, something in its wide gaze seems almost…reluctant. And then, with a sudden shake of its great head, any trace of hesitation in its eyes is gone. Its stare hardens with animalistic cruelty, snout wrinkling and lips peeling back over wet black gums and long glistening canines. A low, rumbling growl reverberates from deep within the wolf's throat. It crouches low, legs tensing. Then it springs forward. You grit your teeth. The veins in your hands just faintly start to glow as ichor begins to burn through your body, adding a burst of intense power to your strike, aimed directly at the wolf’s heart—but you are already too late. You barely have time to curse yourself for your hesitation before the wolf's jaws clamp shut around your throat and twist. //Snap!// <<fadestart>><<link "Everything goes black…">><<passagefade "Chp1-1.1WakeupwithLuca" 3000>><</link>>

<<timed 200ms>>"Easy, now," a voice calls to you. \ <<next 2000ms>>It sounds so far away... \ <<next 2000ms>>Distorted. \ <<next 2000ms>>Like you are locked behind a closed door, or trapped underwater. You struggle to swim to the surface of your mind, to consciousness. When your eyes open next, it is with a wince, the pain of fangs sinking into the soft flesh of your throat still fresh in your mind. Your dreams do so enjoy being cruel. You are lying on your back, your head cushioned within someone’s lap. Distantly, you are aware of someone gently stroking the side of your face with the backs of their fingers. You try to speak, but only manage a pained gasp, your fingers flying to your aching throat. A small hand pries your fingers away from your neck—tenderly, as if afraid they might break you. A faint tug pulls at your stomach, and you place a hand over your belly in a feeble attempt to assuage your rising nausea. "Don’t," a voice says. You know that voice. You would know it anywhere. "Luca," you say, softly. <div class="choice">[["Try not to speak," he says.|Chp1-1.2][$lucathey to "he",$lucathem to "him",$lucatheir to "his",$lucatheirs to "his",$lucathemself to "himself",$lucagender to "boy",$lucachild to "son"]]</div> <div class="choice">[["Try not to speak," she says.|Chp1-1.2][$lucathey to "she",$lucathem to "her",$lucatheir to "her",$lucatheirs to "hers",$lucathemself to "herself",$lucagender to "girl",$lucachild to "daughter"]]</div> <</timed>>\

<<if visited("Chp1-1.3manipulative") <= 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Manipulative<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You know Luca doesn't really mean it and is planning on helping you regardless. Still, a little karmic retribution is in order. $lucaThey should really know better than to play standoffish with you. "What, don't tell me you're tired of me already," you say. "It's been over a decade. You really should be able to do this on your own, you know?" "Sure, but it's so much easier when you help me. I focus better with you around. //But// if you are kicking me out of the nest, I suppose I could always just ask someone else to help me instead." You tap a finger to your chin thoughtfully. Luca pauses. "Like who?" You can hear the frown in $lucatheir voice. <<if $lucathey is "he">>\ "Hmmm. What about Lord Callum?" "//Who?//" "Lord Oasis' son. You remember him? The boy you would sometimes attend lessons with? He would follow us around at balls? The one who would give you plenty of //very// helpful and informed, ah, //advice,// let's call it, which was //very// much wanted and appreciated." <<else>>\ "Hmmm. What about Lady Calliope?" "//Who?//" "Lord Oasis' daughter. You remember her? The girl you would sometimes attend lessons with? She would follow us around at balls? The one who would give you plenty of //very// helpful and informed, ah, //advice,// let's call it, which was //very// much wanted and appreciated." <<endif>>\ Luca is quiet for a few moments as $lucathey tries to recall who you're speaking of. When it clicks, $lucathey sits suddenly upright and rigid. $lucaThey spins to face you. "Wha—you can't be serious? //That// blockhead? $lucaThey wouldn't be able to divine a fortune if it smacked $lucathem in the face! You think you could concentrate better around //$lucathem?// The idiot can't keep $lucatheir mouth shut for five seconds." Luca holds up five fingers to illustrate $lucatheir point, waving $lucatheir hand in your face. "$lucaThey loves the sound of $lucatheir voice too much. And $lucatheir //'advice?'//" Luca mimes air quotations. "//Utter. Rubbish.// A stuck-up, entitled, //brat,// that one." "Oh come now, it's been eleven years. People change. You know, I hear $lucathey's really come into $lucatheir abilities with divination. Quite talented, really—" "//Nonsense.// You'd be a fool to seek $lucatheir help." $lucaThey crosses $lucatheir arms. Perhaps, if you were honest with yourself, you could do this on your own. But the fact is you do not want to. You don’t want to be alone. You don’t know what it is that keeps Luca here, what it is that summons $lucathem to your dreams at night—your own loneliness? Manifestations of guilt, maybe? Or perhaps it is some sort of connection beyond the planes of life and death that your goddess, Theia, has graciously granted you. Regardless, you fear that if you did not need Luca’s help anymore, you would cease to see $lucathem. Dreams are the only place you can see $lucathem now, after all. "So does that mean I can count on you to help me?" <<if $lucathey is "he">>\ Luca huffs an affronted breath. "No. Why don't you go ask //Lord Callum// if he's so much better." <<else>>\ Luca huffs an affronted breath. "No. Why don't you go ask //Lady Calliope// if she's so much better." <<endif>>\ "I never said $lucathey was better, but if you insist, I'll just ask $lucathem when I wake up—" "Wait, no, don't ask $lucathem." Luca blurts out. "I'll do it." "How kind." <<link '"I hate that I know what you just did. And I hate that it //worked//," Luca gripes, though there is no real animosity in $lucatheir voice.' 'Chp1-1.4'>><</link>>

<<if visited("Chp1-1.3yescharismatic") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Yes," you say, tipping your chin and fluttering your eyelashes in an obnoxious display of innocence at Luca. You can imagine the scowl forming on $lucatheir lips, if $lucatheir features were visible. "So be a dear and help me, won't you?" "Hm. Suddenly I don't feel like helping anymore," Luca says dryly. "So mean. It's considered rude to refuse a request from your elders, you know?" "Technically, I'm older than you," $lucathey says. "...or I used to be, anyway." "But now I'm older, so help your dearest, darling friend out." "No, I think I'd rather watch you struggle through this by yourself. Just to punish you." "You //wouldn't.// I know you would never turn up a chance to rescue your //favorite// person who is in //desperate// need of rescuing from a certain talented, treasured, beloved, slightly moody—oh, who am I kidding? //Very// moody—" "Alright, alright! Just stop talking!" Luca clamps a hand over your mouth. It tingles strangely—like static. You smile under Luca's hand. Were it anyone else, pride might have stayed your tongue in asking for help. But pride has never been an obstacle between you and Luca. Well, not for //you// at least. Perhaps, if you were honest with yourself, you could do this on your own. But the fact is you do not want to. You don’t want to be alone. You don’t know what it is that keeps Luca here, what it is that summons $lucathem to your dreams at night—your own loneliness? Manifestations of guilt, maybe? Or perhaps it is some sort of connection beyond the planes of life and death that your goddess, Theia, has graciously granted you. Regardless, you fear that if you did not need Luca’s help anymore, you would cease to see $lucathem. Dreams are the only place you can see $lucathem now, after all. Luca removes $lucatheir hand from your mouth. "So," you say. "You'll help me?" $lucaThey sighs, feigning exasperation, but you can hear the smile in $lucatheir voice when $lucathey speaks. [["If it will shut you up."|Chp1-1.4]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.1Accept") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You close your eyes and take a deep breath. //This isn't real,// you tell yourself. It is a small consolation at best; dreams have power—this, you are well aware of. You open your eyes and pull yourself to your feet slowly. You will not run—you have always been taught there is no honor in retreat. Besides, there is nowhere to escape to in your dreams; you are trapped here. You knew this was inevitable; the shadow lurking in your dreams would always catch up to you eventually. You bring yourself to your full height, spine rigid, doing your best to temper the slight tremble in your hands. Despite your attempts at a stoic facade, your heart cannot help but race at how small you feel beneath this huge, lumbering beast, your brother's throat held between its slavering maw. The hulking wolf snarls. Then it yanks its jaws to the side and you hear your brother’s neck break with a sickening //snap.// A splatter of blood sprays across the beast’s snow-white fur. It drops Parim’s body limply to the ground, where he crumples like a puppet with no one to hold it. You flinch, but do little else to react. Your heart hammers in your chest, but you lift your chin, gripping your wrist with the other hand to keep your trembling under control. The wolf turns its unblinking penetrating stare on you, its great golden eyes boring into yours. Something tugs at the back of your mind, something strangely familiar about those eyes, about the way it looks at you. Never have you seen something so beautiful and terrifying as this creature. The wolf creeps slowly toward you, stepping carefully over your brother’s broken body and shattered pieces of china. Its tread is eerily quiet, its head bowed and ears tucked back. Frost clings to the ground beneath its every step. Blood stains the fur around its lips. Your fingernails dig into your wrist as the beast comes to a stop in front of you, it's massive head towering above you. You hold perfectly still as the wolf’s snout brushes against the side of your face. It huffs a warm breath through its nose and swipes a tongue across your cheek, causing you to cringe. Your eyes flutter shut, the beast's snout nudging your head to the side as it sniffs at you. When the wolf pulls away with a low whine, it leaves a warm wet smear of blood on your face. "What...are you...? What do you want...?" It pulls back just far enough to look at you, something in its wide gaze almost…reluctant. And then, with a sudden shake of its great head, any trace of hesitation in its eyes is gone. Its stare hardens with animalistic cruelty, snout wrinkling and lips peeling back over wet black gums and long glistening canines. A low, rumbling growl reverberates from deep within the wolf's throat. It crouches low, legs tensing. Then it springs forward. You barely have time to close your eyes before the wolf's jaws clamp shut around your throat and twist. //Snap!// <<fadestart>><<link "Everything goes black…">><<passagefade "Chp1-1.1WakeupwithLuca" 3000>><</link>>

It takes you a few moments to gather your thoughts. You've told Luca about the tug you've been feeling, that strange, searching presence lurking in your dreams, getting ever closer. $lucaThey had been very concerned when you had first told $lucathem about it, and had promised to look into it. You hadn't seen $lucathem for weeks since then. "That...that //shadow// was there again. The one that has been stalking me in my dreams as of late." You look up at Luca, whose dark silhouette seems to grow more saturnine by the second, if that is possible. $lucaThey catches you staring and motions for you to go on. "It revealed itself to me this time. A wolf," you continue. Luca’s fingers twitch, but they go back to petting your head so smoothly you think you must have imagined it. "A great, white wolf. With yellow eyes. Massive, it was. Bigger than a man." "A white wolf…?" "Yes," you rasp. A shudder goes through your body, remembering the blood painted across its slavering maw. "It…Parim…and then…" Your fingers trace your throat, where dagger-like fangs had torn through the flesh. Luca seems to get the picture. $lucaThey moves one hand protectively over your throat, patting your head gently. You shake your head, continuing. "Do you think that was the same beast that…?" "I don’t know." "It was the strangest thing. I felt like…like I’d seen that wolf somewhere before," you whisper. But that couldn’t be possible. You’ve never run into a Celestylian war beast before. You would have remembered a creature like that, if you had even survived the encounter. They were known to be vicious, relentless, bloodthirsty. //Unfaltering.// You frown. //So why did it hesitate...?// you think to yourself. And that wolf had killed so cleanly. A quick, precise snap to the neck. From the reports you've heard, Celestylian war beasts were never so clean, so concise. Parim’s body had been so mangled, so shredded beyond recognition, there was hardly anything left of him—the only thing they’d been able to recover from his body was his torn and tattered cloak and his spear. Your head throbs and you sigh. "I don’t know. Maybe I'm just imagining things. My mind has been so tangled up since I got back." "Hm." You can hear the frown in Luca’s voice. $lucaThey is quiet for a long time, and eventually you decide to sit up, propping yourself up with your elbows and a wince. Luca helps you pull yourself into a sitting position, and you cross your legs beneath you. Your vision still swims, as though you are underwater, making your stomach churn. You close your eyes, trying to ignore your nausea and the insistent throb in your temple. When you open your eyes, you notice Luca is watching you. "I see you’ve been faring well without me," $lucathey says. You rasp out a laugh, only to wince when your throat protests painfully. "Evidently," you say. You turn to face Luca, $lucatheir outline still grainy, as though $lucathey is made of sand. You give $lucathem a meaningful look. "I’ve been having trouble concentrating." "//Tch.// You are a child no longer," $lucathey chides. "Honestly, do you really still need my help with channeling your focus?" <div class="choice">[["Yes." It is the honest, simple truth.|Chp1-1.3yes]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Yes. So be a dear and help me, won't you?”|Chp1-1.3yescharismatic]]</div> <div class="choice">[["No." It is a lie, but you can tell Luca seems exhausted—perhaps more so than you—so you try to be considerate this time.|Chp1-1.3no]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link '"I suppose I could always just ask someone else for help."' 'Chp1-1.3manipulative'>><</link>></div>

<<if visited("Chp1-1.2tease") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "That shouldn’t come as a surprise," you tease. "When do I ever heed your advice?" "I don’t even know why I offer it, then," Luca huffs, annoyed. "I may as well just tell it to a rock. It would listen better." You smile. "I missed you." "Mmm," $lucathey hums again, voice softer this time. "I was having a bad dream," you say softly after a few moments. Luca continues to gently pat your head. "I know." "About Parim." "Oh," $lucathey touches your shoulder gingerly. "I'm sorry. Are you...?" <div class="choice">[[You swallow. "No. But I'll be alright."|Chp1-1.2straightforward]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Your chin trembles. "No."|Chp1-1.2gentle]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You rush to paste a confident, reassuring smile on your face. "Aww, there's no need to worry about me. I'm fine, see?"|Chp1-1.2charismatic]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You are shaken, but you take a breath, affecting an impassive expression. "I am fine."|Chp1-1.2dignified]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You are shaken, but will not show it. When you speak, your tone is cool and somewhat standoffish, your expression inscrutable. "I am fine."|Chp1-1.2aloof]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link 'You are shaken, yes, but it isn\'t anything you cannot handle. Still, you exagerrate how rattled you are, knowing Luca will be more reluctant to leave you alone. You missed $lucathem while $lucathey was away, and you don\'t want $lucathem to disappear again any time soon.' 'Chp1-1.2manipulative'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice">[[You bite your lip, anger flaring up as you remember how easily that beast snapped your brother's neck, as though he were a twig. "No."|Chp1-1.2confrontational]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Your face hardens, and you wave off Luca's concern. "I'm fine."|Chp1-1.2imposing]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-1.2quiet") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Ah. Right. That advice," you say. Luca flicks your forehead and you go quiet for several moments, but ultimately decide there is simply too much you wish to talk about. "I've decided to ignore your advice." Luca throws $lucatheir hands up. "I don't even know why I bother." You smile. "I missed you." "Mmm," $lucathey hums again, voice softer this time. "I was having a bad dream," you say softly after a few moments. Luca continues to gently pat your head. "I know." "About Parim." "Oh," $lucathey touches your shoulder gingerly. "I'm sorry. Are you...?" <div class="choice">[[You swallow. "No. But I'll be alright."|Chp1-1.2straightforward]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Your chin trembles. "No."|Chp1-1.2gentle]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You rush to paste a confident, reassuring smile on your face. "Aww, there's no need to worry about me. I'm fine, see?"|Chp1-1.2charismatic]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You are shaken, but you take a breath, affecting an impassive expression. "I am fine."|Chp1-1.2dignified]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You are shaken, but will not show it. When you speak, your tone is cool and somewhat standoffish, your expression inscrutable. "I am fine."|Chp1-1.2aloof]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link 'You are shaken, yes, but it isn\'t anything you cannot handle. Still, you exagerrate how rattled you are, knowing Luca will be more reluctant to leave you alone. You missed $lucathem while $lucathey was away, and you don\'t want $lucathem to disappear again any time soon.' 'Chp1-1.2manipulative'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice">[[You bite your lip, anger flaring up as you remember how easily that beast snapped your brother's neck, as though he were a twig. "No."|Chp1-1.2confrontational]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Your face hardens, and you wave off Luca's concern. "I'm fine."|Chp1-1.2imposing]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-1.2charismatic") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Aww, there's no need to worry about me. I'm fine, see?" You smile charmingly up at Luca, who flicks you hard on the head, $lucatheir fingers leaving a static-like buzz on your skin. "Ow," you grumble, rubbing at your forehead. "What was that for?" "You know. You don't have to pretend around me." "I'm not pretending." "You know, you're just going to make me worry more if you try to hide when you're hurting from me. I thought we made a promise not to keep secrets." You look away guiltily, smile dropping. "You're right. I'm sorry." "I'm sorry, too," Luca murmurs. "I didn't know Parim as well as you did, but I remember he was always kind to me the few times I met him when we were kids. He was a good man. He deserved better. They all did." You nod weakly. You'd had no time to grieve when you first heard the news; the war kept going and your soldiers were awaiting your orders. You had to be a commander. And upon returning to the palace, you've been so swamped with work and preparations for Nour's coronation, you hadn't had any time to properly grieve your dead siblings. There are times when you forget, when you expect Ember to come barging into your room without knocking, a disgruntled and apologetic Castor following closely behind his twin. There are times you find your feet making their way toward Aurora's old room, to ask her opinion on how best to handle a piece of correspondence with a rather prickly noble only to suddenly remember her room will be empty. And there are times during ceremonies when you look to the dais, searching for the spot Parim should be, standing next to your father, only to find it filled by a discomforted-looking Nour, who catches your searching gaze with a sad, knowing look. Parim, Aurora, Castor, and Ember...they're all really gone. They aren't coming back. A small, sad laugh escapes you. "I really miss them. I even miss when Ember used to randomly come into my room just to insult my choice of outfit. And then just leave." Luca breathes a laugh through $lucatheir nose. "They were just like that, huh. They used to tease me, too. I remember right after he and Castor turned twelve, he came to find me just to ask me, 'How does it feel to be eleven, idiot?'" "Sounds like something they would do." $lucaThey nods, giving you a few moments to compose yourself before speaking again. "Something else happened." $lucaThey gestures at your throat, and you bring your fingers to the sensitive skin there. "Didn't it?" You nod. [[Continue|Chp1-1.3]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.2dignified") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You compose your face into a placid mask of perfect calm. "I'm fine," you say simply. Luca flicks you hard on the head, $lucatheir fingers leaving a static-like buzz on your skin. "Ow," you grumble, rubbing at your forehead. "What was that for?" "You know. You don't have to pretend around me." "I'm not pretending." "You know, you're just going to make me worry more if you try to hide when you're hurting from me. I thought we made a promise not to keep secrets." You look away guiltily. "You're right. I'm sorry." "I'm sorry, too," Luca murmurs. "I didn't know Parim as well as you did, but I remember he was always kind to me the few times I met him when we were kids. He was a good man. He deserved better. They all did." You nod weakly. You'd had no time to grieve when you first heard the news; the war kept going and your soldiers were awaiting your orders. You had to be a commander. And upon returning to the palace, you've been so swamped with work and preparations for Nour's coronation, you hadn't had any time to properly grieve your dead siblings. There are times when you forget, when you expect Ember to come barging into your room without knocking, a disgruntled and apologetic Castor following closely behind his twin. There are times you find your feet making their way toward Aurora's old room, to ask her opinion on how best to handle a piece of correspondence with a rather prickly noble only to suddenly remember her room will be empty. And there are times during ceremonies when you look to the dais, searching for the spot Parim should be, standing next to your father, only to find it filled by a discomforted-looking Nour, who catches your searching gaze with a sad, knowing look. Parim, Aurora, Castor, and Ember...they're all really gone. They aren't coming back. You let out a low hum and Luca turns to you questioningly. "I don't think I've even cried since it happened. I didn't have time to. Now, I...I feel like I don't even know how to grieve them. It's easier to just...not." You look up at Luca. "Am I a terrible person?" "No. You're just...hurting. Everyone hurts differently." You nod and fall quiet. $lucaThey sits in silence, giving you a few moments to compose yourself before speaking again. "Something else happened." $lucaThey gestures at your throat, and you bring your fingers to the sensitive skin there. "Didn't it?" You nod. [[Continue|Chp1-1.3]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.2straightforward") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 3>>\ <<notify>>+ Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Your brother's mangled throat, the sudden //snap// of his neck, his crumpled body lying in a broken heap atop the smashed tea table—all of it comes flooding back to you and you swallow the lump rising in your throat. "No," you say. "But I'll be alright." "I'm sorry," Luca murmurs. $lucaThey presses $lucatheir cheek to the top of your head. "I didn't know him as well as you did, but I remember he was always kind to me the few times I met him when we were kids. He was a good man. He deserved better. They all did." You nod weakly. You'd had no time to grieve when you first heard the news; the war kept going and your soldiers were awaiting your orders. You had to be a commander. And upon returning to the palace, you've been so swamped with work and preparations for Nour's coronation, you hadn't had any time to properly grieve your dead siblings. There are times when you forget, when you expect Ember to come barging into your room without knocking, a disgruntled and apologetic Castor following closely behind his twin. There are times you find your feet making their way toward Aurora's old room, to ask her opinion on how best to handle a piece of correspondence with a rather prickly noble only to suddenly remember her room will be empty. And there are times during ceremonies when you look to the dais, searching for the spot Parim should be, standing next to your father, only to find it filled by a discomforted-looking Nour, who catches your searching gaze with a sad, knowing look. Parim, Aurora, Castor, and Ember...they're all really gone. They aren't coming back. A small, sad laugh escapes you. "I really miss them. I even miss when Ember used to randomly come into my room just to insult my choice of outfit And then just leave." Luca breathes a laugh through $lucatheir nose. "They were just like that, huh. They used to tease me, too. I remember right after he and Castor turned twelve, he came to find me just to ask me, 'How does it feel to be eleven, idiot?'" "Sounds like something they would do." $lucaThey nods, giving you a few moments to compose yourself before speaking again. "Something else happened." $lucaThey gestures at your throat, and you bring your fingers to the sensitive skin there. "Didn't it?" You nod. [[Continue|Chp1-1.3]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.2gentle") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Your brother's mangled throat, the sudden //snap// of his neck, his crumpled body lying in a broken heap atop the smashed tea table—all of it comes flooding back to you and your chin begins to tremble, eyes watering. Luca gathers you up in $lucatheir arms, cradling your head against $lucatheir chest and rocking you while you cry. "I'm sorry," Luca murmurs. $lucaThey presses $lucatheir cheek to the top of your head. "I didn't know him as well as you did, but I remember he was always kind to me the few times I met him when we were kids. He was a good man. He deserved better. They all did." You begin to cry harder, all the pain you've been holding in up until now flooding out like water gushing through a broken dam. You'd had no time to grieve when you first heard the news; the war kept going and your soldiers were awaiting your orders. You had to be a commander. And upon returning to the palace, you've been so swamped with work and preparations for Nour's coronation, you hadn't had any time to properly grieve your dead siblings. There are times when you forget, when you expect Ember to come barging into your room without knocking, a disgruntled and apologetic Castor following closely behind his twin. There are times you find your feet making their way toward Aurora's old room, to ask her opinion on how best to handle a piece of correspondence with a rather prickly noble only to suddenly remember her room will be empty. And there are times during ceremonies when you look to the dais, searching for the spot Parim should be, standing next to your father, only to find it filled by a discomforted-looking Nour, who catches your searching gaze with a sad, knowing look. Parim, Aurora, Castor, and Ember...they're all really gone. They aren't coming back. Luca holds you until you cannot cry anymore. "I'm here," $lucathey whispers against the side of your head. "I'm here." You sniff, wiping your eyes with the backs of your hands, shooting a weak smile at Luca. "Thank you," you say. "I think I needed that." $lucaThey nods, giving you a few moments to compose yourself before speaking again. "Something else happened." $lucaThey gestures at your throat, and you bring your fingers to the sensitive skin there. "Didn't it?" You nod. [[Continue|Chp1-1.3]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.2confrontational") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Your brother's mangled throat, the sudden //snap// of his neck, his crumpled body lying in a broken heap atop the smashed tea table—all of it comes flooding back to you and you grit your teeth. "No," you say. "I'm not okay." "Yeah, it was a stupid question," Luca agrees. $lucaThey looks like $lucathey wants to add something else, but upon seeing the hard set to your jaw, $lucathey decides against it. Instead, $lucathey sighs. "I'm sorry," Luca murmurs. "I didn't know Parim as well as you did, but I remember he was always kind to me the few times I met him when we were kids. He was a good man. He deserved better. They all did." Your fists clench and you look away. You'd had no time to grieve when you first heard the news; the war kept going and your soldiers were awaiting your orders. You had to be a commander. And upon returning to the palace, you've been so swamped with work and preparations for Nour's coronation, you hadn't had any time to properly grieve your dead siblings. There are times when you forget, when you expect Ember to come barging into your room without knocking, a disgruntled and apologetic Castor following closely behind his twin. There are times you find your feet making their way toward Aurora's old room, to ask her opinion on how best to handle a piece of correspondence with a rather prickly noble only to suddenly remember her room will be empty. And there are times during ceremonies when you look to the dais, searching for the spot Parim should be, standing next to your father, only to find it filled by a discomforted-looking Nour, who catches your searching gaze with a sad, knowing look. Parim, Aurora, Castor, and Ember...they're all really gone. They aren't coming back. You let out a low hum and Luca turns to you questioningly. "I don't think I've even cried since it happened. All I've felt is...angry. With Celestyl. With them. With myself." You look up at Luca. "Am I a terrible person?" "No. You're just...hurting. Everyone hurts differently." You nod and fall quiet. $lucaThey sits in silence, giving you a few moments to compose yourself before speaking again. "Something else happened." $lucaThey gestures at your throat, and you bring your fingers to the sensitive skin there. "Didn't it?" You nod. [[Continue|Chp1-1.3]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.2imposing") <= 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Imposing<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You set your jaw, face hardening into a stoic, imperious facade. "I'm fine," you say coldly. Luca flicks you hard on the head, $lucatheir fingers leaving a static-like buzz on your skin. You simply glare at $lucathem. "I'm your friend, not a subject. Don't shut me out." "That's not what I'm doing. I said I was fine. You needn't worry about me." "You know, you're just going to make me worry more if you try to hide when you're hurting from me. I thought we made a promise not to keep secrets." Your shoulders slump in defeat and you look away guiltily. "You're right. I'm sorry." "I'm sorry, too," Luca murmurs. "I didn't know Parim as well as you did, but I remember he was always kind to me the few times I met him when we were kids. He was a good man. He deserved better. They all did." You nod stiffly. You'd had no time to grieve when you first heard the news; the war kept going and your soldiers were awaiting your orders. You had to be a commander. And upon returning to the palace, you've been so swamped with work and preparations for Nour's coronation, you hadn't had any time to properly grieve your dead siblings. There are times when you forget, when you expect Ember to come barging into your room without knocking, a disgruntled and apologetic Castor following closely behind his twin. There are times you find your feet making their way toward Aurora's old room, to ask her opinion on how best to handle a piece of correspondence with a rather prickly noble only to suddenly remember her room will be empty. And there are times during ceremonies when you look to the dais, searching for the spot Parim should be, standing next to your father, only to find it filled by a discomforted-looking Nour, who catches your searching gaze with a sad, knowing look. Parim, Aurora, Castor, and Ember...they're all really gone. They aren't coming back. You let out a low hum and Luca turns to you questioningly. "I don't think I've even cried since it happened. I didn't have time to. Now, I...I feel like I don't even know how to grieve them. It's easier to just...not." You look up at Luca. "Am I a terrible person?" "No. You're just...hurting. Everyone hurts differently." You nod and fall quiet. $lucaThey sits in silence, giving you a few moments to compose yourself before speaking again. "Something else happened." $lucaThey gestures at your throat, and you bring your fingers to the sensitive skin there. "Didn't it?" You nod. [[Continue|Chp1-1.3]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.2manipulative") <= 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative + 3>>\ <<notify>>+ Manipulative<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Your brother's mangled throat, the sudden //snap// of his neck, his crumpled body lying in a broken heap atop the smashed tea table—all of it comes flooding back to you. You glance up at Luca's silhouette, $lucatheir familiar presence soothing to your frayed nerves. It's been many weeks since $lucathey's turned up in your dreams and you've had trouble concentrating, trouble sleeping without $lucathem here. Though you feel somewhat guilty putting $lucathem into the role of comforter, you do not wish your oldest friend to go disappearing on you again so soon. Swallowing thickly, you summon a well of tears to your eyes. Luca reacts just as instantly as you knew $lucathey would, gathering you up in $lucatheir arms and cradling your head against $lucatheir chest as $lucathey rocks you while you cry. "I'm sorry," Luca murmurs. $lucaThey presses $lucatheir cheek to the top of your head. "I didn't know him as well as you did, but I remember he was always kind to me the few times I met him when we were kids. He was a good man. He deserved better. They all did." You begin to cry harder, and Luca grips you tighter. You'd had no time to grieve when you first heard the news; the war kept going and your soldiers were awaiting your orders. You had to be a commander. And upon returning to the palace, you've been so swamped with work and preparations for Nour's coronation, you hadn't had any time to properly grieve your dead siblings. There are times when you forget, when you expect Ember to come barging into your room without knocking, a disgruntled and apologetic Castor following closely behind his twin. There are times you find your feet making their way toward Aurora's old room, to ask her opinion on how best to handle a piece of correspondence with a rather prickly noble only to suddenly remember her room will be empty. And there are times during ceremonies when you look to the dais, searching for the spot Parim should be, standing next to your father, only to find it filled by a discomforted-looking Nour, who catches your searching gaze with a sad, knowing look. Parim, Aurora, Castor, and Ember...they're all really gone. They aren't coming back. Luca holds you until you feel you've cried a sufficient amount to be convincing. It isn't as though you aren't upset. It's just that you feel this moment deserves an especially mournful performance. Luca would be far more reluctant to disappear on you again if you are hurting badly. "I'm here," $lucathey whispers against the side of your head. "I'm here." You sniff, wiping your eyes with the backs of your hands. "You aren't going to leave again, are you?" Luca rubs a hand guiltily against the back of $lucatheir neck. "No," $lucathey says. "I'm sorry I was gone so long this last time. I...I didn't realize." You wrap your arms around $lucathem. "Good," you say. $lucaThey nods, giving you a few moments to compose yourself before speaking again. "Something else happened." $lucaThey gestures at your throat, and you bring your fingers to the sensitive skin there. "Didn't it?" You nod. [[Continue|Chp1-1.3]]

While you are primarily proficient in the art of divination and foresight, you also have a natural affinity for manipulating gravitational fields, bogging down your enemies with unforgiving increases in gravity or pulling them in closer to enable you to make the final kill. Conversely, you can make your own body movements quick and light as a feather by decreasing your own gravity or traverse difficult terrain like cliffsides and ceilings with ease by adjusting your own direction of gravity. Your magic can be incredibly useful, but it is difficult to master and very dangerous if not used correctly. Does this sound right? <div class="choice">[[Yes.|GravityConfirm]]</div> <div class="choice">[[No, I excel at something else.|RepromptMagicAsk]]</div>

<<set $magic to "gravity">>\ <<set $magicchosen to true>>\ Yes, gravitational manipulation has always been your forte. Unfortunately, that does you little good when it comes to fixing cold tea. You sigh, wishing at this moment Nour was here to warm your tea for you. You wince when you catch yourself almost thinking //Or Ember.// A persistent lump rises in your throat and you struggle for a moment to swallow it down, earning you a confused yet concerned glance from Farah. You offer her a tight smile. It does not seem to reassure her. Clearing your mind of those lingering threads of guilt and grief takes a moment longer, but afterwards you set your teacup down with a resigned sigh, directing your attention back to Nour’s letter. [[Continue|Chp1-1.12]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.14bristle") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational, + Imposing<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You immediately bristle at his concern, turning away. "I'm fine," you snap. "Why wouldn't I be?" Aurynn seems completely unfazed by your iciness. He shrugs exagerratedly. "Oh, I dunno. Maybe because your sister just shattered your dead brother's tea set and told you she hated you? Just a guess." "Get out." "So you //do// need a minute?" You whip around to glower at him. He raises his arms in surrender and moves to the door, his hand resting on the doorknob, hesitating. "Just...give her some time. She didn't mean it," he says. After a pause, he adds, "I'll ask Sam if anything can be done about the tea set." Then he bows and dips quietly out of the room without another word, his long flowing brown hair trailing behind him as he shuts the door with a soft click. You cross your arms, nails biting into your skin, and squeeze your eyes shut. When you finally manage to get your breathing under control, you step over the shattered tea set and ease the door open, shutting it quietly behind you. [[Continue|Chp1-1.15]]

The figure uses what pronouns? <div class="choice">[[They/them/theirs. Use presets: person, princeps, leige, sibling, child, dynast.|Chp1-1.7.2Trans][$plural to true,$they to "they",$them to "them",$their to "their",$theirs to "theirs",$themself to "themself",$person to "person",$title to "princeps",$liege to "liege",$sibling to "sibling",$child to "child",$kid to "child", $kid2 to "kid",$dynast to "dynast"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[He/him/his. Use presets: man, prince, lord, brother, son, boy, emperor.|Chp1-1.7.2Trans][$plural to false,$they to "he",$them to "him",$their to "his",$theirs to "his",$themself to "himself",$person to "man",$title to "prince",$liege to "lord",$sibling to "brother",$child to "son",$kid to "boy", $kid2 to "boy",$dynast to "emperor"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[She/her/hers. Use presets: woman, princess, lady, sister, daughter, girl, empress.|Chp1-1.7.2Trans][$plural to false,$they to "she",$them to "her",$their to "her",$theirs to "hers",$themself to "herself",$person to "woman",$title to "princess",$liege to "lady",$sibling to "sister",$child to "daughter",$kid to "girl", $kid2 to "girl",$dynast to "empress"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Xe/xem/xyrs. Use presets: person, princeps, leige, sibling, child, dynast.|Chp1-1.7.2Trans][$plural to false,$they to "xe",$them to "xem",$their to "xyr",$theirs to "xyrs",$themself to "xemself",$person to "person",$title to "princeps",$liege to "liege",$sibling to "sibling",$child to "child",$kid to "child", $kid2 to "kid",$dynast to "dynast"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Customize my pronouns.|Chp1-1.7Character Creator]]</div>

<<set $appearance to "apatheticmax">>\ <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairstyle is "headscarf")>>\ As much as you find the absurd amount of time and effort it takes to maintain such an overelaborate appearance, it is quite honestly worth it if only to get your mother off your back. If keeping your appearance absolutely immaculate is what it takes to buy a moment's peace from your mother's fretting and plucking and prodding, then so be it. This is, after all, what is expected of you anyhow. You smooth a hand over your face, rubbing at the dark circles under your tired eyes. You smooth your hair down and readjust your askew <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>> before turning away from the vanity to face Farah. <<elseif $hairstyle is "headscarf">>\ As much as you find the absurd amount of time and effort it takes to maintain such an overelaborate appearance, it is quite honestly worth it if only to get your mother off your back. If keeping your appearance absolutely immaculate is what it takes to buy a moment's peace from your mother's fretting and plucking and prodding, then so be it. This is, after all, what is expected of you anyhow. You smooth a hand over your face, rubbing at the dark circles under your tired eyes. You straighten out your headscarf and readjust your askew <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>> before turning away from the vanity to face Farah. <<else>>\ As much as you find the absurd amount of time and effort it takes to maintain such an overelaborate appearance, it is quite honestly worth it if only to get your mother off your back. If keeping your appearance absolutely immaculate is what it takes to buy a moment's peace from your mother's fretting and plucking and prodding, then so be it. This is, after all, what is expected of you anyhow. You smooth a hand over your face, rubbing at the dark circles under your tired eyes. You readjust your askew <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>> before turning away from the vanity to face Farah. <<endif>>\ [[Continue|Chp1-1.13]]

<<set $appearance to "apatheticmin">>\ <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairstyle is "headscarf")>>\ Now, being back at the palace, you find it difficult to shake this habit, much to your mother's frustration. You maintain your appearance only to the minimum required of the dignity your station demands, but you no longer have any interest in fussing over every strand of hair or bothering with things like makeup or face paints like others at court do. You smooth a hand over your face, rubbing at the dark circles under your tired eyes. You smooth your hair down and readjust your askew <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>> before turning away from the vanity to face Farah. <<elseif $hairstyle is "headscarf">>\ Now, being back at the palace, you find it difficult to shake this habit, much to your mother's frustration. You maintain your appearance only to the minimum required for the dignity your station demands, but you no longer have any interest in fussing over every wrinkle in your clothes or bothering with things like makeup or face paints like others at court. You smooth a hand over your face, rubbing at the dark circles under your tired eyes. You straighten out your headscarf and readjust your askew <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>> before turning away from the vanity to face Farah. <<else>>\ Now, being back at the palace, you find it difficult to shake this habit, much to your mother's frustration. You maintain your appearance only to the minimum required for the dignity your station demands, but you no longer have any interest in fussing over every wrinkle in your clothes or bothering with things like makeup or face paints like others at court. You smooth a hand over your face, rubbing at the dark circles under your tired eyes. You readjust your askew <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>> before turning away from the vanity to face Farah. <<endif>>\ [[Continue|Chp1-1.13]]

<<set $appearance to "confidentmax">>\ It really is so hard to procure fine silks and jewelry on a battlefield. And the elements always ruined your hair after a few hours at most. Being home at the palace has reminded you of all the paints and jewels and threads you had gone so long without, and you've spent a rather absurd amount of time reacquainting yourself with all of them. You find it much easier to maintain your exquisite appearance now. <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairstyle is "headscarf")>>\ You take several moments to readjust your <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>> and tuck every strand of hair into its proper place before turning around to face Farah. <<elseif $hairstyle is "headscarf">>\ You take several moments to readjust your <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>> and secure your headscarf into its proper place before turning around to face Farah. <<else>>\ You take several moments to readjust your <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>>, ensuring everything is in its proper place before turning around to face Farah. <<endif>>\ [[Continue|Chp1-1.13]]

<<set $appearance to "confidentmin">>\ Honestly, the courtiers you see peacocking about with their necks draped in an obscene amount of glittering jewels and gleaming gold just look ridiculous to you now, and you aren't quite sure how they manage to stay upright with so much metal round their throats. While you decorate yourself to the minimum required of the dignity your station demands, you see no need to flaunt about draped head to toe in rubies and gold. You are $pretty as is—what point is there in trying to distract from that with ostentatious finery? <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairstyle is "headscarf")>>\ You take several moments to readjust your <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>> and tuck every strand of hair into its proper place before turning around to face Farah. <<elseif $hairstyle is "headscarf">>\ You take several moments to readjust your <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>> and secure your headscarf into its proper place before turning around to face Farah. <<else>>\ You take several moments to readjust your <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>>, ensuring everything is in its proper place before turning around to face Farah. <<endif>>\ [[Continue|Chp1-1.13]]

<<set $appearance to "selfconsciousmax">>\ Smoothing a hand over your face, you scrub at the dark circles under your tired eyes. You would prefer not to use your mirror at all, but you are a $title and a $title looks immaculate. It feels almost fraudulent to take such meticulous care in presenting yourself—you cannot help but wonder who you are fooling. It is a game you play, going to such arduous lengths to cover up your hideous scars, to distract from your marred face with glittering rubies and flowing silks and rose-gold circelets. If you must draw eyes, then perhaps you can draw them away from the unsightly parts of yourself. <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairstyle is "headscarf")>>\ You readjust your <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>> and smooth out your hair, all while studiously avoiding looking at your own face. <<elseif $hairstyle is "headscarf">>\ You readjust your <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>> and straighten out your headscarf, all while studiously avoiding looking at your own face. <<else>>\ You readjust your <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>> all while studiously avoiding looking at your own face. <<endif>>\ "You don’t have to worry so much," Farah says quietly from behind you. "You look <<cycle "$pretty" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__pretty__''" "pretty">> <<option "''__beautiful__''" "beautiful">> <<option "''__handsome__''" "handsome">> <<option "''__lovely__''" "lovely">> <</cycle>>" You catch her looking at you in the mirror and you quickly shut the wardrobe and turn to look at her with a gentle smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. "Thank you, Farah." She frowns, but doesn't push the issue, which you are grateful for. [[Continue|Chp1-1.13]]

<<set $appearance to "selfconsciousmin">>\ Smoothing a hand over your face, you scrub at the dark circles under your tired eyes. You would prefer not to use your mirror at all, but you must maintain some sense of dignity in your appearance, being a $title. If not for yourself, then to avoid your mother pulling you aside to fuss over your image and chastise you for your lack of sensibility for form and countenance. Though you know she would prefer you put more care into your appearance, you simply find that draping yourself in ornate finery feels almost...fraudulent, as though you are trying to fool everyone into thinking you are $pretty, trying to distract them from your hideous scars with blinding gold pendants and glittering jewels. You would prefer not to draw attention. To fade into the background. To remain unnoticed. <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairstyle is "headscarf")>>\ You readjust your <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>> and smooth out your hair, all while studiously avoiding looking at your own face. <<elseif $hairstyle is "headscarf">>\ You readjust your <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>> and straighten out your headscarf, all while studiously avoiding looking at your own face. <<else>>\ You readjust your <<cycle "$clothes" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__dress__''" "dress">> <<option "''__robes__''" "robes">> <<option "''__tunic__''" "tunic">> <<option "''__shirt__''" "shirt">> <</cycle>> all while studiously avoiding looking at your own face. <<endif>>\ "You don’t have to worry so much," Farah says quietly from behind you. "You look <<cycle "$pretty" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__pretty__''" "pretty">> <<option "''__beautiful__''" "beautiful">> <<option "''__handsome__''" "handsome">> <<option "''__lovely__''" "lovely">> <</cycle>>" You catch her looking at you in the mirror and you quickly shut the wardrobe and turn to look at her with a gentle smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. "Thank you, Farah." She frowns, but doesn't push the issue, which you are grateful for. [[Continue|Chp1-1.13]]

"—what did you say to $them? Did you even //try// to comfort $them?" Samira hisses. "What do you take me for? Yes, of course I did." Aurynn retorts. "I’m almost afraid to ask what your idea of comforting someone looks like." "Well, I mean, if you need a demonstration, I could always—" "Oh, //shut it.// This is exactly what I’m talking about. You must be the worst person imaginable to talk to during an emotional crisis. It’s like you’re incapable of feeling anything beyond hunger and lust." "Hey, I’m plenty capable of at least a few other emotions," he says defensively. "Oh? Like what?" "Butterflies," Aurynn purrs. "You think I’m the worst person imaginable? I’m curious—do your imaginations often revolve around me?" "This isn’t flirting." You can hear the scowl in Samira’s voice. "Mm. It’s better, honestly." She’s quiet for a moment, letting out a slow breath through her nose, and when she speaks again, her lovely lilting voice carries a dangerous edge, the kind she reserves only for Aurynn, the self-proclaimed bane of her existence. She is, when irritated, like the bone-white trumpet flower of a Theian desert thorn—sweet in appearance but deathly poisonous. "I would strangle you but I won’t because I was raised right," she says. "//You// were dropped on the head as a baby." "Ah, come now, you’re a lady who knows what she wants. Why fight the temptation? If you wanna grasp my throat—or anywhere else, for that matter—all you gotta do is ask—aagh!" he yelps. "//Kindly retract your talons from my flesh, woman.//" "Are you going to behave?" "Well, when you phrase it like that—" Samira clucks her tongue. "Tch. //Quiet.// And get your arm off me—gods only know where it’s been," she huffs. "Tell me, is your brain just for show? Are you incapable of thinking with anything other than your loins?" Aurynn barely manages to draw in a breath as he prepares to speak when Samira cuts him off. "No, you know what, actually? //Don’t// answer that," she says, then sighs. "Honestly, it’s a wonder no one has killed you yet." "Believe me, it’s gotten pretty close," he says. "I was with this noblewoman the other day—can't remember her name—and at first I thought she was just //very// enthusastic about her choking kink, but you know what? I think she might have actually been trying to kill me. I've even got the bruises to show for it. Here, wanna see—?" "Ah—ugh. //No.// Put your gorget back on. I //really// didn't need to know about all that, thank you," Samira says. "Can’t you take anything seriously? Or must you deflect with humor and flirtation every time I try to have a serious discussion with you?" Aurynn scoffs. "That’s rich. Maybe I’ll stop deflecting when you do, Mira-Mira." "I told you to stop calling me that," she snaps. "And I don’t deflect." "Oh, you don’t, do you? I recall very considerately asking you how you were feeling after Little Red cornered you the other day and you somehow managed to flip it around into a twenty minute lecture about how I need to eat better." "Well, you //do,//" she counters. "Thanks, //mother.// You’re missing the point," he says. "//Fine.// You want me to talk about how I’m feeling? Let’s see. Well, right now, I’m feeling distinctly //annoyed.//" Samira growls. "But this wasn’t about me. This was about //you// being emotionally available for //$Their Highness// when $they needed it." "There you go doing it again!" Aurynn gasps exaggeratedly. "Always spinning things around to be about the other person. It’s like you can talk about any feelings so long as they aren’t yours. I should have seen that coming." "You’re so //perceptive,//" Samira purrs, her tone taking on a sickly sweet cadence belying the venom beneath it. "I’m surprised you didn’t see //this// coming." "See what—//agh!//" he yelps, followed by what can only be the sound of the staff of his glaive slamming into his skull. Samira draws in a gasp. "Oh my gods!" she cries. "Did you hear that? Your head! It’s hollow!" You hear a dull //thunk, thunk, thunk// as she strikes Aurynn’s head repeatedly with the glaive. "Don't—" //thunk// "—stop—" //thunk// "—this is—" //thunk// "—turning—" //thunk// "—me on—!" "//Eugh,// what?!" "Agh—//gods//—that //hurt//, you //hag//," he growls. "And you can wipe that look off your face. No, I'm not a masochist—I just needed you to stop for a godsdamned second. //Thank you// for not bludgeoning me to death, and now if you would be so kind, would you hand that back?" [[Continue|Chp1-2.2HallArguingCont]]

You suppress an eye roll as the two of them begin to wrestle over the glaive behind you, hissing very unsubtly at each other like angry cats. You continue to dutifully ignore them as you wind your way through column-lined corridors, which—thankfully—have thus far remained empty, saving you the indignity of any odd looks thrown at you and your two quarreling attendants. At some point, you manage to drown out the sound of their bickering—it is so common an occurrence that it easily becomes background noise to you. You busy yourself with counting your steps along the embroidered vermillion carpet spanning the length of the gritty sandstone floor. //One, two, three…// A warm arid breeze weaves through the hallway’s pillars, plucking at the hem of your $clothes as it warms your skin. To your right, the balcony overlooks the vast palace gardens, a smattering of amethyst and honey-gold blossoms speckled among swaying swathes of wildgrass and yawning olive trees. The earthy scent of saffron and cinnamon floats in over the breeze, accompanied by the warbling trill and twitter of birdsong. You inhale. Looking out over the gardens, you wonder if Nour is already waiting for you in the gazebo, worrying a braid round and round $their index finger, twisting and untwisting it again and again and again and again. A prickle of pain stabs through your head and you pinch the bridge of your nose, smoothing a hand over your brow as if it might ease the ache in your skull. It takes a few moments for a voice—Samira’s—to cut through the buzzing in your brain, too quiet and garbled at first for you to make out her words. "Hm?" you say, blinking several times as you turn to face her. She pauses in the hallway and looks you over with a frown. "Another headache, Your Highness?" Aurynn, his attention elsewhere, stumbles straight into Samira's back and she is forced to right him, glowering as she does so. He tries to intertwine their fingers as she steadies him but she smacks his hand away. You hum noncommittally. "It comes and goes," you say. Though lately it has done more coming than going. "Hm. Haven't you been taking the tonics I'd given you? They should have helped..." she says as her brow knits, looking slightly put out. "Ah, well..." you say somewhat sheepishly, not quite sure how to tell her that her tonics taste—well, how to put this nicely? //Awful.// They taste awful. Just dreadful, really. You hadn't taken the tonics she'd last given you, having immediately foisted them off onto Aurynn with orders to bury them. Six cubits deep. //Minimum.// And the other tonics she’d insisted you drink in her presence you had forced upon a very disgruntled Aurynn when she wasn’t looking. "I ran out," you lie. "Oh, if that’s all, I actually have one on hand with me," Samira offers. "And I can fetch you some more later." She reaches into a small apothecary’s satchel at her waist and produces a vial filled with a dark, pungent liquid. Though it wouldn’t really be fair to call it a liquid. It is more akin to tar, you think—thick and sticky and just as foul-smelling. You suppress a shudder. She hands the vial to you, an expectant and eager look on her face. Aurynn slings an arm around Samira, who promptly shrugs it off, only for him to put it right back. "Aww, that was nice of you, Mira-Mira. Wasn’t that nice of Sam, $mcnickname?" He narrows his eyes, fixing you with a vulpine grin. With as many of Samira’s concoctions you’ve forced upon him over the years, you aren’t surprised he would relish in the opportunity to watch you squirm. You offer a terse smile, shooting daggers at him with your eyes. "Indeed…" you say. "Thank you." "That’s //$Title// $mcnickname to you," Samira corrects Aurynn, grabbing his wrist and flinging it away from her in a brusque motion as she wrinkles her nose at him. You glance down at the vial in your hand and back up at Samira, who gestures for you to drink up. Biting your lip, you shoot an entreating look at Aurynn. He simply smiles and makes a //’go on’// gesture. <div class="choice">[[There’s no way you can drink this. Time for some abuse of power. You’re forcing it on Aurynn.|Chp1-2ForceAurynn]]</div> <div class="choice">[[There’s no way you can drink this. Swallowing your pride, you silently plead with Aurynn to help you out.|Chp1-2PleadAurynn]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You heave a sigh and resign yourself to your fate. You’ll drink it.|Chp1-2Youdrink]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Fine. Bottoms up!|Chp1-2BottomsUp]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You can’t do it. You can’t drink it.|Chp1-2Youdontdrink]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2ForceAurynn") <= 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative + 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Imposing, +Manipulative<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ <<if ($height is "short") or ($height is "very short") or ($height is "average")>>\ You subtly lift your chin, somehow managing to look down your nose at Aurynn despite him being taller. You affect the most imperious look you can, narrowing your eyes at him. <<else>>\ You subtly lift your chin, looking down your nose at Aurynn in the most imperious look you can manage, narrowing your eyes at him. <<endif>>\ Aurynn pulls a disgusted face, shaking his head. You continue to silently stare at him. He glares at you for a moment before he throws you a desperate //’Really?’// look. You subtly nod. Resignedly, he sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. Samira glances between the two of you. "What are you two doing with your faces?" With a final venomous look in your direction, Aurynn drapes himself over Samira, propping an elbow on her shoulder, which she immediately shrugs off again, causing him to stumble as he loses his balance. He catches himself with his glaive, quickly righting himself. A forced smile strains his face, his voice a bit too loud to be entirely casual. "Nothing. What are you doing with //your// face?" Samira gives him an odd look. "Nothing…?" "You know, speaking of nothing," Aurynn says. "Have I had you check out my head recently? It’s probably nothing, but I figured I should check in with our resident Doc on the matter." "What’s wrong with your head? Besides the usual. Have your migraines gotten worse?" A dark grimace flickers over Aurynn’s face so quickly you’d have thought you must have imagined it. "No, no, not that. But check this out," he says, then lifts his glaive and slams his forehead into the shaft. He winces and clutches his head. "Whenever I do that, it hurts." Samira stares at Aurynn for several moments. She glances at you as if to silently ask if you both witnessed the same thing. "...Yes," she says after a long pause. "I would imagine it does." "And here’s the thing," Aurynn continues. He claps a hand conspiratorially on Samira’s shoulder, pulling her head down close to his and angling her face away from you. With Samira’s attention on him, he subtly reaches a hand out toward you and you think he means to take the vial from you, so you try to slip it into his palm only for him to slap your hand away. He gestures at a potted yucca tree with a bristle of bright spearhead-shaped leaves nestled on the balcony directly behind you. You take his meaning. He taps a finger against his forehead, giving Samira a confused look. "The more I do that the more it hurts," he tells her, then smacks his head against his glaive again. "Ow." "Yes, that...tends to happen when you repeatedly self-inflict brain damage," she replies. "It’s weird, right?" "You could say that." He headbutts his glaive again. "Ow." "Would you please cut that out?!" Samira tries to rip his glaive away, but he keeps a firm grip on it. She flashes him an irritated look as the two begin to wrestle over the weapon. Aurynn begins shrieking. Surging forward, Samira clamps one hand over Aurynn’s mouth, the other still firmly gripping the glaive as she glances down either end of the corridor. "Shut up!" she hisses. "You’re making a scene! Someone is going to hear—eugh!" She yanks her hand back. "Don’t //lick// me! What’s wrong with you?" "I’M ACTING IRRATIONAL!" Aurynn screeches. You hastily uncork the vial and dash the contents into the potted yucca, turning your nose away as the thick sludge-like liquid seeps slowly out of the vial and into the pot, making a sick gurgling noise as it bubbles and froths in the soil. Horrified, you shake the vial, hoping to be rid of it that much sooner. Samira wrenches the glaive from his grip, looking like she’d love nothing more than to beat him over the head with it. Seemingly deciding the extra brain trauma would not be worth it, she decides against it. She begins to turn your way as the last of the tonic is still oozing from the bottle into the yucca pot. Aurynn rolls his eyes at you and grabs the butt end of the glaive, yanking it towards him and taking out a decorative urn resting on a pedestal between him and Samira, sending it crashing to the floor in a spray of shards. Samira whirls back around, blinking owlishly at Aurynn, her attention recaptured. He gasps exaggeratedly, gesturing at the mess. "Look at what you did!" Samira gapes at him. "What //I// did?! //You’re// the clumsy oaf that knocked it over!" "Yeah, we’ll see how well that holds up in front of a tribunal. You’re literally holding the murder weapon," he counters. "Ex//cuse// me?" she leans over him, the glaive clenched tightly in her fists. "You’re not excused," he says, crossing his arms. "Your actions have consequences. What are you going to tell that poor urn’s family?" "A better question would be what am I going to tell //yours?//" she growls. You nod gravely, recorking the vial. "Indeed. Lady Safina sculpted that urn herself, you know. Painted it, too." Aurynn raises an eyebrow. He points a finger at Samira. "Oh. You’re //fucked.//" The glaive quivers in her grip as she looks down her nose at him. "You say that like Lady Safina would ever actually take your word against mine," she says. "//You’re// the one who’s…who's..." she trails off, glancing briefly at you as if remembering the company she is in. "...done for." "A fair point," he concedes, then turns to you. "Good thing neither of you are going to tell her, right?" You shrug and he fixes you with a betrayed look, mouth falling open as he gestures vaguely at you. "Wha—?" <div class="choice">[["Maybe I will," you say. You don’t intend to, of course, but you suppose you’d like a little payback for his earlier gloating.|Chp1-2MaybeIWill]]</div> <div class="choice">[["I suppose I can let it slide," you say. "But not without punishment." ♥|Chp1-2Punish]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2PleadAurynn") <= 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative + 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic, +Manipulative<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Gritting your teeth, you plead with Aurynn using your eyes and almost immediately regret it as his smirk widens. He snaps silently and points at the ground as he mouths, //’Beg.’// You nearly outright refuse but considering your only alternative is to down Samira’s vile concoction, you swallow your pride and paste on a demure look, your brows knitting imploringly. You bat your eyelashes a bit, hoping that might help further sway him to help you. You hope he doesn’t //actually// expect you to get on your knees. Samira glances between the two of you. "What are you two doing with your faces?" Seemingly satisfied with your display, Aurynn winks and drapes himself over Samira, propping an elbow on her shoulder, which she immediately shrugs off again, causing him to stumble as he loses his balance. He catches himself with his glaive, quickly righting himself. He smiles. "Nothing. What are you doing with //your// face?" Samira gives him an odd look. "Nothing…?" "You know, speaking of nothing," Aurynn says. "Have I had you check out my head recently? It’s probably nothing, but I figured I should check in with our resident Doc on the matter." "What’s wrong with your head? Besides the usual. Have your migraines gotten worse?" A dark grimace flickers over Aurynn’s face so quickly you’d have thought you must have imagined it. "No, no, not that. But check this out," he says, then lifts his glaive and slams his forehead into the shaft. He winces and clutches his head. "Whenever I do that, it hurts." Samira stares at Aurynn for several moments. She glances at you as if to silently ask if you both witnessed the same thing. "...Yes," she says after a long pause. "I would imagine it does." "And here’s the thing," Aurynn continues. He claps a hand conspiratorially on Samira’s shoulder, pulling her head down close to his and angling her face away from you. With Samira’s attention on him, he subtly reaches a hand out toward you and you think he means to take the vial from you, so you try to slip it into his palm only for him to slap your hand away. He gestures at a potted yucca tree with a bristle of bright spearhead-shaped leaves nestled on the balcony directly behind you. You take his meaning. He taps a finger against his forehead, giving Samira a confused look. "The more I do that the more it hurts," he tells her, then smacks his head against his glaive again. "Ow." "Yes, that...tends to happen when you repeatedly self-inflict brain damage," she replies. "It’s weird, right?" "You could say that." He headbutts his glaive again. "Ow." "Would you please cut that out?!" Samira tries to rip his glaive away, but he keeps a firm grip on it. She flashes him an irritated look as the two begin to wrestle over the weapon. Aurynn begins shrieking. Surging forward, Samira clamps one hand over Aurynn’s mouth, the other still firmly gripping the glaive as she glances down either end of the corridor. "Shut up!" she hisses. "You’re making a scene! Someone is going to hear—eugh!" She yanks her hand back. "Don’t //lick// me! What’s wrong with you?" "I’M ACTING IRRATIONAL!" Aurynn screeches. You hastily uncork the vial and dash the contents into the potted yucca, turning your nose away as the thick sludge-like liquid seeps slowly out of the vial and into the pot, making a sick gurgling noise as it bubbles and froths in the soil. Horrified, you shake the vial, hoping to be rid of it that much sooner. Samira wrenches the glaive from his grip, looking like she’d love nothing more than to beat him senseless over the head with it. Seemingly deciding the extra brain trauma would not be worth it, she decides against it. She begins to turn your way as the last of the tonic is still oozing from the bottle into the yucca pot. Aurynn rolls his eyes at you and grabs the butt end of the glaive, yanking it towards him and taking out a decorative urn resting on a pedestal between him and Samira, sending it crashing to the floor in a spray of shards. Samira whirls back around, blinking owlishly at Aurynn, her attention recaptured. He gasps exaggeratedly, gesturing at the mess. "Look at what you did!" Samira gapes at him. "What //I// did?! //You’re// the clumsy oaf that knocked it over!" "Yeah, we’ll see how well that holds up in front of a tribunal. You’re literally holding the murder weapon," he counters. "Ex//cuse// me?" she leans over him, the glaive clenched tightly in her fists. "You’re not excused," he says, crossing his arms. "Your actions have consequences. What are you going to tell that poor urn’s family?" "A better question would be what am I going to tell //yours?//" she growls. You nod gravely, recorking the vial. "Indeed. Lady Safina sculpted that urn herself, you know. Painted it, too." Aurynn raises an eyebrow. He points a finger at Samira. "Oh. You’re //fucked.//" The glaive quivers in her grip as she looks down her nose at him. "You say that like Lady Safina would ever actually take your word against mine," she says. "//You’re// the one who’s…who's..." she trails off, glancing briefly at you as if remembering the company she is in. "...done for." "A fair point," he concedes, then turns to you. "Good thing neither of you are going to tell her, right?" You shrug and he fixes you with a betrayed look, mouth falling open as he gestures vaguely at you. "Wha—?" <div class="choice">[["Maybe I will," you say. You don’t intend to, of course, but you suppose you’d like a little payback for his earlier gloating.|Chp1-2MaybeIWill]]</div> <div class="choice">[["I suppose I can let it slide," you say. "But not without punishment." ♥|Chp1-2Punish]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2Youdrink") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified, +Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $dranksamstonic to true>>\ You’ve dealt with much worse. You can handle this. Here goes nothing. You uncork the vial and immediately a pungent aroma stings your nostrils, making your eyes water. You hesitate briefly. When you spare a glance at Samira in a desperate last-ditch attempt at self-preservation, she—very cruelly, you think—gestures for you to drink up. Your shoulders slump in defeat. You’re about to down the tonic when Aurynn chirps, "Nervous? Here let me help with that. Now be a good patient and open up." He grins sadistically and presses a finger to the bottom of the vial, tipping it up and into your mouth. The thick viscous liquid oozes painfully slowly down your throat, burning all the way down and leaving a sour aftertaste. <<if $person is "person">>\ "There we go," he says. "Down the hatch. Wouldn’t want Sam’s hard work to go to waste, would we? Swallow. There’s a good little $title." <<else>>\ "There we go," he says. "Down the hatch. Wouldn’t want Sam’s hard work to go to waste, would we? Swallow. There’s a good $kid2." <<endif>>\ He cups a hand over your mouth, squeezing your cheeks and forcing you to swallow. After you do, he pats your cheek condescendingly before releasing you. You splutter and cough a bit, glaring at Aurynn briefly before offering Samira a weak smile. "Thank you," you rasp, and you think she looks a tad too pleased with herself. She flips one of her braids over her shoulder. "It should start taking effect in about an hour or so. Try to eat something soon. It will help prevent any nausea as a side effect," she says. You really don’t think anything will prevent her tonics from inducing nausea. Still, you don’t want to seem disrespectful or ungrateful, so you incline your head graciously. She takes the empty vial off your hands, stashing it back in her apothecary’s satchel, and you turn on your heel, continuing back down the hallway, Aurynn and Samira trailing silently after you. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3ArriveGardens]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2BottomsUp") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $dranksamstonic to true>>\ You are plenty familiar with the acrid stench of Samira’s headache tonic, the wretched oily taste and nauseating slimy texture, and you are certain, judging from Aurynn’s condescending smirk, he expects this to be an…//unpleasant// experience for you. His own reactions, after all, after swallowing your tonics have always been viscerally theatrical. He wants a performance. So that is exactly what you //won’t// be giving him. You smile at Samira first, then Aurynn, and raise the vial in a little //’cheers’// gesture. Popping the cork with your thumb, you open your mouth and throw the vial back. Only the tonic does not come out as quickly as you had hoped, and it is a singularly horrifying experience you could not put to words if you had tried to as the thick, viscous medicine oozes slowly, //painfully// out of the bottle and to the back of your throat. Samira would describe the texture as //’syrupy.’// You would //not.// <div class="choice">[[Try not to gag. Try not to gag.|Chp1-2BottomsUpGag]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You’ve come this far and you’re nothing if not a thespian. Swallow it.|Chp1-2BottomsUpStoic]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2Youdontdrink") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle, +Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $dranksamstonic to true>>\ You gulp, looking at the vial in your hand. The thick viscous goop inside sloshes around menacingly. Worrying your lip, you briefly consider just getting it over with and drinking the contents of the vial, but quickly dispel the notion upon recalling the rancid taste and slimy texture of Samira’s headache tonic. She would describe its texture as //’syrupy.’// You would //not.// Your stomach churns in protest. You can’t do it. Shaking your head, you offer the vial back to Samira. "Thank you for the offer, Samira," you say. "But I will be fine without it." She pouts. "You aren’t going to drink it? I know it doesn’t taste great, but it really will help with the pain." "Well…" "No, no, it’s okay," she says, reaching for the vial. "I’ll find someone else who might have use for it if you won’t use it. It’s just a shame I stayed up so late last night making a batch of these to replenish your stocks. And the ingredients are so hard to come by these days, too…" "Don’t you make these with cignilia root? Isn’t that, like, one of the most common—" Aurynn doubles over as Samira sharply elbows him in the ribs. You heave a sigh and resign yourself to your fate. "No, no. I apologize. That was insensitive of me. I’ll drink it. Thank you, Samira." You uncork the vial and an acrid odor immediately assaults your nostrils, and it is only natural that you hesitate, out of self-preservation, if anything. "Getting cold feet?" Aurynn chirps. "We can’t have that, now can we? Now be a good patient and open up." He grins sadistically and presses a finger to the bottom of the vial, tipping it up and into your mouth. The thick viscous sludge oozes painfully slowly down your throat, burning all the way down and leaving a sour aftertaste. <<if $person is "person">>\ "There we go," he says. "Down the hatch. Wouldn’t want Sam’s hard work to go to waste, would we? Swallow. There’s a good little $title." <<else>>\ "There we go," he says. "Down the hatch. Wouldn’t want Sam’s hard work to go to waste, would we? Swallow. There’s a good $kid2." <<endif>>\ He cups a hand over your mouth, squeezing your cheeks and forcing you to swallow. After you do, he pats your cheek condescendingly before releasing you. You splutter and cough a bit, glaring at Aurynn briefly before offering Samira a weak smile. "Thank you," you rasp, and you think she looks a tad too pleased with herself, her guilt-trip having succeeded. She flips one of her braids over her shoulder. "It should start taking effect in about an hour or so. Try to eat something soon. It will help prevent any nausea as a side effect," she says. You really don’t think anything will prevent her tonics from inducing nausea. Still, you don’t want to seem disrespectful or ungrateful, so you incline your head graciously. She takes the empty vial off your hands, stashing it back in her apothecary’s satchel, and you turn on your heel, continuing back down the hallway, Aurynn and Samira trailing silently after you. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3ArriveGardens]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2BottomsUpGag") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Your stomach lurches and your throat spasms, as if trying to reject the medicine. Aurynn gives you a wide, sadistic smile, pressing a finger to the bottom of the vial and holding you in place by your chin. <<if $person is "person">>\ "Ah, ah!" he says. "Down the hatch. Wouldn’t want Sam’s hard work to go to waste, would we? Swallow. There’s a good little $title." <<else>>\ "Ah, ah!" he says. "Down the hatch. Wouldn’t want Sam’s hard work to go to waste, would we? Swallow. There’s a good $kid." <<endif>>\ You think you make a sort of meek squeaking sound as you make the excruciating effort to swallow, your whole face scrunching as you do. Aurynn pats your cheek before releasing you. "That wasn’t so bad, now was it?" he purrs. You nod weakly. "It should start taking effect in about an hour or so," Samira says. "Try to eat something soon. It will help prevent any nausea as a side effect." You really don’t think anything will prevent her tonics from inducing nausea. Still, you don’t want to seem disrespectful or ungrateful, so you incline your head graciously. She takes the empty vial off your hands, stashing it back in her apothecary’s satchel, and you turn on your heel, continuing back down the hallway, Aurynn and Samira trailing silently after you. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3ArriveGardens]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2BottomsUpStoic") <= 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative + 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Manipulative, Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Your stomach lurches and your throat spasms, as if trying to reject the medicine. But, somehow, perhaps out of pure spite, you steel yourself, schooling your expression into stoic indifference as you swallow with nary so much as a grimace. "Thank you," you say. Your lips quirk up into a placid smile. For all his gloating earlier, Aurynn has decidedly reversed his tune, looking quite horrified on your behalf. You hear him mutter something that sounds suspiciously like //'what the fuck'// under his breath. Samira, on the other hand, looks a tad too pleased with herself. She flips one of her braids over her shoulder. "It should start taking effect in about an hour or so. Try to eat something soon. It will help prevent any nausea as a side effect," she says. You really don’t think anything will prevent her tonics from inducing nausea, but you incline your head graciously nevertheless. She takes the empty vial off your hands, stashing it back in her apothecary’s satchel, and you turn on your heel, continuing back down the hallway, Aurynn and Samira trailing silently after you. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3ArriveGardens]]

He lets out a small affronted laugh. "Ha! And after I so graciously went out of my way to save your ass. See if I ever help you out again." "It’s cute you think you have a choice," you say. Samira looks between the both of you, her brows knitted in suspicion. "What are you two talking about?" "Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head over, Mira-Mira." He waves a dismissive hand at her, ignoring the glare she shoots him, then shrugs. "Welp. Since I’m dead anyway." He turns and mounts the ledge of the balcony, overlooking a very modest drop to the ground below—not even the length of Aurynn’s body. "Do you think a fall from this height would kill me?" he asks. "With any luck," Samira says dryly, grabbing the back of his shirt and pulling him away from the window ledge. A shard of pottery crunches beneath her sandal and she cringes, shielding her brow with one hand. "What am I going to tell her Ladyship…?" she mumbles. "It’s alright. I’ll deal with it later," you say. "I can just tell the servants it was Farwah. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s knocked something over roughhousing with the other servals." It was why he was technically no longer allowed inside after Lady Safina had complained about him one too many times, though how could anyone expect you to ignore his pathetic mewling when he wanted to be let in? You had taken to sneaking him to your room when no one was around to witness it. It was as much his as it was yours. "Won’t you get in trouble? I don’t want you to put yourself out to cover for this. I can—" she starts. You wave a hand and cut her off. "Really, it’s not a big deal." She frowns, but doesn’t press further, settling instead for inclining her head graciously. "Then, I find myself once again in your debt." You shake your head. "There are no debts among friends. It isn’t as though Lady Safina has ever held me in high regard anyway," you say. "Besides, I find the idea that she and the servants think they can keep the servals out of the palace quite laughable." You gesture to the low balcony. "Farwah can easily make that jump. It isn’t like I’m the one who let him in. For all we know, he let himself in and knocked the urn over while I was chasing him out. "Also, it isn’t as though it was your fault to begin with." You stare pointedly at Aurynn. "Yeah," he says, ignoring you and looking at Samira. "It was Farwah’s." She shoots him a disdainful look, before turning back to you. "Still, I should apologize for my unseemly behavior," she says, brushing her hands off on her robes. "I would think after this many years of dealing with this half-wit, I would be better at keeping my cool around him. Unfortunately, he brings out the worst in me." Aurynn nods. "I tend to do that for most people." "Shut up," she says, and goes to tap him lightly on the head with his glaive, but he dodges out of the way. [[Continue|Chp1-2.2HallArguingLeaveVer2]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2Punish") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 1>>\ <</if>>\ "I suppose I can let it slide, just this once," you say. "I can always blame it on Farwah. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s knocked something over roughhousing with the other servals." It was why he was technically no longer allowed inside after Lady Safina had complained about him one too many times, though how could anyone expect you to ignore his pathetic mewling when he wanted to be let in? You had taken to sneaking him to your room when no one was around to witness it. It was as much his as it was yours. "Besides," you continue. "I find the idea that Lady Safina and the servants think they can keep the servals out of the palace quite laughable." You gesture to the low balcony. "Farwah can easily make that jump. It isn’t like I’m the one who let him in. For all we know, he let himself in and knocked the urn over while I was chasing him out." "Still," Samira says, cringing as a shard of pottery crunches beneath her sandal. "I’m sorry, Your Highness. I—" You wave a hand. "No need for apologies, Samira," you say. Turning to Aurynn, you smile sweetly. "I can’t say the same for you, however. I’ll be sure to think up a punishment that befits the crime." "I’m not sure whether I should be scared or excited," he says. "Definitely both," you say, then gesture at the mess. "Make sure that gets cleaned up, yeah?" <<if $person is "woman">>\ He nods enthusiastically, giving you a mock salute. "Yes, //ma’am.//" <<elseif $person is "man">>\ He nods enthusiastically, giving you a mock salute. "Yes, //sir.//" <<else>>\ He nods enthusiastically, giving you a mock salute. "You got it, boss." <<endif>>\ [[Continue|Chp1-2.2HallArguingLeaveVer2]]

Aurynn gestures at his glaive. "Anyway, I’m back to normal now," he says. "Can I have my glaive back?" He holds out a hand, and after a few moments of scrutiny, Samira reluctantly hands it back to him. He leans against it casually as if nothing had happened. "You really worry me sometimes," Samira says. He arches an eyebrow, stretching an arm back behind his head, the curves of his slender limb framing his pretty face. "Oh? Do you often //worry// about me?" "Ugh. Never mind." She turns her attention back to you. Noticing the empty vial in your hand, she points to it. "Oh. You already drank it?" "Hm? Oh. Yes," you say. "Oh. Good. It should take effect in about an hour or so. Try to eat something soon. It will help to prevent any nausea as a side effect." she says. You incline your head graciously. "Thank you." Samira takes the empty vial off your hands, stashing it back in her apothecary’s satchel, and you turn on your heel, continuing back down the hallway, Aurynn and Samira trailing silently after you. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3ArriveGardens]]

<<audio ":playing" stop>>\ <<audio "indiantemple" loop play>>\ <<set $nour to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-2.3ArriveGardens") <= 1>>\ <<notify>>Nour Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ The rest of your walk is a quiet one, and soon you step out into the royal gardens, sandaled feet sinking into the soft fallow sand of a pathway shaded on either side by swaying desert palms and gravid fruit and nut trees—figs, oranges, almonds, olives. There is a citrusy ambrosial aroma about the air and you stretch your arm up to card your fingers through clusters of glossy green leaves and over dimpled orange peels. You take note of a particular olive tree, the bark of its many twisting trunks an ashen, ghostly gray. Sprigs of yellow-green leaves spring forth from curving branches laden with plump clusters of blue-black olives. Your eyes settle on the splintered stub of a thicker branch, which has long since snapped off at one end, having been far too weak at the time to hold Luca’s weight, whereupon $lucathey had been sent plummeting unceremoniously to the ground, leaving $lucathem with a long jagged scar along $lucatheir right forearm after $lucathey'd broken it, and an intense sense of rivalry with this tree in particular—and definitely not with you. Because it definitely wasn't your fault as much as $lucathey might argue otherwise. A servant quickly intercepts you, leading you to a secluded gazebo encircled by a range of lively bell-shaped flowers and babbling fountains; the servant offers their apologies and informs you that your $sibling Nour is running late, but will join you shortly. Inclining your head, you dismiss the servant and take a seat at the low tea table under the gazebo, settling onto the plump cushion as a warm breeze carries with it the smell of eucalyptus and sweet dates. Samira approaches, informing you of her desire to tend to some of the plants nearby while she waits for you to finish your meeting with Nour. Nodding your approval, she excuses herself with a bow. Aurynn takes up his post a respectful distance from the pavilion—close enough to keep an eye on you but far enough to be out of earshot. He affects an overly casual lean against his glaive, leaning so perilously far you worry he might topple over under a stiff breeze. When he catches you watching him, he grins, shooting you a wink and a lazy salute. You roll your eyes and look away. Above you, the dulcet tones of a swaying gold windchime sing serenely over the soft sound of rushing water. You close your eyes, tapping a fingernail idly against the side of your empty teacup to the tune of Luca’s hummed lullaby. It is one your mother used to hum to you both as you dozed off at her knee, curled up on the rug by the hearth in her bedroom, your head bursting with tales from your mother's storybook. You aren’t quite sure how long you had been waiting, but your legs are already starting to ache when someone discreetly clears their throat, snapping you from your reverie. Your eyes flutter open to see Zain, Nour’s retainer, a large man with terra-cotta skin and short, dark hair. He bows low in greeting to you, eyes lowered respectfully, then steps aside to allow Nour to brush past him. <<if $lucathey is "he">>\ "You have my deepest apologies for making you wait, $mcnickname. I got intercepted by Lord Callum," $they say<<s>>, panting and looking slightly disheveled, as though $they ran here. $They <<try>> for a smile, but it twitches at the edges. "You know how much $lucathey likes to…ah, talk. About so many things. All very important." <<else>>\ "You have my deepest apologies for making you wait, $mcnickname. I got intercepted by Lady Calliope," $they say<<s>>, panting and looking slightly disheveled, as though $they ran here. $They <<try>> for a smile, but it twitches at the edges. "You know how much $lucathey likes to…ah, talk. About so many things. All very important." <<endif>>\ You’re well aware. Suppressing a smile, you nod solemnly. "Yes, $lucathey seems to have a particular knack for trapping poor passersby in…//scintillating// conversation when they are least prepared to do so." "Just so." Nour takes a steadying breath and smoothes a hand over the bright red silk of $their robes, the fabric a fire-gold glow against $their warm brown skin, $their other hand stroking absently at the little star-shaped birthmark on the side of $their neck. $Their chestnut hair has been done up in traditional braids looped around gold bangles, but one of them is starting to come loose and flops dangerously against the side of $their head. You offer a sympathetic smile and gesture to the cushion across from you. "No matter. Sit. You must be exhausted." Nour smiles graciously. $They move<<s>> to climb the steps to the gazebo only to stumble on the hem of $their dress. You and Zain both make to help $them up, but $they wave<<s>> you off. "I’m alright, I’m alright," $they insist<<s>>. $They gather<<s>> up $their skirts in $their fists, hiking the hem up over $their feet as $they mount<<s>> the steps, then settle<<s>> down on the opposite side of the table from you. Zain, certain that Nour is now no longer in any danger of tripping and dying, backs off a respectable distance, joining Aurynn, who gives him an exaggerated mock salute. Zain stoically ignores him. Nour huffs out a breath that sends $their bangs fluttering. "Sorry for that display. I can’t seem to get used to wearing things like this again," $they say<<s>>, gesturing to $their robes. "I’d forgotten just how inconvenient they are. I suppose I’ve gotten too accustomed to wearing my armor. It’s surprisingly much easier to move around in." $They mutter<<s>> that last part as if more to $themself than anything, and begin<<s>> to idly fidget with the pooling vermillion silks around $their legs. <div class="choice">[[You can relate. You’ve had a difficult time readjusting to the extravagance of Theian courtly attire.|Chp1-2.3relate]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You thought you would have a harder time readjusting to the extravagance of Theian courtly attire after so many years without it, but it has actually been a much easier adjustment than you had anticipated.|Chp1-2.3easy]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You have been looking forward to going back to dressing up in your courtly attire for a long time, so while you cannot quite relate, you can sympathize with Nour.|Chp1-2.3cantrelate]]</div>

You pluck uncomfortably at your own $clothes. You can understand how Nour feels; you find it difficult to move properly wrapped up in such elegant fabric and jewelry, your movements stiff and deliberate for fear of ripping or snagging your $clothes.\ <<if $hairstyle is "traditional">>\ The weight of your hair, done up in extravagant braided loops, feels heavy and awkward, like an ornate vase stacked atop your head that you must take care to balance lest it come tumbling down. <<endif>>\ <<if $appearance is "confidentmax">>\ You do enjoy dressing up, yes, but there is still a certain apprehension you have never been able to shake when doing so—a low simmering anxiety, always there underfoot, something you can almost ignore if you don’t look at it but something you must always be aware of lest you trip over it. Because despite yourself, despite knowing you need not waste time scanning every room you enter for entry and exit points, for spaces that might fit a warm waiting body, for the nearest object you might use as a weapon if needed, you do anyway and so you cannot do away with the uneasiness that comes with wearing such fine clothing. You cannot run freely without fear of tripping, without fear of your flowing silks snagging on thorns, without fear that if a blade were to bite at your chest, its tooth would rend through your $clothes with ease and find the flesh it had hungered for. <<else>>\ And despite yourself, despite knowing you need not waste time scanning every room you enter for entry and exit points, for spaces that might fit a warm waiting body, for the nearest object you might use as a weapon if needed, you do anyway and so you cannot shake the uneasiness that comes with wearing such ostentatious clothing. You cannot run freely without fear of tripping, without fear of your flowing silks snagging on thorns, without fear that if a blade were to bite at your chest, its tooth would rend through your $clothes with ease and find the flesh it had hungered for. <<endif>>\ You nod in understanding. "I recall a time I once moved so stiffly in armor, and now it is almost like a second skin. I’d have thought it might be easier, more comfortable to move about in silks once more, but…" You trail off, looking away. Nour seems to intuit that which you did not say, and $they nod<<s>>, flashing you a strained smile. $They tug<<s>> on the end of one of $their braids, twisting it round $their finger in a tight coil. Up close, you can see the dark circles under $their brown eyes. "Oh!" Nour exclaims, attention falling on the untouched tea set before them. "You haven’t had any tea? You didn’t have to wait for me." True, with how late Nour had been, no one would have begrudged you indulging in a drink before your older $sibling, even if it went against custom. <div class="choice"><<link 'But you\’ve always been one to observe propriety. It would be rude to drink before your elders, especially when Nour was hosting.' 'Chp1-2.3goodmanners'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link 'Despite not being the best at observing propriety, you did not wish to disrespect your $sibling.' 'Chp1-2.3midmanners'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link 'You had been thinking of finally just pouring yourself a cup before Nour had finally arrived.' 'Chp1-2.3impatient'>><</link>></div>

You pluck at your own $clothes. You had assumed you’d have a more difficult time readjusting to wearing formal clothing, having grown accustomed to the weight and grip of your armor, but it had been a surprisingly easy transition for you. You found your silks far more light and airy than your armor—breathable and soft and easy to move in. Mostly. Unless you were traipsing through cacti and thornbrush. Then you had to be careful not to snag the fabric. You shrug. "Give it time, I suppose. You grew used to armor. You will grow used to silks." Nour nods, flashing you a strained smile. $They tug<<s>> on the end of one of $their braids, twisting it round $their finger in a tight coil. Up close, you can see the dark circles under $their brown eyes. "Oh!" Nour exclaims, attention falling on the untouched tea set before them. "You haven’t had any tea? You didn’t have to wait for me." True, with how late Nour had been, no one would have begrudged you indulging in a drink before your older $sibling, even if it went against custom. <div class="choice"><<link 'But you\’ve always been one to observe propriety. It would be rude to drink before your elders, especially when Nour was hosting.' 'Chp1-2.3goodmanners'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link 'Despite not being the best at observing propriety, you did not wish to disrespect your $sibling.' 'Chp1-2.3midmanners'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link 'You had been thinking of finally just pouring yourself a cup before Nour had finally arrived.' 'Chp1-2.3impatient'>><</link>></div>

You smooth a hand delicately over the front of your $clothes. After years of traipsing about in hot, stiff armor, you had been looking forward to going back to wearing your flowing, airy silks—buttery and feather-soft against your skin the way leather and metal was not. The transition had been all too welcome. You shrug. "Give it time, I suppose. You grew used to armor. You will grow used to silks." Nour nods, flashing you a strained smile. $They tug<<s>> on the end of one of $their braids, twisting it round $their finger in a tight coil. Up close, you can see the dark circles under $their brown eyes. "Oh!" Nour exclaims, attention falling on the untouched tea set before them. "You haven’t had any tea? You didn’t have to wait for me." True, with how late Nour had been, no one would have begrudged you indulging in a drink before your older $sibling, even if it went against custom. <div class="choice"><<link 'But you\’ve always been one to observe propriety. It would be rude to drink before your elders, especially when Nour was hosting.' 'Chp1-2.3goodmanners'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link 'Despite not being the best at observing propriety, you did not wish to disrespect your $sibling.' 'Chp1-2.3midmanners'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link 'You had been thinking of finally just pouring yourself a cup before Nour had finally arrived.' 'Chp1-2.3impatient'>><</link>></div>

<<set $manners to "impeccable">>\ <<set $mannerschosen to true>>\ Despite your years at war, your etiquette lessons have not been wasted on you. Indeed, even when mucking about in the dirt with other soldiers, you always maintained more than a modicum of decorum, always aware of your station and your people’s eyes on you. You would never disrespect your older $sibling in such a way—however slight—even if you know Nour would never hold it against you. You shake your head. "It’s no bother, really. You’re here now." Being the oldest, Nour pours $their own tea first and then yours. You wait until $they take<<s>> a sip before bringing the steaming cup to your lips. It’s your favorite, $favtea with $favteamixin; Nour—ever the overly considerate one—always prepares $their guest’s preferred tea during social visits. You’ve tried many times to discern your $sibling’s favorite tea so you could prepare it for $them at teatime, but every time you’ve asked, $they’<<ve>> always insisted $they like<<s>> whatever you like. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3NourTea]]

<<set $manners to "mediocre">>\ <<set $mannerschosen to true>>\ You think you were decent at observing your manners once, when you were young. But years at war have chipped away at your etiquette training, and now you struggle to remember everything, much to your mother’s chagrin. Still, you should hope you at least remember to always let your elders begin eating or drinking first before indulging yourself. If you had forgotten, it’s been drilled back into you since returning to the palace. You have no wish to disrespect your older $sibling, even if Nour would never hold it against you. You shake your head. "It’s no bother, really. You’re here now." Being the oldest, Nour pours $their own tea first and then yours. You wait until $they take<<s>> a sip before bringing the steaming cup to your lips. It’s your favorite, $favtea with $favteamixin; Nour—ever the overly considerate one—always prepares $their guest’s preferred tea during social visits. You’ve tried many times to discern your $sibling’s favorite tea so you could prepare it for $them at teatime, but every time you’ve asked, $they’<<ve>> always insisted $they like<<s>> whatever you like. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3NourTea]]

<<set $manners to "poor">>\ <<set $mannerschosen to true>>\ You had tried playing your part as the respectful and tolerant guest, but as the minutes dragged painfully on, you—having never made good friends with patience—could take it no longer and had just been contemplating pouring yourself a cup when Nour finally arrived. You knew Nour would not have minded, anyway. You shake your head. "It’s no bother, really. You’re here now." Being the oldest, Nour pours $their own tea first and then yours. You wait until $they take<<s>> a sip before bringing the steaming cup to your lips. It’s your favorite, $favtea with $favteamixin; Nour—ever the overly considerate one—always prepares $their guest’s preferred tea during social visits. You’ve tried many times to discern your $sibling’s favorite tea so you could prepare it for $them at teatime, but every time you’ve asked, $they’<<ve>> always insisted $they like<<s>> whatever you like. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3NourTea]]

<<set $helia to true>>\ <<set $consorts to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-2.3NourTea") <= 1>>\ <<notify>>Lady Helia Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ The tea warms you like a gentle sunbeam, yet you cannot help but feel tense. When your gaze settles upon Nour, $they <<are>> staring pensively into $their teacup. You set your own teacup down on its saucer, the clink of the china rousing Nour from $their stupor with a start, as though $they’d forgotten you were here. $Their eyes flit to yours. "A-ah…" Nour flounders for a moment before recomposing $themself. $They set<<s>> down $their cup as well, shooting you a bright smile. "Have you spoken with Lady Helia lately?" You are surprised by the choice of topic, and raise an eyebrow at $them. Nevertheless, you answer with a shake of your head. "No, not recently." Nour nods as if $they expected this, but carries on, a faint wistful smile tugging at the corner of $their lips. "She’s due any day now. It’ll be nice to have another baby in the family, don’t you think? Farah grew up much too quickly." It is a kinder way to say that the two of you had missed her growing up during your time away. $They pause<<s>>, then add<<s>> quietly, "I just wish the others were around to meet the baby. I know they were all excited in their own ways to have another little one running around." You look away. You’d like to be thrilled about another sibling—and you were, once—but now, some part of you can’t help but feel…regretful. Resentful, even—though you hate to admit it. It is an ugly sort of resentment that rears its head when your eyes fall on the swollen stomach of your father’s newest consort, Lady Helia. It is a melancholic remorse that has you averting your eyes, fleeing before Lady Helia—sociable and jubilant as she is—spots you and enthusiastically calls you over. You cannot look at her without thinking about how her baby will never meet their oldest siblings—that her baby will never get teased or pranked by Ember, never know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of one of Aurora’s famous tongue-lashings for spilling ink all over her parchments, never know the satisfaction of finally breaking Parim’s courtly stoicism with an awful joke, and never get subsequently scolded by Castor for causing a scene. You aren’t quite sure how to respond, so you settle for a noncommittal hum. "I remember when //you// were little," Nour says, brightening. $They hold<<s>> out a level hand at about a toddler’s height even though $they <<are>> only two years older than you. "You used to pronounce Castor’s name all wrong. Ember would fruitlessly try to correct you over and over." "I remember. At some point I just kept doing it on purpose just to annoy him." Nour covers $their mouth with a hand as $they let<<s>> out a light, melodic chuckle, sounding the most like $themself than $they <<have>> for a long time. But $their smile quickly fades as $they fall<<s>> silent. "It’ll be nice to have another little one," $they repeat<<s>>. $They look<<s>> at you, and $their eyes are somewhere far, far away, somewhere you feel you cannot find, cannot reach. Your chest tightens apprehensively. "You’ve always been good with Farah," Nour continues. "You’ll do well with another younger sibling, too." You drop your gaze as though suddenly finding the embroidered tablecloth fascinating, your mind wandering back to your fight with your little sister. //’I hate you.’// You swallow. "Not as well as you," you say. Nour’s always been good with children—even Farah always seemed to be on her best behavior around $them. But if Nour notices your sudden solemnity, $they <<do1>>n’t comment. The corners of $their mouth twitch. "You do yourself too little credit. You’ll do well," $they say<<s>>, smoothing a hand over the tablecloth. $They reach<<es2>> for a braid, winding it around $their finger again and again. "...You’ll take care of them, won’t you?" Your brow knits, stomach twisting. Something about the way your $sibling said that sets you ill at ease. "...What do you mean?" "Just what I said," $they say<<s>>, covering $their mouth with $their teacup. [["What is this about, Nour?"|Chp1-2.3NourMarriage]]

$They sober<<s>> instantly, sitting up straight and scooting in closer. The teacup in $their hands trembles and when $they notice<<s>> you looking, $they hastily set<<s>> it down on its saucer, ducking $their hands out of sight beneath the table. "I wanted to talk to you first, before telling Farah. I…am not so sure she will take the news well." "What news?" $They look<<s>> around quickly, as if making sure no one else is around to overhear, then leans closer. "Celestyl has proposed a…a //marriage alliance.//" $They look<<s>> up, meeting your eyes meaningfully. "You know what that means." Your face hardens like marble, stomach sinking. You nod grimly. Though Theia’s defeat had been sound—your siblings slain; your armies, unaccustomed to combat at sea, beaten back by Celestyl’s navy and war beasts; and your countrymen driven to exhaustion and desperation after a year of famine and drought following Celestyl’s blockade of the River Thiss—your people are a proud and stubborn race, and defeat does not sit well with them. You are not surprised Celestyl would want to establish some leverage to ensure Theia does not rebel, and what better than a union of families, however farcical? You know your father would hesitate to raise any sort of militant offensive with one of his children beneath the Lunar King Novan’s thumb. Moreover, such a union would provide Celestyl access to Theian wealth and resources. And considering Nour has been coronated as your father’s successor and thus must stay at the palace, and considering Farah is too young, this duty would fall to… //You.// Nour shakes $their head. "No. I know what you’re thinking. Father has decided I am to go to Celestyl. I’m to be married to the Lunar <<cycle "$kieran" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__Prince__''" "m">> <<option "''__Princess__''" "f">> <</cycle>> Kieran." [[Continue|Chp1-2.3NourMarriageCont]]

<<if $kieran is "f">>\ <<set $kthey to "she">>\ <<set $kthem to "her">>\ <<set $ktheir to "her">>\ <<set $ktheirs to "hers">>\ <<set $kthemself to "herself">>\ <<set $kgender to "woman">>\ <<set $ktitle to "princess">>\ <<set $ksibling to "sister">>\ <<set $kchild to "daughter">>\ <<set $kkid to "girl">>\ <<set $kfuturetitle to "queen">>\ <<set $kThey to $kthey.toUpperFirst(),$kTheir to $ktheir.toUpperFirst(),$kTitle to $ktitle.toUpperFirst()>>\ <<set $kfiance to "fiancée">>\ <<set $kliege to "lady">>\ <<set $kmiliege to "milady">>\ <<endif>>\ Your eyebrows raise. "What—//you//? That doesn’t make any sense. You are Father’s successor now; shouldn’t it be me?" "It’s already been decided, $mcnickname." "What? When?" "Last night. Father informed me of his decision. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but it was late and I did not wish to wake you. And I have been busy making preparations for my departure all morning or I’d have told you first thing." "Already? Wha—when do you leave?" Nour closes $their eyes, taking in a deep breath. "A week from tomorrow—after the first day of Thissys," $they say<<s>>. Your mouth falls open in indignant protest, but Nour cuts you off, speaking quickly with a lowered voice. "Father will announce the match publicly at the end of the celebration, which is to double as my send-off ceremony." You splutter, mouth falling open and snapping shut a few times as words fail you. <<cycle "$thissysattitude" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__You had been looking forward to Thissys—the celebration of the annual flooding of the River Thiss—as you have nearly every year since you were a child. You needed something to look forward to, something to celebrate. Something to smile about. But now, with the shadow of Nour’s looming departure hanging over the holiday like a heavy, dark cloud, you find your enthusiasm completely sapped.__''" "enthusiastic">> <<option "''__You hadn’t been particularly looking forward to Thissys—the celebration of the annual flooding of the River Thiss—in the first place, finding the idea of a holiday far too troublesome. An entire week’s worth of celebrating would only get in the way of work you needed to get done. Now, Thissys looks far more grim with the shadow of Nour’s looming departure hanging over the holiday like a heavy, dark cloud.__''" "cynical">> <<option "''__You hadn’t been particularly looking forward to Thissys—the celebration of the annual flooding of the River Thiss—in the first place, unable to muster the enthusiasm for it you had as a child. It would be different this year, without all of your siblings there to celebrate it with you. And now, with the shadow of Nour’s looming departure hanging over the holiday like a heavy, dark cloud, you find you’ve even less a reason to look forward to Thissys.__''" "melancholic">> <</cycle>> "Wha—a //week?//" you scoff, flicking a hand through the air in a bewildered gesture. "That’s hardly enough time to plan a wedding." "The wedding won’t be for another few months." "Then why are you leaving so soon?" "Father says Celestyl’s king has insisted on an early arrival, to allow me time to get to know the palace and its people, as well as my betrothed, considering we’ve never met before." Nour closes $their eyes, drawing a delicate sip from $their teacup. "How //generous//," you drawl. "So considerate of him to pretend to have any respect for the tradition of marriage. And I suppose if you and $kTitle Kieran don’t end up getting along famously he’ll call off the match? After all, a lack of emotional loyalty makes for a weak foundation when uniting families." Nour fixes you with a dry look. "Very funny. We both know this is no traditional marriage match." "That’s putting it mildly," you say. "My //retainer// is more //subtle.//" You gesture towards Aurynn, who is standing far too close to Zain to be entirely professional and making a show out of feeling up Zain’s biceps. Nour raises an eyebrow, bringing a hand up to discreetly cover $their mouth as it forms an //‘Oh.’// $They quickly look<<s>> away, clearing $their throat. "What point is there in being subtle? King Novan has little need, not when we cannot refuse him." $They scrub<<s>> a hand over $their face. "We need this flood, $mcnickname. If Celestyl blockades the river again, or, hell, if their water mages reroute it? If they poison it? Dry it up? Gods know they probably could." $They throw<<s>> up a hand. "We cannot afford another year of drought. And if a marriage of no particular sentiment or loyalty buys us this security, then so be it." "What security? With you hostage, we’ll always be under their thumb." "And I suppose you would have me do what? Refuse?" You fall silent, biting your tongue as you clench your jaw. Of course it is not so simple as to suggest so, as much as you might like to. Your father’s word is law. "It should be me," you repeat, after a pause. You find Nour’s eyes. "Why isn’t it me?" [[Continue|Chp1-2.3NourMarriageCont2]]

Nour holds your stare for a long moment before $their gaze falls to the table, and $they stroke<<s>> a finger over the delicate tablecloth, continuing as if $they had not heard your question. "$kTitle Kieran’s vessel will arrive the night of the ceremony, at the port in Onyxia. I am to meet $ktheir crew there and depart for Celestyl." You frown. "//The Obsidian Coast?// That’s at least seven days’ travel from here." "Zain will transport me." You glance at Nour’s retainer, standing rigidly across from the gazebo and doing an impressive job of ignoring Aurynn, who has draped an arm casually over the man’s shoulder and is rambling animatedly on about something or other. Zain dutifully scans the entrances to the garden, eyes periodically flitting back to Nour. You turn back to your $sibling. "Zain cannot possibly light travel an entire entourage—" <<if $person is "man">>\ "He won’t. Father will allow me two attendants at most; he said King Novan has ensured I will be assigned temporary servants upon boarding and a manservant and guard detail upon our arrival at the castle in Celestyl. Zain has insisted on accompanying me. I will bring no other attendants; I would not ask that of anyone else." <<elseif $person is "woman">>\ "He won’t. Father will allow me two attendants at most; he said King Novan has ensured I will be assigned temporary servants upon boarding and a lady-in-waiting and guard detail upon our arrival at the castle in Celestyl. Zain has insisted on accompanying me. I will bring no other attendants; I would not ask that of anyone else." <<else>>\ "He won’t. Father will allow me two attendants at most; he said King Novan has ensured I will be assigned temporary servants upon boarding and a personal attendant and guard detail upon our arrival at the castle in Celestyl. Zain has insisted on accompanying me. I will bring no other attendants; I would not ask that of anyone else." <<endif>>\ "...We won’t be seeing you off onto $kTitle Kieran’s ship?" Nour looks away. "Zain can only transport so many people such a distance away. And he will be coming with me, so…" "And Father doesn’t think it would be appropriate for us to be there to see you off? He couldn’t have sprung this on us sooner? He can’t delay your departure another week or so?" "He has his reasons, I am sure. Besides, Father wanted to allow me to spend this time at home with our family rather than spend it traveling. This way, we can all be together here, at the palace, before I must leave," Nour says. "He’s dispatched a guard detail ahead of me to receive Zain and I at the Obsidian Coast; they’ll see me off onto $kTitle Kieran’s vessel." You stare open-mouthed and agape. "Wha—you can’t be serious? I mean, this is…this is…" You throw up a hand, incredulous. "This is all so sudden. Why so //soon?// Father cannot just spring this on you with no warning. You //just// got back! We’ve barely even seen each other since our return. //Surely// Father can see how absurd this is—" "It’s not our place to question Father’s decisions." "//You// are Father’s heir, now. //Your place// is here! At the palace." You drive a pointed finger into the table to illustrate your point. "Not anymore. Preparations for your coronation are already underway. Once I leave, Father will pass the title to you." "To //me//?" You gape at $them. "This doesn’t make any sense. You must agree. How can you just go along with this?" $They scrub<<s>> a tired hand over $their face and seem<<s>> to just now realize one of $their braids has come loose. $They <<try>> to pin it back in place, but it flops back down again. Nour sighs resignedly. "What else would you have me do, $mcnickname? This is what Father has asked of me." "Asked? Or ordered?" Nour frowns. "You know Father does not //ask//." "Did Father at least do you the //kindness// of explaining what exactly he was thinking selecting you for the match? Precedent dictates it should be me he is sending, not you." "No need to be so overeager," Nour snaps. "You should be glad you are not going." "I would be unhappy about this either way. I am upset //for// you. One of us needs to be, since you don’t seem all that eager to be upset on your own behalf." "Hmph," Nour hums malcontendedly, $their gaze dropping to $their teacup. "So?" you ask. Nour remains silent and you grit your teeth. "You don’t even know, do you? Did Father not tell you? Or did you just not even //ask?//" Nour is quiet for a few moments, face impassive and blank. $Their eyes close and $they take a deep, steadying breath. "It is not my place to question Father’s orders," $they repeat<<s>>. Your fingers dig into your knees, hard enough to hurt. "You can’t—!" Nour holds up a hand and you fall quiet. "//$mcname.//" $Their voice takes on a steely, warning edge, $their brow hardening into an uncharacteristically imperious glare. You have seen your $sibling adopt this cold authoritative demeanor when addressing $their soldiers, but never <<have>> $they used it on you. You’ve always thought it looked so unnatural, so out of place on Nour, who is so kind, gentle, and patient. Nour continues. "I asked you here to inform you of Father’s decision, not to seek your permission. This is not a discussion. The decision is final. I //will// be leaving a week from tomorrow. Whatever Father’s reasons for selecting me for the match, I am sure they are valid. This is how he has decided I am best to serve our family." $Their shoulders slump resignedly, and $they let<<s>> out a sigh. When $they speak<<s>> again, $their voice is softer. "I’m sorry, $mcnickname. For taking that tone with you." $They pause<<s>>. "Look," $they say<<s>>. "I don’t want to fight tonight." $They swallow<<s>>, then <<try>> for a thin, weak smile. "Can’t we just enjoy each other’s company for now? We haven’t been able to catch up for so long. I’d like to make the most of the time we do have." <div class="choice"><<link 'Your protests die on your tongue. You know Nour is only following $their duty, so you bite your tongue and relent. You will get answers later.' 'Chp1-2.3dignified'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link 'No. You are furious. What is your father thinking? How can Nour just go along with this? You want answers.' 'Chp1-2.3confrontational'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link 'You are furious. You cannot understand your father’s reasons, but Nour clearly either does not know or will not share them with you. Now is not the time to bring it up. You will get answers later, but for now you agree to play civil, though you do little to mask your displeasure.' 'Chp1-2.3imposing'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link 'You cannot understand your father’s reasons, but Nour clearly either does not know or will not share them with you. Now is not the time to bring it up. You will get answers later, but for now you agree to play civil, taking a deep breath and pasting a placating smile on your face, for your $sibling\’s sake.' 'Chp1-2.3charismatic'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link 'You bite your lip to keep your chin from trembling. You //just// got home. After //years// of being apart, separated by a sea of sand. And now Nour is leaving, just like that? //In a week?// It\’s all so unfair.' 'Chp1-2.3gentle'>><</link>></div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2.3dignified") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You take a deep breath, squaring your shoulders, then nod. "I apologize," you say. "That display was unbecoming of me." "It’s alright," Nour says. "You have my apologies, as well. I know I have sprung a lot on you. You already have much on your plate. I am sorry to be the one to add to it." You wave away $their apologies. "It’s not as though it is of your own volition. Let’s just…table all of it for now," you say, and try for a smile. "It’s rare we have an opportunity to enjoy a social visit. And in such nice weather, too." Nour smiles. "Indeed." The two of you pass the time making small conversation and sipping tea, doing your best to enjoy the chance to simply relax outside among the rushing fountains and splatter of wildflowers—but even so, a tension hangs over the both of you like a cloud, overshadowing every attempt at pleasant small talk. After a while, Nour stands, excusing you, and you take your cue and leave, mind buzzing darkly as you stride away from the gazebo. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3StalkOffAurynn]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2.3confrontational") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You slam a fist on the tea table, causing the china to clatter loudly. Nour flinches. "No! This is completely ridiculous. How are you not angry about this?" Nour chuckles nervously, lifting $their teacup to $their lips and drawing a timid sip. "You cannot even pretend to play along, can you?" "You must see how unreasonable this is!" you continue, ignoring $them. "We //just// got back. It hasn’t even been a few //weeks//. How can you just let Father send you away again like this? He can’t just ship you off like this, with no warning, no answers. How can you just resign yourself to this? The borders are still closed. When will I see you again? The wedding? And what about after that? You think King Novan will just let you waltz on home whenever you feel like it? You think he'll invite us over for dinner, hm? One big happy family? You and your $kfiance? You’ll be a //hostage!//" "You think I don’t know that?!" Nour snaps. $They lean<<s>> forward, one hand bracing each side of the tea table. "What would you have me do, $mcname? Go whine to Father about how unfair this all is? Simply…//refuse// to comply? You think Celestyl is going to just accept leaving empty-handed when $kTitle Kieran’s ship shows up to a deserted port? Whether we like it or not, //someone// is going to Celestyl. And Father has decided it is to be //me.// I don’t understand his reasons for it either, and I don’t like this just as much as you. But it was to fall to one of us and Father has decided this is //my// duty now." Nour jabs a finger at $their chest. "Mine." $They take<<s>> a deep shuddering breath, unclenching $their fists from the sides of the table and sitting back. $They smooth<<es2>> a hand over the front of $their robes, doing $their best to look unaffected despite the subtle twitch of $their mouth. "It is for the best. If someone is going, it should be me." "How can you say that?" you hiss. $They sigh<<s>>, eyes blank as $they stare<<s>> at nothing. "The entire court thinks me unfit to rule. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t actually live with my head under a rock. I’m aware of the rumors." "That’s all just petty //gossip.// You know how nobles like to run their mouths." "Are they really wrong, though?" "//Yes.//" $They regard<<s>> you passively. "My mother would never give anyone the satisfaction of admitting it aloud, of course—she’s been too thrilled at the opportunities my coronation brought her. But I don’t need words to know she thinks the same as all the rest," $they say<<s>>, gaze falling to stare at $their reflection in $their teacup. "And they’re right. As much as my mother wishes otherwise, I am not her perfect courtier. I am clumsy when I should be poised, dull when I should be witty, guileless when I should be cunning." $They pause. "I am not Parim." You frown. "No one expects you to be—" "Our brother was groomed to be emperor since the day of his birth. The throne was always intended for him; his shadow is inescapable now. None can sit in his place without being compared to the man whose name was all but seared into that throne since his first breath. Of course it has been expected—nay, demanded—that I live up to his example, as next-in-line." "And—and //what?//" you snap. "You think //I’ll// do better at trying to fill Parim’s sandals? I’m not him, either." Nour grimaces. "That’s…that’s not what I meant." "Isn’t it?" $Their eyes slide shut, one fingernail tapping against the side of $their teacup, a sharp //clink, clink, clink.// "I know I am passing a heavy burden onto you," $they say<<s>> quietly. "For that, I am sorry. If I could shield you from this, know that I would. Heavy lies the crown, and heavier still our brother’s legacy, whether that was his intention or not. I am trading you one burden for another, but of the two, I believe it is one you will shoulder better than I. And perhaps that is why Father chose to send me to Celestyl over you; I am sure he sees that, too." "This…" You shake your head, your breathing shallow. You reach up to grip the sides of the table. "This isn’t right. You don’t know that. You don’t know I’ll be better." You tap your chest. "I don’t know how to be sovereign." Nour opens $their eyes, but doesn’t look up. "You’ve always been quick on the uptake. Why, you’ve been nipping at my heels since we were children. It wasn’t long until you surpassed me in our studies. And that was fine until it wasn’t. Until I needed to be stronger. Smarter. Faster." $They find your gaze, brow heavy like stone over flickering eyes, $their mouth a grim, determined line. "If it is to be one or the other, and one of us must leave for Celestyl, let it be me. You’ve been watching out for me at court for years. Let me shoulder the heavier of our burdens this time." Your breath catches in your throat and your grip tightens around the table’s edges, the delicate tablecloth scrunching beneath your blanching fingers. You shake your head, again and again and again. "No. No, it’s not //right,//" you repeat. "It was //supposed// to be //me.//" "But it isn’t anymore," Nour says, voice firm. $They lift<<s>> $their chin. "I am still your older $sibling. This burden is mine to bear. I //will// be going to Celestyl. The decision is final. I will hear no more argument on the matter." $Their gaze drops to the table, chin still high. When $they speak again, $their voice is just above a whisper—brittle, as if on the verge of breaking. "This is for the best." You are quiet for a long time, your trembling fingers clenching the sides of the table. Nour does not shrink under your glare, instead quietly accepting your anger. That is what $they <<do1>> best, isn’t it? Quietly accept things. Well, you cannot. You abruptly stand, pushing yourself up from the table and storm off, leaving Nour alone under the gazebo, sitting quiet and impassive, eyes downcast. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3StalkOffAurynn]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2.3imposing") <= 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Imposing<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You are livid and bewildered, but recognize this is not the time to further press your concerns. You will get answers later from someone who will actually be able to give them to you, but for now you relent and agree to drop the topic for Nour’s sake. You incline your head. "Very well," you say coldly. Nour smiles thinly. "Thank you. You have my apologies, as well. I know I have sprung a lot on you. You already have much on your plate. I am sorry to be the one to add to it." You wave away $their apologies. "It’s not as though it is of your own volition. Let’s just…table all of it for now," you say, lifting your teacup to your lips to hide your frown. "It’s rare we have an opportunity to enjoy a social visit. And in such nice weather, too." "Indeed." The two of you pass the time making small conversation and sipping tea, doing your best to enjoy the chance to simply relax outside among the rushing fountains and splatter of wildflowers—but even so, a tension hangs over the both of you like a cloud, overshadowing every attempt at pleasant small talk. After a while, Nour stands, excusing you, and you take your cue and leave, mind buzzing darkly as you stalk off from the gazebo. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3StalkOffAurynn]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2.3charismatic") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You take a deep breath and allow a placating smile to lift your cheeks. "You’re right. I’m sorry," you say. "We wouldn’t want to further spoil such pleasant weather and tea with an argument. Take my apologies, Nour." "It’s alright," Nour says with a grateful smile. "You have my apologies, as well. I know I have sprung a lot on you. You already have much on your plate. I am sorry to be the one to add to it." You wave away $their apologies. "It’s not as though it is of your own volition. Let’s just…table all of it for now," you reassure $them. "It’s rare we have an opportunity to enjoy a social visit. Might as well make the most of it, right?" Nour nods. "Indeed." The two of you pass the time making small conversation and sipping tea, doing your best to enjoy the chance to simply relax outside among the rushing fountains and splatter of wildflowers—but even so, a tension hangs over the both of you like a cloud, overshadowing every attempt at pleasant small talk. After a while, Nour stands, excusing you, and you take your cue and leave, mind buzzing darkly as you stride away from the gazebo. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3StalkOffAurynn]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2.3gentle") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You bite your trembling lip and lower your eyes, busying your fingers with plucking at the end of the tablecloth. You don’t want to make things more difficult for Nour by crying in front of $them—$they usually tend to cry when you do—but this is all so unfair, so //cruel.// Six years of your life. Four siblings. All //gone.// Leaving you to come home and try to pick up the pieces of your life, of a life you can never go back to. And now you are told you are to lose //another// sibling? You hardly know when you’ll see $them next—at the wedding, you presume, but after that? Will $they be permitted to visit home? Will you be permitted to visit $them, in a faraway land, separated from you by an ocean, in a country that hates $them? A wedding was supposed to be a joyous thing—something you looked forward to celebrating with your siblings, for your siblings. A union of families, your $sibling sealing a bond with a friend or lover, or at the very least, a close ally. And now, your $sibling has been robbed of even that, forced to marry a stranger, the $kchild of your enemy, a $kgender your $sibling has never even met and with whom $they share no affection or loyalty. You sniffle and lower your head, trying desperately to stem the flow of tears. You hear Nour take in a shaky breath, then $their hand slides across the table, seeking yours. You lift your hand and allow Nour to take it, until you are both grasping the other’s forearm across the square tea table. "I’m sorry, $mcnickname. Forgive me. I know I have sprung a lot on you. You already have much on your plate. I am sorry to be the one to add to it." You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut. "No, no. It’s…it’s not your fault. I just—" you take a sharp breath and hold it, willing your eyes to obey. You take several heavy breaths and when you finally are semi-confident you will not cry, you tentatively look up at Nour—whose own eyes are misty—and try for a weak, flickering smile. "Forgive me," you say. You slip out of Nour’s grasp and grab your teacup a little too eagerly. "You were right—it’s been too long since we managed to catch up." Nour’s eyes linger for a few moments on the spot where you held hands before $they pull<<s>> away, glancing up at you and smiling thinly. "Right…right." $They pick<<s>> up their teacup as well. The two of you pass the time making small conversation and sipping tea, doing your best to enjoy the chance to simply relax outside among the rushing fountains and splatter of wildflowers—but even so, a tension hangs over the both of you like a cloud, overshadowing every attempt at pleasant small talk. After a while, Nour stands, excusing you, and you take your cue and leave, mind buzzing darkly as you stride away from the gazebo. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3StalkOffAurynn]]

"Hey, wait up!" Aurynn hurries to catch up to you, his long hair swaying behind him as he jogs to keep up. You aren’t even sure where exactly you’re going—just anywhere away from here. You need some time to think. Cutting through a cluster of wide-leafed succulents and ducking under a pomegranate tree bespeckled with fragrant ruby-red blossoms, you wind your way deeper into the gardens. Aurynn hops over a row of flowering gold-spiked cacti after you, cursing when the fabric around his waist gets snagged. He quickly tugs himself free and bounces after you, keeping up a fast-paced walk by your side. "So—" he starts. "Not right now," you cut him off. "Alright, cool," he says, falling silent. He pauses, then adds, "Can I at least ask where we’re going?" "Away from here." You turn abruptly on your heel and stride down a narrow side path, leaving Aurynn to scramble after you. On the tight pathway, he is forced to trail behind you. The path eventually widens into a small open clearing of copper-colored sand surrounded on one side by a row of palms and large spiny agave plants, and on the other side a modestly-sized bubbling fountain, the likenesses of several Theian servals carved into its sandstone sides. And, lounging atop the fountain’s walls, is none other than Farwah, your ever-sleepy serval cat. You come to a stop a few feet from the fountain. "Farwah," you say. His large ears flick toward you, but otherwise he does not react. Aurynn staggers out of the pathway a second later, hopping on one foot as he rips several thin needle-like spines from his sandal while muttering something that sounds suspiciously like //’stupid fucking cactus,’// followed by another string of colorful expletives you choose to ignore. He bumps into you and stumbles, forcing you to reach out and quickly right him. "Thanks," he says. He dusts himself off, then catches sight of Farwah and perks up immediately as he slings a casual arm around your shoulder. "Oh hey, look. Farwah’s here." He gestures at your large spotted companion. Farwah cracks an eye open, his ears flicking backwards as the end of his sleek spotted tail begins to thrash. He rolls over, exposing his white-furred belly, his long limbs quivering as he stretches them out in front of himself—you know him well enough not to fall for his little game of ‘Tummy Trap,’ but Aurynn, having only met Farwah a handful of times before your return to the palace, does not. He stretches a hand out, letting Farwah make a big show of sniffing him before moving to pet the serval’s stomach. <div class="choice">[[Stop him.|Chp1-2warn]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Well, you suppose you shouldn’t let Farwah maul your retainer—that would be the responsible thing to do. You take his hand in your own. ♥|Chp1-2warnflirt]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Hold your tongue. Honestly, you could use the entertainment right now.|Chp1-2nowarn]]</div>

You reach out and grab his wrist before he can commit to petting your little fiend of a friend. Farwah squints at you, as if annoyed you had deprived him of his fun, before huffing and rolling back onto his stomach, sitting up as he yawns. He stretches his lanky legs before dropping down from his perch on the fountain and slinking away, paws pittering quick and quiet through the sand as he disappears past a row of thick, thorny brush plants. Aurynn slowly turns to look at you in what can only be considered utter betrayal, your hand still on his wrist. He rips his hand from your grip, mouth hanging open incredulously, then gestures in the direction Farwah had slunk off. "Do you get off on being cruel?" he asks, pointing an accusatory finger at your chest. "Did you enjoy that? Did you? You sick //sadist//." You roll your eyes. "Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic, just because I didn’t let you pet the cat?" "I’m going to kill—" he pauses, as if realizing it would technically be treason to threaten royalty. "—myself!" "Fine, just don’t do it next to me. Getting blood out of silk is such a nightmare." You turn away as he makes a series of rude gestures at your back, biting back an amused smile. You meander over to the edge of the clearing, your fingers skating over waxy leaves and rugged tree bark. The silence stretches between you as your mind invariably drifts back to your conversation with Nour, your bewilderment, your devastation, your indignation with the situation—with Nour’s complacence for the lot $they’<<ve>> been cast—bubbling up and over, escaping the confines of your mind like water from a boiling kettle, until your body cannot help but act on your vexations. <div class="choice">[[Frustrated tears prick at your eyes.|Chp1-2.3cry]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You grit your teeth, jaw clenched, fingernails digging into the flesh of your palms.|Chp1-2.3angry]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2warnflirt") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 1>>\ <</if>>\ Reaching out to take Aurynn’s outstretched hand in your own, you redirect it to your cheek, holding it there as you smile coquettishly at him. "Careful now. You’re so taken with Farwah; I might get jealous." Aurynn blinks, raising an eyebrow. "Of the //cat//?" He jabs a thumb in Farwah's direction. "Who else?" You cluck your tongue. "Don’t be fooled by appearances, anyhow. Farwah would have mauled you had you tried to pet him. You’re welcome for saving you, by the way." He glances between you and Farwah, who watches the two of you through hooded eyes, tail still trashing. Farwah squints at you, as if annoyed you had deprived him of his fun, before huffing and rolling back onto his stomach, sitting up as he yawns. He stretches his lanky legs before dropping down from his perch on the fountain and slinking away, paws pittering quick and quiet through the sand as he disappears past a row of thick, thorny brush plants. "Oh," Aurynn hums. "But if you’re so eager to get mauled, I could always assist." "//Oh?//" With a suggestive look, you smile and turn away as he preens, meandering to the edge of the clearing, your fingers skating over waxy leaves and rugged tree bark. The silence stretches between you as your mind invariably drifts back to your conversation with Nour, your bewilderment, your devastation, your indignation with the situation—with Nour’s complacence for the lot $they’<<ve>> been cast—bubbling up and over, escaping the confines of your mind like water from a boiling pot, until your body cannot help but act on your vexations. <div class="choice">[[Frustrated tears prick at your eyes.|Chp1-2.3cry]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You grit your teeth, jaw clenched, fingernails digging into the flesh of your palms.|Chp1-2.3angry]]</div>

You briefly consider warning him, but ultimately stay your tongue, folding your arms over your chest as you decide you could use the entertainment right about now. Not even a moment after Aurynn’s gloved hand sinks into the soft white fur of Farwah’s underbelly do the teeth come out, clamping down onto your retainer’s hand as he shrieks girlishly. He rips his hand away, backing away and clutching it to his chest as Farwah grunts, tail flicking playfully. With a yawn, he stands, stretching his back legs before dropping down from his perch on the fountain and slinking away, paws pittering quick and quiet through the sand as he disappears past a row of thick, thorny brush plants. You turn to Aurynn with a thin, placid smile. Still nursing his hand, he clears his throat awkwardly, lowering his voice several octaves too low to be casual. "Ehem. Uh—" he opens his mouth, clearly searching for words he might be able to use to preserve some of his own dignity and finding none. He doesn’t miss the amused upward quirk to your lips and immediately deflates, fixing you with a glare. "You knew that would happen." "Of course not," you say, placing a hand over your chest in mock affront. "I may have foresight, but I don’t claim to be omniscient." He sneers at you, though there is no real malice to it. "I hadn’t pegged you for a //sadist.// Do you get off on watching people get mauled or something?" <div class="choice">[["I get off on watching you get mauled," you correct him. ♥|Chp1-2.3maulflirt]]</div> <div class="choice">[["You mean you don’t?" ♥|Chp1-2.3youdont]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Well, certainly. Who doesn’t?”|Chp1-2.3whodoesnt]]</div> <div class="choice">[["What an insinuation! I have some decorum," you say. "But it is somewhat entertaining."|Chp1-2.3decorum]]</div> <div class="choice">[["Quite the insinuation!" you say. "But no, believe it or not, my interests are not so uncouth." ♥|Chp1-2.3uncouth]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2.3maulflirt") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 1>>\ <</if>>\ "//Oh?//" he says, turning in a slow circle. "Hope you had a nice view, then." "I definitely did," you assure him. You turn away as he preens, meandering to the edge of the clearing, your fingers skating over waxy leaves and rugged tree bark. The silence stretches between you as your mind invariably drifts back to your conversation with Nour, your bewilderment, your devastation, your indignation with the situation—with Nour’s complacence for the lot $they’<<ve>> been cast—bubbling up and over, escaping the confines of your mind like water from a boiling pot, until your body cannot help but act on your vexations. <div class="choice">[[Frustrated tears prick at your eyes.|Chp1-2.3cry]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You grit your teeth, jaw clenched, fingernails digging into the flesh of your palms.|Chp1-2.3angry]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2.3youdont") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 1>>\ <</if>>\ "Dunno," he says, tapping a finger to his lips as he looks you over, voice low. "Haven’t watched you get mauled yet." You had been joking but now you clear your throat awkwardly, face suddenly feeling warm at the way his keen narrowed eyes travel over the length of you, and you have to fight the urge to cover yourself, as if he is undressing you with his eyes. Instead, you turn away, scandalized, and he lets out an amused chuckle. In an attempt to salvage your dignity, you fall quiet, meandering to the edge of the clearing, your fingers skating over waxy leaves and rugged tree bark. The silence stretches between you as your mind invariably drifts back to your conversation with Nour, your bewilderment, your devastation, your indignation with the situation—with Nour’s complacence for the lot $they’<<ve>> been cast—bubbling up and over, escaping the confines of your mind like water from a boiling pot, until your body cannot help but act on your vexations. <div class="choice">[[Frustrated tears prick at your eyes.|Chp1-2.3cry]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You grit your teeth, jaw clenched, fingernails digging into the flesh of your palms.|Chp1-2.3angry]]</div>

"You know, sometimes I can’t actually tell whether you’re joking or not," he says with a sigh. "We need to get you some //normal// interests—ones that don’t involve eviscerating your enemies." You pout. "Sounds boring." "I take back what I said about you being a sadist. There’s something much worse going on with your head." You shrug and turn away, meandering to the edge of the clearing, your fingers skating over waxy leaves and rugged tree bark. The silence stretches between you as your mind invariably drifts back to your conversation with Nour, your bewilderment, your devastation, your indignation with the situation—with Nour’s complacence for the lot $they’<<ve>> been cast—bubbling up and over, escaping the confines of your mind like water from a boiling pot, until your body cannot help but act on your vexations. <div class="choice">[[Frustrated tears prick at your eyes.|Chp1-2.3cry]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You grit your teeth, jaw clenched, fingernails digging into the flesh of your palms.|Chp1-2.3angry]]</div>

"Ah, well, I am nothing if not your humble jester," he says dryly, dipping into a bow, arms spread. "That’s right," you say, and you have to fight a grin as you watch him try not to bristle at how readily you agree. You turn away, meandering to the edge of the clearing, your fingers skating over waxy leaves and rugged tree bark. The silence stretches between you as your mind invariably drifts back to your conversation with Nour, your bewilderment, your devastation, your indignation with the situation—with Nour’s complacence for the lot $they’<<ve>> been cast—bubbling up and over, escaping the confines of your mind like water from a boiling pot, until your body cannot help but act on your vexations. <div class="choice">[[Frustrated tears prick at your eyes.|Chp1-2.3cry]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You grit your teeth, jaw clenched, fingernails digging into the flesh of your palms.|Chp1-2.3angry]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2.3uncouth") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 1>>\ <</if>>\ "Debatable," he says, rolling his eyes. "But fine, I’ll bite; you want to be wined and dined, is that it? I can do that." "I—no, I mean," you start. "It wasn’t an invitation." He shrugs. "Offer still stands." You clear your throat and turn away, meandering to the edge of the clearing, your fingers skating over waxy leaves and rugged tree bark. The silence stretches between you as your mind invariably drifts back to your conversation with Nour, your bewilderment, your devastation, your indignation with the situation—with Nour’s complacence for the lot $they’<<ve>> been cast—bubbling up and over, escaping the confines of your mind like water from a boiling pot, until your body cannot help but act on your vexations. <div class="choice">[[Frustrated tears prick at your eyes.|Chp1-2.3cry]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You grit your teeth, jaw clenched, fingernails digging into the flesh of your palms.|Chp1-2.3angry]]</div>

Stinging frustrated tears prick at your eyes as you aim a kick at the base of one of the many date palms shading this little corner of the gardens. You bash a sandaled foot against the trunk over and over, thick fibrous pieces of bark splintering beneath your foot, until your heel begins to throb. With a shuddering sigh, you slump forward, resting your forehead against the trunk and closing your eyes. You hear Aurynn shuffle over to stand beside you a few moments later. "...Bad day?" You glance at him in askance, eyes narrowed. "Yeah, sorry," he admits. "Stupid question." He raises a placating hand. "But at least you found the one plant here not covered in spikes," he says. "I was afraid you might just start whaling on the cacti. What even is this thing anyway?" He nudges the bark with the toe of his sandal. "Are you serious?" you ask. "It’s a palm tree. A date palm. You don’t know what a palm tree is?" "What? Don’t look at me like that. I don’t have all the different types of wood in this place memorized like you do," he says, then adds, "I do know my way around wood, though. //Different// wood." You slowly twist your head to the side to look at him, your forehead still pressed against the rough, feathery bark. He purses his lips as you continue to silently stare at him. "And by wood I mean—" "No, yeah, I know what you meant." "Okay, well I just wanted to make sure, ‘cause you were looking at me like you didn’t know where I was going with that euphemism and then I got to thinking, well maybe you’ve never even—" You heave yourself away from the palm tree with a roll of your eyes. "Are you //intentionally// trying to be irritating?" "Oh, don’t insult me. I could be so much worse if I was //trying// to be annoying," he says. "But you weren’t exactly in the mood to talk. And nothing gets you in the mood faster than me saying something stupid or running my mouth. Or insinuating that you’re a—" You cut him off with a look. "//Kidding.// Sort of. So?" he says. "So?" "So what’d you and Nou—I mean $Title Nour talk about?" [[Continue|Chp1-2.3AurynnNour]]

Frustrated, you aim a kick at the base of one of the many date palms shading this little corner of the gardens. You bash a sandaled foot against the trunk over and over, thick fibrous pieces of bark splintering beneath your foot, until your heel begins to throb. With a long-suffering sigh, you slump forward, resting your forehead against the trunk and closing your eyes. You hear Aurynn shuffle over to stand beside you a few moments later. "...Bad day?" You glance at him in askance, eyes narrowed. "Yeah, sorry," he admits. "Stupid question." He raises a placating hand. "But at least you found the one plant here not covered in spikes," he says. "I was afraid you might just start whaling on the cacti. What even is this thing anyway?" He nudges the bark with the toe of his sandal. "Are you serious?" you ask. "It’s a palm tree. A date palm. You don’t know what a palm tree is?" "What? Don’t look at me like that. I don’t have all the different types of wood in this place memorized like you do. //Fanciful nerd.//" he says, then adds, "I do know my way around wood, though. //Different// wood." You slowly twist your head to the side to look at him, your forehead still pressed against the rough, feathery bark. He purses his lips as you continue to silently stare at him. "And by wood I mean—" "No, yeah, I know what you meant." "Okay, well I just wanted to make sure, ‘cause you were looking at me like you didn’t know where I was going with that euphemism and then I got to thinking, well maybe you’ve never even—" You heave yourself away from the palm tree with a roll of your eyes. "Are you //intentionally// trying to be irritating?" "Oh, don’t insult me. I could be so much worse if I was //trying// to be annoying," he says. "But you weren’t exactly in the mood to talk. And nothing gets you in the mood faster than me saying something stupid or running my mouth. Or insinuating that you’re a—" You cut him off with a look. "//Kidding.// Sort of. So?" he says. "So?" "So what’d you and Nou—I mean $Title Nour talk about?" [[Continue|Chp1-2.3AurynnNour]]

Spinning around, you lean your back against the trunk and cross your arms with a sigh, grinding your teeth as you search for words. "My father has agreed to an…//arranged marriage// with Celestyl," you say. "Oh," he says, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. He glances sidelong at you. "So then…you’re going to…?" You shake your head. "No. The match was made for Nour." His brow knits and he frowns, though you’d swear some part of him seemed relieved the way the tense set of his shoulders falls away. "For //Nour?// //$Title// Nour, sorry. <<Were>>n’t $they just coronated? Wouldn’t it make more sense to send you, being the…uh, spare?" he asks, then quickly adds, "No offense." "None taken. It struck me as odd, as well," you mutter. "I’m not sure //what// my father is thinking. And Nour doesn’t seem to know why Father chose $them for the match over me either. Either $they didn’t ask or my father refused to explain." Aurynn raises an eyebrow, leaning back against the tree next to you. "When is your $sibling supposed to leave?" "A week after tomorrow," you say. "From what I understand, my father intends to double the first day of the Thissys festivities next week as a send-off ceremony. I assume he’ll announce the match then, after which Zain will transport my $sibling to Onyxia, where they’ll both board the Lunar $kTitle Kieran’s ship and depart for Celestyl." Aurynn quickly turns his head, his hair cascading over his shoulder to obscure his profile, but you don’t miss the shadow that passes over his face before he does so. "Kieran, huh…" "What about $kthem?" "Hm?" Aurynn turns to look at you. "Oh. Nothing. Guess I just didn’t really think about who Nour would be getting engaged to." "Hm. Is that all?" you ask. Leaning closer, you scrutinize his face, not realizing how close you are until your shoulders brush. You half expect him to crack a grin and use the opportunity to flirt with you, but, as if sensing your intention to pry where you likely should not, he steps backwards, pushing away from the palm and clearing his throat. "Are we staying here long?" he asks, meandering over to the fountain. He spins in a circle on his heel and plops down on the fountain’s edge, setting his glaive down in the sand and crossing one leg over the other. Closing his eyes, he sweeps his hair over his shoulders, carding his fingers through it. "It’s hot." You shrug, folding your arms over your chest. "Just for a bit." You don’t quite feel like running into anyone else right now. You’d prefer to take your mind off of things for a moment, to try to escape the incessant buzzing in your skull. Your gaze falls on Aurynn’s discarded glaive. "Spar with me," you say, suddenly. He cracks an eye open. "Ew," he says. "No." "What do you mean, //’ew’?//" "Look, I don’t blame you for wanting to get your hands on me, but if I wanted to toss you around, it wouldn’t be out here in the sand," he says. "So confident you’d win?" you say. "I distinctly remember most of our sparring sessions being //me// tossing //you// around." His eyes take on a keen glint, his lips curling into a sly smile. "Only because I //let// you." It is a taunt and unfortunately it works. Of all your training partners you’ve sparred with over the years, you’ve never been more intrigued than by Aurynn, and you suppose it is partially why you made him your retainer. That he might be holding back during your spars is incredibly patronizing. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3AurynnMeeting]]

It was both ill luck and your own lack of experience that had landed you in over your head at just sixteen years old, your first time commanding a small troop on a quick hit-and-run on a small fleet of Celestylian ships. It should have been an easy job—while your brothers Ember and Castor engaged the main Celestylian troops elsewhere and Aurora drove the remaining forces off the beach, you would set fire to the ships, stranding the Celestylian fleet in Theia without a way to retreat, enabling your older siblings to pick them off easier. Only, Fate had other ideas. Not even a few moments after your archers had fired the first flaming arrows did it begin to pour, despite it being the dry season, and your archers’ flames were quickly extinguished beneath an icy onslaught of rain. With your siblings having taken the brunt of the risk in luring the Celestylians away, you hesitated at first to call the retreat, not that it would have mattered had you called it sooner—an ambush party had already been waiting, concealed among the shrub line some distance from the shore. It was chaos in moments—you had not been expecting to have to engage the enemy, and between the pounding of blood in your ears, the clang of metal against metal, and the thunderous splattering of rain sinking like a heavy chill beneath your skin, you could not hear, you could not //think.// And for the first time you had no one to turn to for help. No mother, no father, no sister, no brother. There was no one to tell you what to do. It was //you// people were looking to for orders, your name the last words falling from their tongues like an accusation, awaiting your orders. And you had //none.// Your tongue felt heavy and stupid, utterly useless in your mouth and whether it the icy rain or the fear that made you shiver so—that kept you petrified, rooted to the spot—you did not know, but everything was dark and wet and you could not tell if it was blood or rain that drenched you or both, nor could you could tell friend from foe. In the dim light of the moon, they all looked the same—and people were dying, they were dying because of //you//. And it was as such that you did not notice the paladin approaching you until she was right upon you, towering over you, her greatsword poised over her shoulders, the length of her blade glinting in the moonlight. And as she thrust it down in a vicious arc toward your throat, you had not even the time to raise your <<cycle "$weapon" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__sword,__''" "sword">> <<option "''__spear,__''" "spear">> <<option "''__axe,__''" "axe">> <<option "''__bow,__''" "bow">> <</cycle>> and <<cycle "$lastthought" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__all you could think was that you did not want to die.__''" "die">> <<option "''__all you could think was that you were sorry. Sorry to your siblings, for your failure. To your father, who expected greater. To your mother and your little sister, to whom you had promised you would come home. //I’m sorry.//__''" "sorry">> <<option "''__all you could think was that you wondered if it would hurt, and that you would deserve it, for your failure. For your hesitation. For your ineptitude.__''" "hurt">> <</cycle>>\ But the blade never did find your throat. And the warm spray of blood from metal biting flesh was not yours. The pained grunt, the ragged breath, the wet choking, the slump of a body sinking to their knees in thick, wet, onyx sand—it wasn't yours. And when you found you could still hear your own heartbeat in your temple, that you could still feel your pulse, could still feel the blood coursing beneath your skin—when you found you were still //alive//—you cracked your eyes open to the shape of a man framed against the silvery glow of Celestyl, the moon, his face wreathed in shadow, his bright eyes narrowed into slits as he stared down at you. And when he turned away impassively, your eyes could not help but follow, mesmerized, as he slithered from one foe to the next, a ripple of dark hair trailing after him like a serpent, each hypnotic twirl and flash of his glaive followed shortly after by a billowing burst of blood, blackened by the gloom of night. You would be surprised, afterwards—after you had gathered up your wounded, after you had escaped your siblings' fretting upon their return, after Celestyl had passed the sky to His sister, Theia, Her bright searching tendrils of sunlight streaking across the horizon as night made way to early morning—to learn this silhouette of a man, now awash in the hazy fire-gold glow of dawn, was a minor Theian noble from an offshoot of House Sunspirit, and not only because of his lazy posture and charming grins and complete lack of any of the decorum one would expect for a noble of his station. No, it had been in the way he had moved that night that had made you think him another Celestylian. Despite this, you had insisted on making him your retainer. Why? <div class="choice">[[Curiosity, mostly. That, and you owed him a life debt.|Chp1-2.3Curious]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Curiosity, mostly. A life debt. That, and you suppose you might have had a bit of a crush. ♥|Chp1-2.3Crush]]</div>

<<set $weaponchosen to true>>\ <<set $chp1MeetAurynnFlashback to true>>\ A precarious sense of curiosity, mostly—he had, almost single handedly, changed the tide of the ambush, felling one warrior after the next, and had finished with nary a scratch, despite bearing a borderline scandalous amount of skin and wearing not a lick of armor. And you’d find he never would wear armor either, not even once throughout the six years you would know him for following that night. You wanted to study him, to know where he learned to move like that, fluid and swift, his slender limbs belying the power with which he could use them. Furthermore, you owed him a life debt—and you always repay your debts. Even Aurora and Castor, ever the suspicious and cautious ones, had begrudgingly offered Aurynn their sincerest thanks in saving your life. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3AurynnMeeting2]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2.3Crush") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 2>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $crushonA to true>>\ <<set $weaponchosen to true>>\ <<set $chp1MeetAurynnFlashback to true>>\ A precarious sense of curiosity, mostly—he had, almost single handedly, changed the tide of the ambush, felling one warrior after the next, and had finished with nary a scratch, despite bearing a borderline scandalous amount of skin and wearing not a lick of armor. And you’d find he never would wear armor either, not even once throughout the six years you would know him for following that night. You wanted to study him, to know where he learned to move like that, fluid and swift, his slender limbs belying the power with which he could use them. And yes, you were enchanted, you suppose. You had been so certain—for a moment, at least, when you first opened your eyes to the shape of him—that he musst have been a god, a nymph, a siren. Something beautiful and inhuman. You could not look away had you tried. Here was someone to whom you owed your very life; and you, young and inexperienced, were awestruck, admiring Aurynn like you would a gorgeous painting—something captivating and alluring, a masterful technique you wanted to study, something lovely to look at but not to touch, something beautiful but off limits. The subject of one-sided innocent youthful pining. You would, of course, never tell him this now—out of self-preservation, if anything. You don’t think you’d ever escape the teasing. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3AurynnMeeting2]]

It would take you several years of closely observing Aurynn's fighting style to identify where each component had come from, which only grew harder as he learned to better mimic traditional Theian martial stances. You decided it was a blend of several styles: some Celestylian, some Theian, and some you did not recognize altogether. And despite your inquiries into where he had trained and who had taught him, he had always playfully brushed you off. Indeed, you had even tried asking him how he had ended up at that beach that night you were a wet-behind-the-ears teen commander, as he had not been serving under any of your siblings like you had originally assumed. He had simply replied he had been //’in the area,’// seeming to enjoy your frustration when he refused to feed your curiosity. It was just one of many odd and irritating behaviors you would learn were pretty typical for Aurynn. And so it is that his taunt strikes you exactly where you know he knows it would. He is, after all, a tease, stringing you along by your curiosity only to leave you hanging once you take the bait. His insinuation that he has been lazy during your spars is both relentlessly intriguing and frustrating to you. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3AurynnAskSpar]]

"Spar with me," you say again. He falls onto his back, sprawling out on the stone rim of the fountain. Closing his eyes, he folds his hands over his stomach. "You don’t even have a weapon." "Magic, then." You bite your lip, watching him lying there, his long brown hair tumbling in waves off the fountain’s edge. Though you know he will likely refuse, you posed the suggestion anyway, overcome by your curiosity as to how you would measure up to him against his deviant illusion magic, something you’ve only seen him use on rare occasions. Unexpected, in your opinion. You’d have thought—being the preening noble he is—he’d jump at the opportunity to show off his magical prowess. Most nobles do. Much to your disappointment, however, he has always evaded your attempts to persuade him into a magic duel. Aurynn opens his eyes but does not look at you. <<if $magic is "fire">>\ "Hm. No thanks," he says, tugging at one of his gloves. "I’d rather not get burnt to a crisp. It’s hot enough out here without you slinging fireballs at me." "I can dunk you in the fountain afterwards," you offer. He rolls his head to the side, fixing you with narrowed eyes and a thin, amused smile. <<if $person is "man">>\ "How gentlemanly of you! Do you treat all your sparring partners this way, or just the ones you particularly hate?" <<else>>\ "How courteous of you! Do you treat all your sparring partners this way, or just the ones you particularly hate?" <<endif>>\ You dip into a low, mocking bow, arms spread. "I am nothing if not obliging. So is that a yes…?" "Absolutely not." He smiles sharply, before rolling his head back to look at the sky. <<elseif $magic is "illusion">>\ "Hm. No thanks," he says, tugging at one of his gloves. "The last time I fell for one of your little light tricks I ended up stranded two miles away down the River Thiss with a rather persistent yellow-bellied firegulper on my tail." He shudders. "Never again." "I found you again. Eventually." It hadn’t exactly been hard. Even if he hadn’t been shrieking his lungs out, it would have been impossible not to sense his panic pressing insistently at the edges of your mind. "And Samira was able to put out the fire quickly. You only lost a few inches of hair. No harm, no foul, right?" you say. Aurynn rolls his head to the side, fixing you with a glare. "Come now, I thought you’d gotten over this," you say, holding your hands out placatingly. "A small jest gone awry." "Hmph." "Would it help if I apologized again?" "A little." "I’m sorry." He folds his arms across his chest and rolls his head back to look at the sky. "Well. Thank you. But my answer’s still no." <<elseif $magic is "gravity">>\ "Hm. No thanks," he says, tugging at one of his gloves. "I think I like gravity the way it is. I’ve seen you turn grown men into putty like it’s nothing. Quite horrifying, really. And I am //far// too exquisite a creature to be reduced to a puddle of jelly." He rolls his head lazily to the side, offering you a coquettish grin. "I’m sure you can understand." You grimace slightly. "I suppose that’s fair. Though I would not go so hard on you, of course." "How thoughtful of you," he drawls before rolling his head back to look up at the sky. "But the answer is still no." <<else>>\ "Hm. No thanks," he says, tugging at one of his gloves. "The last time I accidentally triggered one of your wards, I ended up with a broken leg." "I healed you afterwards," you say, somewhat defensively. "...I won’t break your leg this time?" "Ah! Well. You’ve convinced me." "Really?" "No." You pause. "...I’ll very tenderly tend to your wounds afterwards? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?" Aurynn rolls his head lazily to the side, an amused smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "Hmmm. //Tempting.// But no." <<endif>>\ "Shame," you exhale. "Would you consider hand-to-hand?" He props himself up on an elbow, leaning forward to look at you, one eyebrow raised. "In this heat? Have I done something recently to be deserving of this kind of punishment, or is this just your idea of a good time?" He slumps back down on the edge of the fountain, lifting one leg over the edge and dipping it into the water. With one hand, he gestures vaguely at the air. "I suppose you must enjoy it, but most people don’t get such a kick out of wrestling in the dirt—there are some places sand just //doesn’t// belong. And this isn’t exactly my preferred setting for working up a sweat, if you can understand. If you want to beat something up, why not attack another tree? Or a cactus. Those can fight back." He drapes an arm across his eyes. You watch him for a few more moments. "Hm." <<cycle "$laylap" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__Defeatedly, you join him on the edge of the fountain, sitting down with a sigh next to his head and swirling your fingers in the warm, clear water.__''" "false">> <<option "''__Defeatedly, you join him on the edge of the fountain, sitting down with a sigh next to his head. You lift his head and lay it gently atop your lap, swirling your fingers in the warm, clear water.__''" "true">> <<option "''__Defeatedly, you join him on the edge of the fountain, sitting down with a sigh next to his head. He shifts and lays his head atop your lap as you swirl your fingers in the warm, clear water.__''" "true">> <</cycle>> The rush of water does little to drown out the buzzing of worries and frustrations clamoring through your mind. You try to busy yourself watching a bird supping at a cluster of rosy funnel-shaped flowers, but eventually your stare is drawn back to Aurynn, lying quietly beside you. After a few moments, he sighs and lets his arms slide off his face and into the fountain. He glances up at you. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3AurynnAskCelestyl]]

"I can feel you staring at me. What is it?" "How do you usually distract yourself?" He folds his arms under his head. "Easy. I find a $pretty face." "Is that your suggestion for everything?" He shrugs. "You asked me what I do. It works for me." "Does it really?" "Sure," he says, glancing up at you with a grin as he reaches up to bop you on the nose. "I’m distracted right now." He winks. You flick him with water. "You don’t have any //other// hobbies?" "I have hobbies," he says, somewhat defensively. "Like what?" you ask. "Flirting doesn’t count." "...I have hobbies." You raise an eyebrow at him. He puffs a breath out beneath his hair, sending it fluttering over his brow. "Fine. Why? What do you usually do? Aside from beating up your retainers." You hesitate. "I…don’t know. I suppose I’ve never really had to think about it." Since you can remember, you’ve been too busy ordering soldiers around, planning and coordinating attacks, trying to survive another day. And since your return to the palace, you’ve hardly had a moment to breathe, always stuck between a mountain of paperwork or a slew of meetings. You never really had to bother trying to distract yourself. There was plenty to keep you busy. "C’mon. There must be something you do just for the heck of it. What about before your dad booted you off to war?" "My mother kept me rather busy training in preparation for my departure. I had much to learn and little time to do so. I had little free time; she considered it a waste." His brows pinch together and he reaches a hand up to poke at your cheek. "Wow. You are so sad." He grabs at your face and you bat his hand away. You turn your head, falling quiet for a long while, so long you think Auynn may have fallen asleep. But your mind keeps drifting invariably back to Nour and Aurynn’s odd behavior when you had told him about the marriage arrangement. A question nags at you, and you decide since he isn’t in an altogether unpleasant mood today, you will chance it. If you play your cards right, you might get him to let something slip. "You’ve been to Celestyl before, haven’t you?" you ask. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3ProproseTrade]]

It’s a question you’ve asked many times before, but Aurynn decides to play along, as if it is the first—though he cocks a brow, surprised at the sudden change in topic. "What makes you think that?" "Watching you fight for six years," you reply. "You must have, the way you move." "Have you been watching me that closely?" he asks, placing a hand over his chest in an exaggerated display of fawning. "Be still my beating heart." "So you //have// trained in Celestyl?" "I never said that." He lets his hand slide off his chest and into the fountain, swirling his gloved fingers languidly through the crystalline water in circles. "What are you getting at, exactly?" You decide to switch tactics. "That’s where you met $kTitle Kieran, isn’t it?" Your gambit succeeds; his fingers twitch, rhythm faltering slightly before he quickly corrects himself. "What makes you think I know Kier—$kTitle Kieran?" "Well, aside from your odd reaction at my mentioning $kthem earlier, //that.// You usually only forget honorifics for people who //aren’t// strangers." He watches you for several moments, face unreadable before he cocks his head, conceding a thin smile. "Ah. Well. I have always had a habit of putting my foot in my mouth, haven’t I?" "One of your charms, I’m sure," you say. "One of many," he agrees, then looks at you thoughtfully. "Alright. And what if it is true?" "Well," you say. "I want to know just who it is my $sibling is going to be marrying." "And you think I have the answers to that?" "You might." He studies you for a few moments, then sits up, sweeping his long, silky hair over one shoulder as he twists to face you. A grin tugs at his lips, though something about it feels superficial. "Alright. I’ll bite. Perhaps I //have// met the $kgender." He crosses his legs, propping his chin on his fist. "So, then—" "Ah, ah. Hang on. You know I don’t work for free." He wags a finger at you. "A trade." "A what?" "A favor for a favor," he says. "I have something you want. You have something I want." You sit back, eyeing him. "Very well. What is it you want in return?" "Your blessing." "My…what?" "For a book." You cock your head to the side, brow knitting. "For…a //book.//" You can’t help but be surprised. Aurynn has never been the studious type. In fact, you can’t recall ever having seen him so much as look at a book with anything less than disgust written on his face. And you don’t see why he would need your blessing for one. "That’s what I said, yes." "An actual //book.// Like, with pages. And words." He narrows his eyes at you. "Yes. That’s what a book is." You point a finger at his chest. "For…you?" "For me, yes." "...Really?" Aurynn rolls his eyes. "Oh, come off it. I read." He pauses. "//Occasionally.// If the subject matter is of interest to me. And there just so happens to be a book that fits that description right in the royal library. Unfortunately, it’s in the, ah, //restricted// vault. And so far, the librarian has proven resistant to my charms." You quirk an eyebrow at him. "//Shocking,// I know. But I suppose the impossible is—//very rarely,// I might add—possible sometimes. Maybe the man’s straight. For //now//. Or ace. Who knows? Anyway, I just need permission from someone of royal blood, and it just so happens you match that description! So if you could just give me your permission to take a little look-see in the restricted section of the library, then I’ll answer whatever questions you have about your $sibling’s spouse-to-be. Sound fair?" He leans in with a disarming smile, batting his eyelashes at you. "Just what kind of book is this, exactly? I doubt they’d keep any pornographic material in the restricted vault. Unless it’s of some historical significance or exceedingly rare. Both of which I sincerely doubt." "Wow. You just //assume// it’s got to be erotica for me to be interested in reading it?" You fix him with a pointed look. "...Alright, //fair//. Still, I resent the accusation. And your lack of hesitation in doing so. Relax, would you? I just wanted to check out their collection on deviant illusion magic. I’ve already read through the library’s embarrassingly small collection available to the public and I heard they’ve got a few tomes in the restricted section. Problem is, they’re rather old and in fragile condition, so they keep them off the public shelves. Hence why I need your permission to enter the vault." "Those books can’t be removed from the vault; you’d have to read them there." "Yeah, I know." "They’re quite //long//…" "Alright, now you’re just being rude." You sigh, looking at him skeptically. "Many of those tomes are in delicate states. And all of them are //priceless.//" "I promise not to set any of the ancient scrolls on fire." "Don’t even joke." He rolls his eyes. "Honestly, you sound like the librarian. I’m not going to set any of the books on fire or rip any pages." He lifts a hand, wiggling his fingers. "And in case you’ve forgotten, I always wear silk gloves. I’m not going to stain the pages with my oily little fingers." "Mmmm," you hum, tilting your head as you point at his hands. "Well, that's a no-go. Gloves actually reduce your tactile senses and make it easier to damage a book. You'd have to take those off. And clean your hands first." He frowns and doesn't say anything for a moment as he glances down at his gloves. You bite your lip. The suggestion does not come lightly—you know he is not in the habit of ever being without a pair of gloves and you almost think he will not agree to the clause. But, after a moment, he purses his lips and concedes a nod. "...Anyone ever told you you'd make an excellent librarian?" Aurynn says. "Alright. I'll take them off before I touch any of the precious books. And stop looking at me like that. I'm not going to damage any of them. I know how to be //gentle.//" "Do you?" "I do. Maybe I’ll show you sometime if you ask me very nicely." He holds out a hand toward you. "So? Do we have ourselves a deal?" <div class="choice">[["No."|Chp1-2nodeal]]</div> <div class="choice">[["Yes."|Chp1-2deal]]</div>

<<set $toldaurynnnoforbook to true>>\ You chew your lip, staring at his hand for a few moments before shaking your head with a sigh. "I’m sorry, but those books are rather invaluable. I can’t just go around letting anyone into the vault. It’s a large library; surely you can find something of similar interest to you in the sections available to the public? I’m sure Aleksander, the librarian, would help you. And if not, I can put in a formal request to procure some new tomes on the subject." "Uh, rude? You trust me enough to watch out for your ass but not enough to take care of a little book?" he huffs, then smiles sweetly at you with practiced ease. "Is there nothing I can do to convince you? Anything at all? I’m very flexible and open-minded. In more ways than one. I’m sure we can work something out." "I’m sorry, but no," you reply. Aurynn opens his mouth to speak only to shut it again. He considers you for a long moment, chewing his lip, his gaze disquieting, before his smile vanishes. "Hm," is all he says. There is some stiff set to his shoulders, some restrained hesitance about his posture before he turns away, a swoop of chestnut hair streaming over his bare shoulder and closing like a curtain between you, shielding his profile. He is silent for a concerningly long time before he speaks again. "Are you sure?" he asks, his voice low, soft, silvery. "Am I…?" <<if $flirtedAurynn >= 3>>\ You blink. //Are// you sure? Sure of…of what, exactly? You try to think, but your mind moves slowly, languidly, thickly—like honey. You swallow, squinting as you try to recall what you had just been talking about, but your thoughts flutter weakly about your skull, stuck as if caught like a mouse in a viper’s grip—each time you try to pull away, its grip only tightens, squeezing painfully. Your head throbs. Your eyes are drawn to the spill of his hair over warm copper skin, bathed in shades of tangelo and tangerine beneath the merigold glow of the sun, and some urge, some wanting flickers at your mind—some need to reach out and part his hair, to brush it past his ear and turn his face towards yours again, to have those amber eyes on yours, to hear his euphonic voice. Will he not even look at you? You do not realize you had been leaning in, chasing his face with yours, until he turns, stiffly angling his face farther away, and you think you would agree to anything if it meant he would look at you again. "$mcnickname." Aurynn’s voice slithers with perfect clarity through the fog in your head, melodic and soothing, that painful squeeze in your skull loosening. "Er—yes?" you say. "The library…?" Aurynn gently urges you, his voice soft and soporific, and it is only then that you remember—the books. The books, yes, the books. That’s right. In the library vault. Permission. "Surely there’s no problem letting me in, just for a little while? You know I won’t damage anything. And I’ll put everything back where I found it." You nod. "Yes. Right. I…I will tell Aleksander to put your name on the list—to grant you entry. I’ll tell him later. Tonight. Tonight I’ll tell him," you say. He is quiet for a moment longer before he turns to face you, finally, his smile bright and refreshing like citrus. And in your relief, you do not notice the knot between his brows, the way his easy smile does not quite reach his lackluster eyes, nor the way your fingers inexorably seek his wrist, needing to feel the heat of his skin against yours—though you hardly recall raising your hand—until he flinches, recoiling away from you, eyes flashing. "Er—stop—" he blurts. You blink. Your hand hovers over the spot his had been and you pull back, suddenly mortified, unsure exactly what had come over you. His spooked reaction sits ill with you. Shifting stiffly on your perch on the fountain’s edge, you clear your throat, searching for the words to prepare an apology, perhaps, or for some way to change the subject. <<else>>\ You blink. //Are// you sure? Sure of…of what, exactly? You try to think, but your mind moves slowly, languidly, thickly—like honey. You swallow, squinting as you try to recall what you had just been talking about, but your thoughts flutter weakly about your skull, stuck as if caught like a mouse in a viper’s grip—each time you try to pull away, its grip only tightens, squeezing painfully. Your head throbs. "$mcnickname." Aurynn’s voice slithers with perfect clarity through the fog in your head, euphonic and soothing, that painful squeeze loosening, and you turn toward him. He angles his face farther away as you do so. "Er—yes?" you say. "The library…?" Aurynn gently urges you, his voice soft and soporific, and it is only then that you remember—the books. The books, yes, the books. That’s right. In the library vault. Permission. "Surely there’s no problem letting me in, just for a little while? You know I won’t damage anything. And I’ll put everything back where I found it." You nod. "Yes. Right. I…I will tell Aleksander to put your name on the list—to grant you entry. I’ll tell him later. Tonight. Tonight I’ll tell him," you say. He is quiet for a moment longer before he turns to face you again, his smile easing the rest of the ache in your skull, and in your relief, you do not notice the knot between his brows, the way his easy smile does not quite reach his lackluster eyes, nor the discomforted tilt to his posture as he leans farther and farther away from you. You almost don’t realize you had begun reaching for him to keep him from falling off the edge of the fountain until your fingers brush his arm and he flinches, recoiling away from you, eyes flashing. "Er—stop—" he blurts. You blink. Your hand hovers just over his shoulder and you pull back, suddenly somewhat self-conscious at his spooked reaction. Shifting stiffly on your perch on the fountain’s edge, you clear your throat, searching for the words to prepare an apology, perhaps, or for some way to change the subject. <<endif>>\ You never do find the words—when you glance up at Aurynn again, they die on your tongue. He sits preternaturally still, his gaze drawn to something behind you. Brow furrowing, he leans to the side to look past you, one hand itching for his glaive. You swivel around but see nothing out of place among rows of swaying palms and yawning yucca trees. Turning back to Aurynn, you find him still tense and staring past you. "What is it?" you ask. "What’s wrong?" [[Continue|Chp1-2.3ASpooked]]

You stare at his hand for a few moments before tentatively shaking it. "You had better not ruin any of those books," you say. "If the librarian doesn’t take your head, my parents certainly will. Or Lady Safina." He nods sagely. "I’ll be sure not to piss them off. Oh, and if you would be so kind, tell the librarian to leave me in peace while you’re at it, will you? He’s so dour and severe; I don’t need him breathing down my neck the whole time. The man doesn’t understand personal space." "Neither do you." "Correction: the man doesn’t understand personal space in the unsexiest way possible," he says. "Unlike me." "Uh huh," you say dryly. "That’s //two// favors." "So it is! Alright, let’s even things out," he says, sidling up next to you until your sides are touching and slinging an arm over your shoulder. He crosses one leg over his knee and examines the glove on his free hand. "Ask another small favor of me. Nothing overboard, of course, but don’t be shy. You’ll find I’m rather flexible and open-minded—in more ways than one." <div class="choice">[[You swallow thickly. "Um. Is being this close really necessary?" ♥|Chp1-2toocloseflirt]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You find your gaze drawn subconsciously to his lips before your eyes snap back up to his, praying he did not notice, but by the knowing grin spreading across his face, he definitely did. Great. ♥|Chp1-2kissstare]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You glance at his lips, then tap your cheek lightly with a single finger. ♥|Chp1-2kisscheek]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You glance at his lips, then tap your own lightly with a single finger. ♥|Chp1-2kiss]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Then, as for my favor, tell me a secret.”|Chp1-2secret]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Then, as for my favor, I have something I need you to do for me.”|Chp1-2delivery]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Then, as for my favor…could you look into getting Parim’s tea set fixed?”|Chp1-2teaset]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It’s a bit too close for comfort. You scoot slightly away, then decide on your favor.|Chp1-2scoot]]</div>

<<set $mcdunkedbyaurynn to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-2toocloseflirt") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle, + Confrontational<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Your cheeks begin to heat up, and you lean the opposite direction, angling your head away from Aurynn in the hopes he won’t notice the embarrassment burning across your face. He affects a casual tone, as if blissfully unaware of your self-consciousness—but by the way he closes the distance again, chasing your face with his, he is //completely// aware. "Hm? Why, what’s wrong with this? I’m always clingy. This is nothing new." You clear your throat, choosing to ignore his question, and instead look at him sidelong as you tell him, "This is…you’re making it hard to think of a favor. Could you possibly…?" He cocks his head to the side, his hair cascading over his bare shoulder, the sunlight catching on the fine gold powder dusted over his cheeks, making his skin glitter. You try to turn your face away but he catches it with the hand draped over your shoulder, pressing a finger to your cheek and driving your face back towards his. "Could I possibly…?" You open your mouth to snap at him when a sudden quiet gasp draws your attention. Whipping around, you spot a courtier, a blush blooming across her face as she holds a slightly scandalized hand to her mouth. "Ah…Your Highness," she says, dipping into a hasty bow. "I-I’m sorry, I didn’t…I’ll just—were you…?" You flinch, mortified, and leap to your feet. "Nothing! We weren’t—nothing!" you shout, far too loudly to be inconspicuous. Aurynn, still seated casually on the edge of the fountain, waves at the courtier with a smile. "I don’t mind an audience, if you wanted to watch—" You promptly backhand him into the fountain. "Wha—hey!" he yelps, toppling backwards with a loud splash. The courtier, for her part, does her best to look apologetic and dips into a parting bow before scurrying off. Inwardly, you facepalm; this will be feeding the court gossips for weeks. Aurynn resurfaces a moment later, spluttering and dripping wet, his long legs dangling off the wall of the fountain. His hair has come loose from under his headdress, hanging heavy like a curtain over his face. He whines, parting his hair and looking up at you with a pathetic pout. Some of his hair stays matted to his face, streaming water down the sides of his cheeks, and you cannot help but trace it as it trails over his chin, his throat, the curve of his collarbone, and down his chest. "Wha—? Heeeeey. You ruined my hair. It’s gonna take //forever// to dry," he complains. "What was that for? Was it because we were having a moment?" "We weren’t having a moment," you correct him, swallowing thickly as you shake your head, dragging your gaze back to his face. "There was no moment to be had. I simply…thought you could use the help in cooling off. You did say it was hot out here." "Oh. Well! That’s so //thoughtful// of you." he chirps. "Indeed," you agree, studiously avoiding his gaze. He holds out a hand for help getting up. You take it, tugging on his arm to haul him to his feet, but with a subtle narrowing of his eyes, he yanks—//hard//—on your arm. Thrown suddenly off balance, you stumble forward, your knees hitting the side of the fountain, and you collapse on top of Aurynn in the water. <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairlength is "very short")>>\ You surface with a gasp, coughing as water streams in rivulets down the sides of your face. You push your hair out of your eyes and fix Aurynn with a glare. <<else>>\ You surface with a gasp, coughing as water streams in rivulets down the sides of your face. You wipe the water from your eyes and fix Aurynn with a glare. <<endif>>\ He smirks at you. "Soaking wet’s a good look for you." "You—! Are you really so immature?" "//Me?!// You’re the one who shoved me into a fountain first!" he balks. "And could you please get your bony ass //knee// out of my //stomach?// I’m not a //pin cushion.//" Indignantly, you scoff, but attempt to disentangle yourself from Aurynn anyway, making him grunt in annoyance several times as you fumble and slip over him, elbows digging into his chest. He squirms beneath you and you end up having to shove him back underwater with a firm hand on his chest so you can slide off of him. When he comes up again for air, he sweeps a wave of water at your face. "Ugh!" you growl. You shove him away again for good measure before you both clamber out of the fountain, clumps of sand clinging to your skin and sandals as your feet touch the ground. Aurynn grumbles. "Great," he says, grabbing a fistful of his hair and twisting, wringing the water out of it. "Now I can’t go anywhere without getting sand all up in places it shouldn’t be." He bunches up the fabric around his waist in his fists, lifting it far too high to be appropriate as he wrings out the cloth. You get a glimpse of the bare expanse of his copper thighs and the curve of his hip bone before you avert your eyes, turning around and holding up a hand to shield your eyes. "Don’t you have any shame?" you ask, face burning. "We’re in //public.//" "It’s just a little skin. Don’t be such a prude. Is this really all it takes to get you all hot and bothered?" he says. "This is your fault anyway." You hear him plop down with a wet sound on the edge of the fountain. "Alright, you can turn around now, //Your Highness.// I’m decent now." He pauses. "Well, as decent as I was before, anyway." You wring out your own $clothes—with far more discretion than Aurynn—and then sit down next to him. "I’m going to consider your little favor spent, by the way," he says, crossing one leg primly over the other and folding his arms across his chest. "For dunking me in a fountain. Like a //jerk.// We’re even now. So go ahead and begin your little interrogation." [[Continue|Chp1-2.3Interrogate]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2kissstare") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 1>>\ <</if>>\ You silently pray that he will be decent enough to let it slide and allow you your hurried change in topic, but of course, being Aurynn, he does not afford you any such mercy. "Then, as for my favor—" you start. <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved")>>\ "Uh huh?" he hums, the hand draped over your shoulder shifting as he snakes his fingers up the side of your neck, along your jawline, threading them through your hair as he cocks his head to the side. Waves of silky red-brown tresses cascade over his bare shoulder, framing his face like a curtain. You try to stubbornly turn your face away, but he does not let you, pressing a finger to your cheek and driving your face back around towards him. <<else>>\ "Uh huh?" he hums, the hand draped over your shoulder shifting as he snakes his fingers up the side of your neck, tracing along your jawline as he cocks his head to the side. Waves of silky red-brown tresses cascade over his bare shoulder, framing his face like a curtain. You try to stubbornly turn your face away, but he does not let you, pressing a finger to your cheek and driving your face back around towards him. <<endif>>\ You swallow thickly, studiously avoiding his gaze. "What’s wrong?" he coos, resting his chin on your shoulder. "You’re being awfully quiet all of a sudden. Why don’t you just go ahead and ask me for your favor? I’m listening." He shifts infinitesimally closer, amber eyes flicking to your lips and back. <div class="choice">[[You hold still, allowing him to shift even closer. ♥|Chp1-2holdstill]]</div> <div class="choice">[["Are you gonna—" he starts and with a flash of irritation you promptly backhand him into the fountain. ♥|Chp1-2shutup]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Embarrassment twists your stomach and you turn away in an attempt to hide your face. ♥|Chp1-2hide]]</div>

<<set $chp1interrogatedAurynn to true>>\ You sidle up next to him. "So…" you start. "You //have// met $kTitle Kieran before." Aurynn nods. "Yeah. In Celestyl." "How did you two meet? I can’t really imagine you getting mixed up with such a high-ranking foreign royal." "Well, don’t act so surprised," he scoffs, somewhat defensively. "I’m //your// retainer. You’re royalty." "I just meant considering the difference in rank. And it isn’t as though relations between Theia and Celestyl have been exactly //amicable// for a while. Did your family have connections in Celestyl or something?" Aurynn’s lip curls for a moment before he waves a hand dismissively. "Nah," he says. "Nothing special like that. I met Kieran before $kthey became a $ktitle, anyhow." You raise an eyebrow. You had heard about the coup that put the current Lunar King—Novan Zeleskas—in power and left all but the youngest of Celestyl’s royal family slaughtered. Apparently Celestyl’s people were hailing King Novan as their 'Commoner King,' and $kTitle Kieran—King Novan’s only $kchild—as their 'Commoner $kTitle.' How the common people could revere such a man after he murdered their royals was beyond you. Swallowing your disgust, you press on. "How’d you two meet?" you ask. "How exactly is this relevant to your $sibling?" You cross your arms, frowning. "You said you’d answer any questions I had regarding $kTitle Kieran. Do you want my permission to enter the library’s restricted vault, or not?" He holds out his hands. "Alright, alright. No need to scowl at me like that," he says. "I’ll //behave.//" Gaze lowered, he scuffs a foot absentmindedly through the sand, tugging at one of his gloves. "I lived in Celestyl for a while back when I was a kid—stayed with a distant relative while my parents were busy abroad. Whenever I could, I’d sneak down to the docks and watch the sailboats and fishermen. That’s where I met Kieran. Figured $kthey was just another orphaned street rat at first." He shrugs. "Guess $kthey was, in a way. Never even knew $kthey had a father until after all of Celestyl’s royals got put to the chopping block—" He draws a thumb across his neck, his mouth quirking in a mimic of strangled death throes. "—except for Lexi. Princess Alektis, I mean. I’m sure planning a coup doesn’t leave a father much time for rearing children." "You’re on a nickname basis with Princess Alektis?" "She //is// technically Kieran’s adoptive sister. So. Yeah," he says. "...She always hated being called Lexi." You scrape a nail idly gainst the fountain’s wall. "Hm. So you met $kTitle Kieran at the docks, then? I’ve heard $kthey’s a skilled captain." "Mm," he hums. "Sure is. $kThey’s got a real knack for //tying knots,//" He winks at you suggestively and you arch an eyebrow. He puffs out a breath. "Kidding, geez. I mean, not about the tying knots part—$kthey is good at that. Just, like, on //ships,// not—never mind. Well. Not that I would actually know. I mean I’m sure tying knots on a ship would still translate to—" You snap a finger in front of his face and he blinks. "Aurynn," you say. "Focus." "Right. What was I talking about? Oh yeah." He pauses. "Actually, I don't know why I said 'oh yeah.' I still don't remember what I was talking about." You sigh. "$kTitle Kieran? $kTheir skill on a ship?" "..." "Knots?" "Oh, yeah," he says. "Point is: surprisingly fast learner, that one." He pauses, then mutters, "It was always kind of annoying." "What was that?" "Nothing," he says, shaking his head. "Anyway, if $kthey hadn’t gone from rags to riches, I’m sure $kthey’d prefer to spend all of $ktheir time on a ship. That’s always where $kthey seemed most relaxed. Well. As relaxed as Kieran //can// get, anyhow. Though, of all places, I don’t know why $kthey’d pick the //sea.// I’m getting seasick just thinking about it." You readjust in your spot on the fountain’s edge, angling yourself toward Aurynn. "Were you two close?" Aurynn considers this for a moment. "I suppose," he says, simply. For all that his posture and expression screams complete indifference, there is some vulnerability to his tone that gives you pause. "Then…what’s your opinion on $kTitle Kieran? What kind of person is $kthey?" "Hmm. Skilled captain, even better swords$kgender. Stoic. Pretty face." He shrugs. You wait for him to continue but he does not. If you had to describe the $ktitle in a few words just from what you’ve heard of $kthem, you could have pieced most of that together with ease. It is a shallow description, all surface-level with no depth. "I could have told you that. //You// know $kthem. Tell me what kind of person $kthey is—something only someone who knows $kthem would be able to tell me." Aurynn stares off into the distance, something far away about his eyes. "It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken with Kieran. //Years.// I don’t know who $kthey is now." "But you knew $kthem then. What kind of person was $kthey?" you persist. You shift closer. "Who is my $sibling marrying?" He glances at you and sighs, deflating. "I guess..Kieran always reminded me of..." He waves a hand vaguely, as if searching for words. "...a pup." "Wet behind the ears, then? Inexperienced?" you say. He seems to understand your insinuations without you having to voice them. A distantly amused smile flickers across his lips. "It’s true $kthey didn’t grow up a $ktitle. And $ktheir father didn’t give $kthem the boot the way yours did when war broke out. The opposite, really—$kthey was pretty much confined to the palace and the surrounding city most of the time. $kThey’s never had to command an army, no," he says. "But if you think that doesn’t make Kieran dangerous…" He trails off, leaving his words hanging over the both of you, and gives you a pointed look. "No," he continues. "I meant $kthey was always too…eager to please. Too //soft.//" A sharp frown tugs at the edges of his lips. "Soft doesn’t last long in Celestyl. Pups grow up and they grow teeth. An eager dog will do almost anything for its master. And Kieran’s father has no use for a dog that won’t heel." Grimacing, he yanks at one of his gloves, his fingers flexing taut beneath the ruby fabric. "That said," Aurynn turns to look at you, his face uncharacteristically blank. "I don’t think Kieran is the one you should be afraid of." Your eyes flit to his, your brow wrinkled by a deep frown.. "...What is that supposed to mean?" Before he can reply, his gaze is drawn to something behind you. Brow furrowing, he leans to the side to look past you, one hand itching for his glaive. You swivel around but see nothing out of place among rows of swaying palms and yawning yucca trees. Turning back to Aurynn, you find him still tense and staring past you. "What is it?" you ask. "What’s wrong?" [[Continue|Chp1-2.3ASpooked]]

<<audio ":playing" stop>>\ <<audio "desertstorm" loop play>>\ He frowns. "I don’t know. I thought I saw…someone." He trails off, reaching for his glaive, his fingers finding purchase around the shaft, his grip tight. "You’re sure it wasn’t just another courtier or a servant?" He shakes his head, frown twisting into a scowl by way of answer. "No. I know every damn face in this palace. His I didn’t recognize. I thought…I thought I saw him earlier, too…" His narrowed eyes never leave the spot behind you, and you are sure you have not even seen him blink. "There. Again. I should—" He makes to stand but you seize him by the crook of his elbow and follow his stare again, stomach crawling into your throat as you crane your neck to see beyond the shivering wildgrass. "Where?" you ask, voice lowered. It takes him a moment, but he manages to drag his gaze away to spare a glance at you. Crooking a finger under your chin, he points with the tip of his glaive, guiding your gaze. "Right there. His back to us. Between those trees." You squint, your brow knitting in confusion. "Which trees? I don’t see anyone…" "How?" he snaps. "He’s right—" he cuts off as you tilt your head at him, tensing under your stare. Then, he slowly sinks back onto the edge of the fountain, picking at the hems of his gloves. "Right. Yeah. I know," he says, hoarsely. "I must have been…mistaken." He trails off, body rigid and unmoving. Concerned, you begin to reach for him but he abruptly stands, taking a stiff step away from you. He tugs uncomfortably at the front of his shirt, a sheen of sweat already forming over his brow. Swallowing thickly, he swipes a forearm across his face, smearing the gold powder dusted over his cheekbones. His chest heaves, his breathing shallow and labored. "It’s, um," he pants. "I-It’s really hot out here. I think I just need to…get some water. I—I’ll be back, I just need to…" He winces, bringing a hand to his temple before making a retching sound and doubling over, an arm wrapped around his stomach. He takes several stumbling steps backward, then pivots, pushing past a row of large, spike-leafed succulents as he bumbles down a path leading back toward the palace. You jump to your feet. <div class="choice">[[“Wha—you’re just leaving? What about me?”|Chp1-2whataboutme]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Wait! I’ll come with you.”|Chp1-2comewith]]</div> <<if $magic is "healing">>\ <div class="choice">[[“You don’t look so good. Let me take a look at you.”|Chp1-2healinginfirmary]]</div> <<else>>\ <div class="choice">[[“You don’t look so good. Let me take you to the infirmary.”|Chp1-2healinginfirmary]]</div> <<endif>>\

"What about that guy?" you protest, then quickly lower your voice again, eyes flitting over the space Aurynn had been so fixated with not a moment ago. "You said—" Your retainer turns around to face you, his face sickly and haggard, strands of chestnut brown hair turning almost black as they mat to the sweat on his face in streaking, inky lines. He sways unsteadily on his feet. "There wasn’t…Look, I thought I saw something. I was mistaken. Anyway, you’ll be fine being alone for a bit—there are…there are guards posted all over the place," he says between heavy breaths, gesturing vaguely with a sluggish arm. "You’ll be fine until I get back. And you’re not incapable in a fight. Not that…not that it would come to that." He straightens up somewhat, trying for what you think he might have intended to be a casual smile, though it comes across more as a strained grimace. "Go find Sam," he says. "She’s around here…somewhere. She’s plenty capable of watching out for you. Probably more so than I am." Before you can say anything else, he lurches around and staggers away, his lean limbs quivering as he quickly disappears among the foliage. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4FindSam]]

Aurynn reels back around to face you, his face sickly and haggard, strands of chestnut brown hair turning almost black as they mat to the sweat on his face in streaking, inky lines. He throws out a hand. "No!" he yelps. As if realizing his voice came out far louder and more sudden than he had intended, he straightens somewhat, trying for what you think he might have intended to be a casual smile, though it comes across more as a strained grimace. Lowering his voice, he continues. "No, no. That’s alright. I’m...I'm //fine.// I just…I just need to get out of the heat for a minute," he says between heavy breaths. You take a small, hesitant step forward, your movements slow and shallow, as if you were approaching a cornered animal that might spook at the slightest movement. "Are you sure?" you ask. "You really shouldn’t go alone. I can—" He waves off your concern. "I’ll be fine. The palace isn’t far; I can get there myself. Just…" he gestures vaguely with a sluggish arm in the direction of the gazebo. "Go find Sam. She’s around here…somewhere. She’s plenty capable of watching out for you," he says. "Probably more so than I am." Before you can say anything else, he lurches around and staggers away, his lean limbs quivering as he quickly disappears among the foliage. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4FindSam]]

Aurynn reels back around to face you, his face sickly and haggard, strands of chestnut brown hair turning almost black as they mat to the sweat on his face in streaking, inky lines. He throws out a hand. "No!" he yelps. As if realizing his voice came out far louder and more sudden than he had intended, he straightens somewhat, trying for what you think he might have intended to be a casual smile, though it comes across more as a strained grimace. Lowering his voice, he continues. "No, no. That’s alright. I'm...I’m //fine.// I just…I just need to get out of the heat for a minute," he says between heavy breaths. You take a small, hesitant step forward, your movements slow and shallow, as if you were approaching a cornered animal that might spook at the slightest movement. "Aurynn, you look terrible. I can—" you say. "//Terrible?// First time…I’ve ever been told that," he pants. You frown. "Really, you should let me—" He waves off your concern. "I’ll be fine. The palace isn’t far; I can get there myself. Just…" he gestures vaguely with a sluggish arm in the direction of the gazebo. "Go find Sam. She’s around here…somewhere. She’s plenty capable of watching out for you," he says. "Probably more so than I am." Before you can say anything else, he lurches around and staggers away, his lean limbs quivering as he quickly disappears among the foliage. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4FindSam]]

<<set $kissedaurynn to true>>\ Ignoring his question, you bite your tongue, going rigid despite your attempts to relax. As your silence stretches on, he shifts closer, your noses almost touching. He stops, glancing at you as if asking permission, his hold around you loosening as if giving you the option to pull away. When you do not, he closes the distance, honey-gold eyes sliding closed as your lips slot together in a warm, petal-soft kiss, and you cannot help the delightful shiver that sparks through your body, all the way down to your toes as they curl in your sandals. He smells like citrus and pomegranates—bright and sweet and sparkling. The pinnacle of summer. All bursting buds and fragrant fruit. You hold still, heart hammering in your chest as you try to force yourself to relax. And you almost manage it until he parts your mouth beneath his, his tongue slipping past your lips as it seeks yours. <div class="choice">[[WOAH. Too much, too fast! ♥|Chp1-2bite]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You go stiff at first, surprised, but—gradually—you manage to ease into the kiss. ♥|Chp1-2easein]]</div>

<<set $mcdunkedbyaurynn to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-2shutup") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Wha—hey!" he yelps, toppling backwards with a loud splash. He resurfaces a moment later, spluttering and dripping wet, his long legs dangling off the wall of the fountain. His hair has come loose from under his headdress, hanging heavy like a curtain over his face. He whines, parting his hair and looking up at you with a pathetic pout. Some of his hair stays matted to his face, streaming water down the sides of his cheeks, and you cannot help but trace it as it trails over his chin, his throat, the curve of his collarbone, and down his chest. "Wha—? You ruined my hair. It’s gonna take //forever// to dry," he complains. "What was that for? Was it because we were having a moment?" "We weren’t having a moment," you correct him, swallowing thickly as you shake your head, dragging your gaze back to his face. "There was no moment to be had. I simply…thought you could use the help in cooling off. You did say it was hot out here." "Oh. Well! That’s so //thoughtful// of you." he chirps. "Indeed," you agree, studiously avoiding his gaze. He holds out a hand for help getting up. You take it, tugging on his arm to haul him to his feet, but with a subtle narrowing of his eyes, he yanks—//hard//—on your arm. Thrown suddenly off balance, you stumble forward, your knees hitting the side of the fountain, and you collapse on top of Aurynn in the water. <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairlength is "very short")>>\ You surface with a gasp, coughing as water streams in rivulets down the sides of your face. You push your hair out of your eyes and fix Aurynn with a glare. <<else>>\ You surface with a gasp, coughing as water streams in rivulets down the sides of your face. You wipe the water from your eyes and fix Aurynn with a glare. <<endif>>\ He smirks at you. "Soaking wet’s a good look for you." "You—! Are you really so immature?" "//Me?!// You’re the one who shoved me into a fountain first!" he balks. "And could you please get your bony ass //knee// out of my //stomach?// I’m not a //pin cushion.//" Indignantly, you scoff, but attempt to disentangle yourself from Aurynn anyway, making him grunt in annoyance several times as you fumble and slip over him, elbows digging into his chest. He squirms beneath you and you end up having to shove him back underwater with a firm hand on his chest so you can slide off of him. When he comes up again for air, he sweeps a wave of water at your face. "Ugh!" you growl. You shove him away again for good measure before you both clamber out of the fountain, clumps of sand clinging to your skin and sandals as your feet touch the ground. Aurynn grumbles. "Great," he says, grabbing a fistful of his hair and twisting, wringing the water out of it. "Now I can’t go anywhere without getting sand all up in places it shouldn’t be." He bunches up the fabric around his waist in his fists, lifting it far too high to be appropriate as he wrings out the cloth. You get a glimpse of the bare expanse of his copper thighs and the curve of his hip bone before you avert your eyes, turning around and holding up a hand to shield your eyes. "Don’t you have any shame?" you ask, face burning. "We’re in //public.//" "It’s just a little skin. Don’t be such a prude. Is this really all it takes to get you all hot and bothered?" he says. "This is your fault anyway." You hear him plop down with a wet sound on the edge of the fountain. "Alright, you can turn around now, //Your Highness.// I’m decent now." He pauses. "Well, as decent as I was before, anyway." You wring out your own $clothes—with far more discretion than Aurynn—and then sit down next to him. "I’m going to consider your little favor spent, by the way," he says, crossing one leg primly over the other and folding his arms across his chest. "For dunking me in a fountain. Like a //jerk.// We’re even now. So go ahead and begin your little interrogation." [[Continue|Chp1-2.3Interrogate]]

<<set $mcdunkedbyaurynn to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-2hide") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Your cheeks begin to heat up, and you lean the opposite direction, angling your head away from Aurynn in the hopes he won’t notice the embarrassment burning across your face. Clearing your throat, you glance sidelong at him. "This is…you’re making it hard to think of a favor. Could you possibly…?" He cocks his head to the side, his hair streaming over his bare shoulder, the sunlight catching on the fine gold powder dusted over his cheeks, making his skin glitter. You try to turn your face away but he catches it with the hand draped over your shoulder, pressing a finger to your cheek and driving your face back towards his. "Could I possibly…?" You open your mouth to snap at him when a sudden quiet gasp draws your attention. Whipping around, you spot a courtier, a blush blooming across her face as she holds a slightly scandalized hand to her mouth. "Ah…Your Highness," she says, dipping into a hasty bow. "I-I’m sorry, I didn’t…I’ll just—were you…?" You flinch, mortified, and leap to your feet. "Nothing! We weren’t—nothing!" you shout, far too loudly to be inconspicuous. Aurynn, still seated casually on the edge of the fountain, waves at the courtier with a smile. "I don’t mind an audience, if you wanted to watch—" You promptly backhand Aurynn into the fountain. "Wha—hey!" he yelps, toppling backwards with a loud splash. The courtier, for her part, does her best to look apologetic and dips into a parting bow before scurrying off. Inwardly, you facepalm; this will be feeding the court gossips for weeks. Aurynn resurfaces a moment later, spluttering and dripping wet, his long legs dangling off the wall of the fountain. His hair has come loose from under his headdress, hanging heavy like a curtain over his face. He whines, parting his hair and looking up at you with a pathetic pout. Some of his hair stays matted to his face, streaming water down the sides of his cheeks, and you cannot help but trace it as it trails over his chin, his throat, the curve of his collarbone, and down his chest. "Wha—? You ruined my hair. It’s gonna take //forever// to dry," he complains. "What was that for? Was it because we were having a moment?" "We weren’t having a moment," you correct him, swallowing thickly as you shake your head, dragging your gaze back to his face. "There was no moment to be had. I simply…thought you could use the help in cooling off. You did say it was hot out here." "Oh. Well! That’s so //thoughtful// of you." he chirps. "Indeed," you agree, studiously avoiding his gaze. He holds out a hand for help getting up. You take it, tugging on his arm to haul him to his feet, but with a subtle narrowing of his eyes, he yanks—//hard//—on your arm. Thrown suddenly off balance, you stumble forward, your knees hitting the side of the fountain, and you collapse on top of Aurynn in the water. <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairlength is "very short")>>\ You surface with a gasp, coughing as water streams in rivulets down the sides of your face. You push your hair out of your eyes and fix Aurynn with a glare. <<else>>\ You surface with a gasp, coughing as water streams in rivulets down the sides of your face. You wipe the water from your eyes and fix Aurynn with a glare. <<endif>>\ He smirks at you. "Soaking wet’s a good look for you." "You—! Are you really so immature?" "//Me?!// You’re the one who shoved me into a fountain first!" he balks. "And could you please get your bony ass //knee// out of my //stomach?// I’m not a //pin cushion.//" Indignantly, you scoff, but attempt to disentangle yourself from Aurynn anyway, making him grunt in annoyance several times as you fumble and slip over him, elbows digging into his chest. He squirms beneath you and you end up having to shove him back underwater with a firm hand on his chest so you can slide off of him. When he comes up again for air, he sweeps a wave of water at your face. "Ugh!" you growl. You shove him away again for good measure before you both clamber out of the fountain, clumps of sand clinging to your skin and sandals as your feet touch the ground. Aurynn grumbles. "Great," he says, grabbing a fistful of his hair and twisting, wringing the water out of it. "Now I can’t go anywhere without getting sand all up in places it shouldn’t be." He bunches up the fabric around his waist in his fists, lifting it far too high to be appropriate as he wrings out the cloth. You get a glimpse of the bare expanse of his copper thighs and the curve of his hip bone before you avert your eyes, turning around and holding up a hand to shield your eyes. "Don’t you have any shame?" you ask, face burning. "We’re in //public.//" "It’s just a little skin. Don’t be such a prude. Is this really all it takes to get you all hot and bothered?" he says. "This is your fault anyway." You hear him plop down with a wet sound on the edge of the fountain. "Alright, you can turn around now, //Your Highness.// I’m decent now." He pauses. "Well, as decent as I was before, anyway." You wring out your own $clothes—with far more discretion than Aurynn—and then sit down next to him. "I’m going to consider your little favor spent, by the way," he says, crossing one leg primly over the other and folding his arms across his chest. "For dunking me in a fountain. Like a //jerk.// We’re even now. So go ahead and begin your little interrogation." [[Continue|Chp1-2.3Interrogate]]

<<set $bitaurynnstongue to true>>\ Flinching in surprise, you reflexively bite down before jerking back. Aurynn goes reeling backwards, his hands flying to his mouth, his tongue sticking out. "Oww!" he cries, his enunciation awkward as he speaks over his tongue, looking at you in bewilderment as if //you// were the crazy one. "You bit mah tongue!" "Well, you—! You’re the one who stuck it in without any warning!" "Wha do you mean? I thought we were making ou? I mean, I’m thorry, but you didn’ hab to bite meh!" he whines, glaring at you. "A thimple ‘no thankth’ would hab done." He pinches his tongue between his fingers for a few moments before pulling it back into his mouth and massaging his jaw. "Gods, you act like you’ve never kissed anyone before. No one’s ever slipped you a little tongue?" <div class="choice">[[In fact, you’ve never kissed anyone before. You’d been far too busy to think about things like romance. But you don’t dare tell him that. ♥|Chp1-2firstkiss]]</div> <div class="choice">[[In fact, you’ve never kissed anyone before. You hadn’t been interested in doing so previously. But you don’t dare tell him that. ♥|Chp1-2firstkiss]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You’ve been kissed before, but somehow, with Aurynn, he managed to catch you off guard. ♥|Chp1-2offguard]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You’ve kissed people before. And by people you mean women. You’ve never kissed a guy before, but you don’t dare tell him that. ♥|Chp1-2firstguy]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2easein") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 2>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ He tastes like tangerines—tangy and nectarous—and it is all too soon when he pulls away, your lips still buzzing electrically. His tongue darts over his lips briefly, as if chasing the lingering taste of you. You don't even realize you are chasing his lips again until he presses a finger to your mouth, driving you backwards. He looks you over, honey-gold eyes shimmering with amusement. "Ah, ah," he says. "Don't get greedy." He chuckles at your pouty expression. "See, the thing about desire? It's stronger when it hasn't been fully sated," he says, hooded eyes traveling the length of you. "I think I like the idea of you...//tormenting yourself// over this for a while. I know I will." You clear your throat and nod, fingers idly playing at your lips and you are sure you will be haunted by the ghost of his kiss for a long time. He crosses his legs, winking as he tosses a hand through his hair. "Now," he says. "I believe you had a little interrogation you wanted to conduct? You may begin." [[Continue|Chp1-2.3Interrogate]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2kisscheek") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic, + Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ A slow, flirtatious smile wreathes his lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and he draws closer, his hair cascading over his bare shoulder, the sunlight catching on the fine gold powder dusted over his cheeks, making his skin glitter. He crooks a finger under your chin and leans in, the tip of his nose grazing your cheek before his lips—warm and petal soft—alight on your skin, and you cannot help the delightful shiver that sparks through your body, all the way down to your toes as they curl in your sandals. He smells like citrus and pomegranates—bright and sweet and sparkling. When he pulls away, your cheek tingles still, the tips of your fingers buzzing electrically as they fly to that spot he had kissed you. He looks you over, honey-gold eyes shimmering with amusement. "I trust that was sufficient?" he asks. You clear your throat and nod. "For now." He grins and winks at you, then crosses his legs primly one over the other, tossing a hand through his hair. "Now," he says. "I believe you had a little interrogation you wanted to conduct? You may begin." [[Continue|Chp1-2.3Interrogate]]

<<set $kissedaurynn to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-2kiss") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic, + Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ A slow, flirtatious smile wreathes his lips, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and he draws closer, his hair cascading over his bare shoulder, the sunlight catching on the fine gold powder dusted over his cheeks, making his skin glitter. He crooks a finger under your chin, tipping your head to the side as he leans in. The tip of his nose grazes yours before his lips—warm and petal soft—alight on your own, and you cannot help the delightful shiver that sparks through your body, all the way down to your toes as they curl in your sandals. He smells like citrus and pomegranates—bright and sweet and sparkling. The pinnacle of summer. All bursting buds and fragrant fruit. He parts your lips beneath his, his tongue slipping into the warmth of your mouth as it seeks yours. He tastes like tangerines—tangy and nectarous—and it is all too soon when he pulls away, your lips still buzzing electrically. His tongue darts over his lips briefly, as if chasing the lingering taste of you, the way he always does after he kisses you. You don't even realize you are chasing his lips again until he presses a finger to your mouth, driving you backwards. He looks you over, honey-gold eyes shimmering with amusement. "Ah, ah," he says. "Don't get greedy." He chuckles at your pouty expression. "See, the thing about desire? It's stronger when it hasn't been fully sated," he says, hooded eyes traveling the length of you. "I think I like the idea of you...//tormenting yourself// over this for a while. I know I will." You clear your throat and nod, fingers idly playing at your lips and you are sure you will be haunted by the ghost of his kiss for a long time. He crosses his legs, winking as he tosses a hand through his hair. "Now," he says. "I believe you had a little interrogation you wanted to conduct? You may begin." [[Continue|Chp1-2.3Interrogate]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2firstkiss") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified, Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You scoff and look away, but he seems to piece it together anyway. "//Oh,//" he says. "Was that your first kiss?" When you continue not to answer, the corners of his lips quirk up into an infuriating grin, and though he affects a placating and apologetic tone, it does not hide the smugness that drips through. "Sorry, sorry. Did I startle you?" "I wasn’t—" He continues over you. "Yeah, yeah, sure. I was really your first, huh? Man, if I’d have known, I’d have tried to make it more romantic for you instead of just //going for it,// you know?" He waggles his fingers, talking animatedly. "A word to the wise, though? Biting’s nice and all but maybe save it for the lips next time? Also maybe don’t bite as hard. Save drawing blood for like, the third or fourth date //minimum.//" "This isn’t a date." He ignores you and continues to critique your kiss, rambling off a series of pointers on his fingers, and you feel an indignant flush of heat searing up beneath your face. <div class="choice">[[After the fifth or sixth ’helpful pointer', something in you snaps and you let out an indignant "Just—shut up!" before throwing your arm out, knocking Aurynn backwards into the fountain. ♥|Chp1-2shutup]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Folding your arms tightly over your chest, you turn up your nose at him, cutting him off. "Well it’s not as though this is something I can go out and practice." ♥|Chp1-2practice]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2offguard") <= 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You scoff. "Of course I’ve kissed someone before." "Just not with tongue?" "What? No. Ugh. Just—nevermind." You turn bodily away from him, crossing your arms and trying to calm your thundering heartbeat. "You just…caught me off guard, is all." You immediately regret your choice of words as a smug sense of realization seems to dawn on Aurynn’s face, and he lets out a teasing guffaw, clambering animatedly onto his hands and knees on the fountain wall so he can get up in your face. You close your eyes, gritting your teeth and you try and fail to ignore him, your fingernails digging into the flesh of your arms. "Ha!" he crows. "Wait, wait, so let me get this straight—" he snickers, slapping the stone ledge beneath him. "There’s //no way// that’s really all it takes. Were you just //that// excited? //Ha!// So is it just me, then? You don’t get absolutely //blindsided// kissing courtiers like that, do you? It’s just me, isn’t it? Tell me it’s just me." He rocks back on his knees, laughing. <div class="choice">[[It is only natural that you should snap, and you let out an indignant "Just—shut up!" before throwing your arm out, knocking Aurynn backwards into the fountain. ♥|Chp1-2shutup]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You grind your teeth, waiting as he tries to catch his breath. "Ha, ha," you say dryly. "Very funny." ♥|Chp1-2veryfunny]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2firstguy") <= 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You scoff. "Of course I’ve kissed someone before." "Just not with tongue?" "What? No. Just—nevermind." You turn bodily away from him, crossing your arms and trying to calm your thundering heartbeat. Aurynn is quiet for a few moments before he lets out an epiphanic "//Ohhh.//" He slides across the fountain bench, sidling right up beside you again so your thighs are touching. "You’ve never kissed a //guy// before." You flinch, despite yourself. //Bullseye.// A knowing grin spreads across his face at your reaction. "//Wow,//" he crows, almost triumphantly, and you try not to bristle at how overly pleased with himself he sounds. He loops his arms around your shoulders even as you persistently continue to face the opposite direction. "Sorry if I startled you." "I wasn’t—" He continues over you. "Yeah, yeah, sure. So, like, is this a recent development, or is it just me? I mean, really, I figured it was only a matter of time, but—" <div class="choice">[[Something in you snaps at the smugness dripping from his voice and you let out an indignant "Neither!" before throwing your arm out, knocking Aurynn backwards into the fountain. ♥|Chp1-2shutup]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You immediately deflate, any fluttering excitement you had felt dissipating like mist under the hottest desert sun. It is almost impressive how he goes from charming and alluring to a smug turn-off so easily. ♥|Chp1-2annoyed]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2annoyed") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified, + Imposing<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "You know, I was maybe interested for the tiniest moment," you say, deadpan, turning to look at him in a dry, supercilious manner. "But, now…?" He nods, completely unaffected. "Sure, that’s fine. I like it when you play hard to get." You roll your eyes. "How was it though?" he asks, ducking his head to press his chin against your shoulder. Sunlight catches on the gold powder dusted across his face, making his skin seem to glitter. "Compared to a woman?" Your mouth twists and you angle your head away. "Ehem. It sucked." He simply grins wider at you. "Sure." Tapping you lightly on the cheek, he untangles himself from you and crosses his legs primly one over the other, tossing a hand through his hair. "Now," he says. "I believe you had a little interrogation you wanted to conduct? You may begin." [[Continue|Chp1-2.3Interrogate]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2practice") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Huh? Well, sure you can. You can practice on me," he says, as though that should have been blindingly obvious. You gape at him like a fish, spluttering as words bubble up from your throat only to fall apart, tumbling off your tongue in incoherent stuttering and babbling. "I—you…Wha—? That’s—ah—?" A lazy, knowing grin unfurls upon his lips and he reaches out to prop a finger beneath your chin, closing your mouth. He pats your cheek condescendingly. You fume for a moment, trying desperately to salvage your own dignity. Aurynn crosses his legs primly one over the other, tossing a hand through his hair. "Now," he says. "I believe you had a little interrogation you wanted to conduct? You may begin." You clear your throat. "Right. Yes. Fine." [[Continue|Chp1-2.3Interrogate]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2veryfunny") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified, + Imposing<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Wooooo…" he exhales finally, lifting his head to look at you. "I will //never// let you live this down." You sigh. "I wasn’t expecting you to. I suppose I walked into that one. I should know better than to be careless with my words around you." "You really should." "You’re insufferable." "You kinda like it." "Hmph." He swings his legs back over the fountain’s edge, crossing his legs and tossing a hand through his hair. "Now," he says. "I believe you had a little interrogation you wanted to conduct? You may begin." [[Continue|Chp1-2.3Interrogate]]

You stand in stunned silence for a few moments before shaking your head clear. You mean to follow after Aurynn, thinking it should be rather easy to track his careening footprints through the garden’s sandy paths, but you quickly lose his trail, his erratic, sprawling trail of footprints seeming to come to a sudden halt. You spin in a circle, looking for any tracks you might have missed, any broken plants he might have stumbled through, but it is as if he just up and vanished. Frowning, you backtrack a few times, certain you must have missed something, but at some point, you find yourself back at the gazebo. Seeing no sign of your retainer still, you start off in the direction you’d seen Samira leave in. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4FindSam2]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2stepinimposing") <= 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 2>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Imposing, + Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Lifting your chin imperiously, you sidestep away from the palms you had been obscured behind, striding forward confidently. Samira, her back to you, does not notice your approach. Sister Raya, on the other hand, glances past Samira and spots you, her tight scrunched features melting into a demure smile as she dips into a low bow. "Your Highness," she says, voice sweet and saccharine. Samira whips around, eyes widening slightly before she schools her expression into something placid and collected. "Y-Your Highness," she says, dipping into a bow, head lowered. "Forgive me. I did not see you." You wave her up, eyes never having left Sister Raya. She seems to interpret your attention as she so pleases—which is to say, the wrong way. She all but preens under your glare, not seeming to notice the way your jaw hardens. Your change in temperament is not missed upon Samira, however, though from her shifty stance you’d think she was nervous your ire may be directed at her and not her Sister-in-training. "Sister Raya, was it?" you ask. Sister Raya looks all too thrilled you know her name, and she straightens from her bow, beaming. "That would be me," she says. "Enjoying a turn about the gardens, Your Highness? It is a lovely day today. Or was there something you needed? I would be more than happy to assist in any way I can." "You switch faces with all the ease of the Bloodless," you say simply. It is, admittedly, rather undiplomatic of you—going beyond insulting to downright impudent, and even Samira glances at you uncertainly, one eyebrow raised, as if she did not hear you quite right. Sister Raya’s smile vanishes like mist under a baking sun, a knot forming between her brows. She glances between the two of you as if that might offer some explanation for your vitriol. "I—I beg your pardon, Your Highness…?" she stammers. "For a priestess-in-training, you show a concerning lack of decorum. Do you think your Sisters not worthy of their due respect?" "I—" You cut her off, continuing over her. "You will speak when I allow it," you say and her mouth clamps shut. "You would slander your Sister Samira’s reputation without the proof to show for it? If you have some complaint about the way my acolyte conducts herself, you may take it up with me or with Lady Safina. And I should not have to remind you how such allegations reflect on //my// family’s good name, either." You look at Sister Raya expectantly. She blanches, eyes wide as she stumbles over her words in an attempt to get them out as quickly as possible. "Of course I would never dishonor you or your family name, Your Highness. I meant no disrespect to you. I wouldn’t //dream// of—" You raise a hand and her mouth snaps shut. "Your pleas are wasted upon me. I believe you owe my acolyte an apology." "Your Highness, it’s alright, really. You don’t have to—" Samira starts, but you silence her with a hand, your focus still trained on Sister Raya, who withers beneath your sizzling stare. Her mouth falls open, as if in indignation, an angry flush coloring her cheeks as she glances at Samira, but upon meeting your severe stare again, she swallows and lowers her head. "You have my sincerest apologies, Sister Samira," she says slowly through gritted teeth, as if each word were painful to utter. Her nails dig into the palms of her fists. "I meant no disrespect." Samira merely inclines her head. "Up," you command, and Sister Raya lifts her chin enough to face you. You fix her with a cold, impassive glare. "I would advise you against running your tongue where it is not wanted in the future, Sister Raya," you say. "Lest I be tempted to take it." She swallows and nods, face bone-white. You stare at her for a moment longer before waving a dismissive hand. She dips into a hasty bow. "Your Highness," she murmurs before scurrying away, tail between her legs. Samira shakes her head, glancing sidelong at you. Despite her teasing tone, she holds herself stiffly, cautiously. "You know, if you had wanted to intimidate her, you could have just pulled a dagger on her." "I suppose that would have been more efficient, yes." She pauses, staring at you for a moment. "Sometimes I can't tell if you're joking or not," she says. You simply shrug. She rolls her eyes. "Still, I am sorry you had to get involved in that," she says. "You have nothing to apologize for," you insist. You stare after the spot Sister Raya fled and Samira follows your gaze. "Is that sort of thing a regular occurrence for you?" [[Continue|Chp1-2.4TalkSam]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2stepindignified") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 2>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified, + Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Lifting your chin, you sidestep away from the palms you had been obscured behind, striding forward confidently. Samira, her back to you, does not notice your approach. Sister Raya, on the other hand, glances past Samira and spots you, her tight scrunched features melting into a demure smile as she dips into a low bow. "Your Highness," she says, voice sweet and saccharine. Samira whips around, eyes widening slightly before she schools her expression into something placid and collected. "Y-Your Highness," she says, dipping into a bow, head lowered. "Forgive me. I did not see you." You wave her up, eyes never having left Sister Raya. She seems to interpret your attention as she so pleases—which is to say, the wrong way. She all but preens under your imperious stare, not seeming to notice the way your jaw hardens. Your change in temperament is not missed upon Samira, however, though from her shifty stance you’d think she was nervous your ire may be directed at her and not her Sister-in-training. "Sister Raya, was it?" you ask. Sister Raya looks all too thrilled you know her name, and she straightens from her bow, beaming. "That would be me," she says. "Enjoying a turn about the gardens, Your Highness? It is a lovely day today. Or was there something you needed? I would be more than happy to assist in any way I can." "Perhaps you can," you agree, and she tilts her head, pleased. "Now, you’ll have to forgive me, as it has been a while since my tutors drilled me on the priesthood’s maxims, but remind me—one of your guiding principles is, as always, courtesy to all and deference to one’s elders, is that right?" "Yes, precisely correct, Your Highness." "I thought so. You are quite familiar with all the maxims, then?" "Of course," she says, lifting her chin with a smile. "One must be, as a priestess-in-training." "You do a poor job of showing it, then," you say, and the corners of her mouth twitch, her smile fading as a wrinkle forms between her brow. "I beg your pardon, Your Highness…?" "For a priestess-in-training, you show a concerning lack of decorum. Do you think your Sisters not worthy of their due respect? Sister Samira is your elder both in age and experience—you would do well to hold her in higher regard. I hardly think whatever grudge you might hold against my acolyte is worthy of such incivility." "I—" You lift a hand, silencing her. "Furthermore, you would slander your Sister Samira’s reputation without the proof to show for it? If you have some complaint about the way my acolyte conducts herself, you may take it up with me or with Lady Safina. And I should not have to remind you how such allegations reflect on //my// family’s good name, either." You look at Sister Raya expectantly. She blanches, eyes wide as she stumbles over her words in an attempt to get them out as quickly as possible. "I didn’t…of course I would never dishonor you or your family name, Your Highness. I meant no disrespect to you. I wouldn’t //dream// of—" You wave away her excuses. "I believe you owe my acolyte an apology." "Your Highness, it’s alright, really. You don’t have to—" Samira starts, but you silence her with a hand, your focus still trained on Sister Raya, who withers beneath your stern stare. Her mouth falls open, as if in indignation, an angry flush coloring her cheeks as she glances at Samira, but upon meeting your gaze again, she swallows and lowers her head. "You have my sincerest apologies, Sister Samira," she says slowly through gritted teeth, as if each word were painful to utter. Her nails dig into the palms of her fists. "I meant no disrespect." Samira merely inclines her head. "Up," you command, and Sister Raya lifts her chin enough to face you. "Perhaps your time would be better spent reviewing the priesthood’s maxims than belittling your peers. Such a display makes a mockery of your commitment to your studies. Do not let me catch you doing it again." She swallows and nods, face bone-white. You stare at her for a moment longer before waving a dismissive hand. She dips into a hasty bow. "Your Highness," she murmurs before scurrying away, tail between her legs. Samira sighs, her shoulders sagging. "I am sorry you had to get involved in that," she says. Despite her apologetic tone, she still holds herself stiffly, cautiously. "You have nothing to apologize for," you insist. You stare after the spot Sister Raya fled and Samira follows your gaze. "Is that sort of thing a regular occurrence for you?" [[Continue|Chp1-2.4TalkSam]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2stepinconfront") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 2>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational, + Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Balling your fists, you sidestep away from the palms you had been obscured behind, striding forward confidently. Samira, her back to you, does not notice your approach. Sister Raya, on the other hand, glances past Samira and spots you, her tight scrunched features melting into a demure smile as she dips into a low bow. "Your Highness," she says, voice sweet and saccharine. Samira whips around, eyes widening. Your scowl is hardly missed upon Samira, though from her shifty stance you’d think she was nervous your ire may be directed at her and not her Sister-in-training. "Y-Your Highness," she says, dipping into a bow, head lowered. "Forgive me. I did not see you." You wave her up, eyes never having left Sister Raya. "What’s //disgraceful// is this display," you say, coming to a stop directly in front of Sister Raya. <<if ($height is "tall") or ($height is "very tall")>>\ Being several hands taller than the woman before you, you seem to tower over her. Rather than crane your neck to look down at her, you lift your chin further, glaring down your nose at her. <<elseif $height is "average">>\ Being slightly taller than the woman before you, you lift your chin to further the distance between your eyes, glaring down your nose at her. <<elseif $height is "short">>\ You come up to the same height as the woman before you, but you lift your chin to further the distance between your eyes, managing to glare down your nose at her. <<else>>\ Being somewhat shorter than the woman before you means she has to crane her neck slightly to look down at you, as though she is wilting, withering beneath your glare. <<endif>>\ She pales, the corners of her mouth twitching as her smile fades. "Sister Raya, was it?" you ask. She simply opens and closes her mouth wordlessly. You snap your fingers impatiently. "Well? //Speak.//" As if by your command, she seems to find her tongue loosened once more. "Y-yes," she says meekly. "That would be me, Your Highness." "You switch faces with all the ease of the Bloodless," you say simply. It is, admittedly, rather undiplomatic of you—going beyond insulting to downright impudent, and even Samira glances at you uncertainly, one eyebrow raised, as if she did not hear you quite right. Sister Raya gapes at you, glancing back and forth between you and Samira as if that might offer some explanation for such revilement. "I—I beg your pardon, Your Highness…?" she stammers. "You can beg, but it won’t win you any favors with me." "I—" You cut her off, continuing over her. "You will speak when I allow it," you say and her mouth clamps shut. "You would slander your Sister Samira’s reputation without the proof to show for it? If you have some complaint about the way my acolyte conducts herself, you may take it up with me or with Lady Safina. And I should not have to remind you how such allegations reflect on //my// family’s good name, either." You look at Sister Raya expectantly. She blanches, eyes wide as she stumbles over her words in an attempt to get them out as quickly as possible. "Of course I would never dishonor you or your family name, Your Highness. I meant no disrespect to you. I wouldn’t //dream// of—" You raise a hand and her mouth snaps shut. "Your pleas are wasted upon me. You owe my acolyte an apology." "Your Highness, it’s alright, really. You don’t have to—" Samira starts, but you silence her with a hand, your focus still trained on Sister Raya, who withers beneath your sizzling stare. Her mouth falls open, as if in indignation, an angry flush coloring her cheeks as she glances at Samira, but upon meeting your severe stare again, she swallows and lowers her head. "//Speak,//" you say. "You have my sincerest apologies, Sister Samira," she says slowly through gritted teeth, as if each word were painful to utter. Her nails dig into the palms of her fists. "I meant no disrespect." Samira merely inclines her head. "Up. Now," you command, and Sister Raya lifts her chin enough to face you. You fix her with an incinerating glare. "I would advise you against running your tongue where it is not wanted in the future, Sister Raya," you say. "Lest I be tempted to take it." She swallows and nods, face bone-white. You stare at her for a moment longer before waving a dismissive hand. She dips into a hasty bow. "Your Highness," she murmurs before scurrying away, tail between her legs. Samira shakes her head, glancing sidelong at you. Despite her teasing tone, she holds herself stiffly, cautiously. "You know, if you had wanted to scare her, you could have just pulled a dagger on her." "I'll keep that in mind for next time." "Don't you dare." "It was your suggestion." She rolls her eyes. "I was hardly serious, Your Highness. Still, I am sorry you had to get involved in that," she says. "You have nothing to apologize for," you insist. You stare after the spot Sister Raya fled and Samira follows your gaze. "Is that sort of thing a regular occurrence for you?" [[Continue|Chp1-2.4TalkSam]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2stepingentle") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 2>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle, + Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Lifting your chin, you sidestep away from the palms you had been obscured behind, striding forward in an attempt at a confident facade. Samira, her back to you, does not notice your approach. Sister Raya, on the other hand, glances past Samira and spots you, her tight scrunched features melting into a demure smile as she dips into a low bow. "Your Highness," she says, voice sweet and saccharine. Samira whips around, eyes widening slightly before she schools her expression into something placid and collected. "Y-Your Highness," she says, dipping into a bow, head lowered. "Forgive me. I did not see you." You incline your head in greeting to each of the two women. Sister Raya all but preens at the attention, not seeming to notice the way your jaw clenches, your fidgeting fingers the only indication you are not as unflappably stern as you hope you look. Your change in temperament is not missed upon Samira, however, though from her shifty stance you’d think she was nervous your ire may be directed at her and not her Sister-in-training. "Sister Raya, was it?" you ask. Sister Raya looks all too thrilled you know her name, and she straightens from her bow, beaming. "That would be me," she says. "Enjoying a turn about the gardens, Your Highness? It is a lovely day today. Or was there something you needed? I would be more than happy to assist in any way I can." "Perhaps you can," you agree, and she tilts her head, pleased. "You’ll have to forgive me, as it has been a while since my tutors drilled me on the priesthood’s maxims, but remind me—one of your guiding principles is, as always, courtesy to all and deference to one’s elders, is that right?" "Yes, precisely correct, Your Highness." "I thought so. You are quite familiar with all the maxims, then?" "Of course," she says, lifting her chin with a smile. "One must be, as a priestess-in-training." "I should hope you would make a greater effort to exemplify those values, then," you say, and the corners of her mouth twitch, her smile fading as a wrinkle forms between her brow. "I beg your pardon, Your Highness…?" "I am not so unfamiliar with the priesthood’s maxims as I may have suggested, and as it were, you fail to adhere to most of them, judging from your prior conduct. Vitriol and venom away from prying eyes is no less potent and the privacy you think it offers does not excuse you from violating your oath as a priestess. Sister Samira is your elder both in age and experience—you would do well to hold her in higher regard. I hardly think whatever grudge you might hold against my acolyte is worthy of such incivility." "I—" You lift a hand, silencing her. "Please, I am not finished. You’ve insulted your Sister with such accusations, and without the proof, either, to show for it. If you have some complaint about the way my acolyte conducts herself, you may take it up with me or with Lady Safina. And I should not have to remind you how such allegations reflect on //my// family’s good name, either." You gesture for Sister Raya to speak. She blanches, eyes wide as she stumbles over her words in an attempt to get them out as quickly as possible. "I didn’t…of course I would never dishonor you or your family name, Your Highness. I meant no disrespect to you. I wouldn’t //dream// of—" You wave away her excuses. "I am not the one you owe an apology." "Your Highness, it’s alright, really. You don’t have to—" Samira starts, but you shake your head, your focus still trained on Sister Raya, who wilts beneath your expectant stare. Her mouth falls open, as if in indignation, an angry flush coloring her cheeks as she glances at Samira, but upon meeting your gaze again, she swallows and lowers her head. "You have my sincerest apologies, Sister Samira," she says slowly through gritted teeth, as if each word were painful to utter. Her nails dig into the palms of her fists. "I meant no disrespect." Samira merely inclines her head. "Now," you say, and Sister Raya lifts her chin enough to face you. "Perhaps your time would be better spent reviewing the priesthood’s maxims than belittling your peers. As part of the priesthood, you were obviously scouted because someone saw potential in you. I should like to see you succeed, but insulting your peers will win you no favors with anyone, and I will not tolerate disrespect towards my attendants, nor insult to my family name. I should hate to have to report your behavior to Lady Safina. I suggest you focus your efforts on correcting it." She swallows and nods, face bone-white. You stare at her for a moment longer before waving a dismissive hand. She dips into a hasty bow. "Your Highness," she murmurs before scurrying away, tail between her legs. Samira sighs, her shoulders sagging. "I am sorry you had to get involved in that," she says. Despite her apologetic tone, she still holds herself stiffly, cautiously. "You have nothing to apologize for," you insist. "I should apologize for the way she spoke to you. And for butting in. I do not mean to intrude where I am unwanted, but I just couldn’t let her talk to you like that." Her eyes crinkle softly at the edges, though her lips remain drawn in a grim line. "Then…you heard all that?" You bite your lip, looking somewhat sheepish, then nod. You stare after the spot Sister Raya fled and Samira follows your gaze. "Is that sort of thing a regular occurrence for you?" [[Continue|Chp1-2.4TalkSam]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2stepincharismatic") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic, + Manipulative<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Lifting your chin, you sidestep away from the palms you had been obscured behind, striding forward confidently. Samira, her back to you, does not notice your approach. Sister Raya, on the other hand, glances past Samira and spots you, her tight scrunched features melting into a demure smile as she dips into a low bow. "Your Highness," she says, voice sweet and saccharine. Samira whips around, eyes widening slightly before she schools her expression into something placid and collected. "Y-Your Highness," she says, dipping into a bow, head lowered. "Forgive me. I did not see you." You wave her up, eyes never having left Sister Raya. She seems to interpret your attention as she so pleases—which is to say, the wrong way. She all but preens under your carefully composed smile, not seeming to notice the warning glint in your eyes. Your change in temperament is not missed upon Samira, however, though from her shifty stance you’d think she was nervous your masked ire may be directed at her and not her Sister-in-training. "Sister Raya, was it?" you ask. "Pleasant weather, isn’t it?" Sister Raya looks all too thrilled you know her name, and she straightens from her bow, beaming. "Indeed," she agrees. "Enjoying a turn about the gardens, Your Highness?" "I am," you say brightly. "It’s been a lovely respite from all the //overeager mouths// at court. I think some of them must simply like the way their voices sound—a shame then, that such lovely voices tend to only lend themselves to such foul thoughts." You stare pointedly at Sister Raya. You notice Samira raising an eyebrow at you from the corners of your eyes, though she makes no comment. Sister Raya covers her giggle with a hand. "I imagine it must grow tiring day after day. I hope you’ve found the gardens less inclined towards cavil and complaint as Theian courtly circles." You offer her a pained smile. "If only I could tell you I have. But it seems there is no place in all of the palace that could offer sanctuary from gossips and vulgarians. They are a pest." Her brow knits in sympathy. "Indeed. Though, surely not all of your stroll has been so dour I hope? The flowers and fruit trees are bursting with color this time of year." "Just so!" you say. "Let’s focus on the positives, shall we? My day is looking far more uplifted now that I’ve run into my acolyte." You gesture at Samira, who looks slightly startled to have the attention shifted onto her. "You’re familiar with Sister Samira, surely?" Sister Raya spares her barely a glance, her smile twitching at the corners. "I am, yes, Your Highness." "A shame I don't get the pleasure of introducing the two of you, though it was to be expected, of course. You’ve both been serving in the priesthood for, what? Three, four years?" You turn to Samira. "Four for me, Your Highness," she says. "And you?" You turn to Sister Raya. "Two, Your Highness." "Ah, so Sister Samira is your senior, then? I hope you’ve been learning well from her—she is quite the adept, after all. It is part of why I chose her as my acolyte, though I suppose some people might chalk it up to //’foul magic.’// Ignorance at its finest." Sister Raya opens her mouth to reply only for it to close again, a wrinkle forming between her brow as your choice of words sink in. You do not allow her the time to fully contemplate what you had said before pressing on again, your voice abruptly startling her out of her thoughts. "Ah—! Do tell me, Sister Raya. As peer to my acolyte, you are afforded an insight into her daily life I am not privy to," you say. <div class="choice">[["How is she performing among the other priestesses, hm? Excellently, I presume?" You lean forward, expectant, as if daring her to try to disagree. As way of apology, you’ll corner her into complimenting Samira fully.|Chp1-2cornered]]</div> <div class="choice">[["Tell me, is she taken with anyone in the priesthood? Does she have any suitors? I’ve tried inquiring, but really, she is quite tight-lipped when she wants to be," you say, putting on a pretty pout. ♥|Chp1-2poutflirt]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2hangback") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Sincere, + Gentle, + Dignified<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $heardaboutraya to true>>\ Beneath Samira's stony exterior, you sense a subtle shift in her stance. Where she had stood, cold and rigid like a monolith, she now stands like a jagged mountain face, her every angle sharp and cutting like obsidian. "Well," she says. "At least //you// are honest in your contempt, even if you have no idea what you're talking about. Still, this display is rather obscene, isn't it? Even for you? What happened to the little girl who used to fetch her family's herbs from my mother's Apothecary? You were politer then." "I've no pleasantries to waste with heretics. What's //obscene// is your audacity," the red-haired priestess continues with a scoff. "If you had any respect for the priesthood, you’d resign. Your presence here is an affront to Theia Herself." "A pity you grew into such a wasp. You would do well to refrain from invoking Her name, as if you have any right to assume to know Her mind. My presence here was earned, same as yours," Samira explains. "You have some nerve, accusing //me// of being a stain on the priesthood and on Her good faith. I wonder how our Lady Light would feel about a certain one of Her priestesses-in-training pilfering from the priesthood’s coffers?" Sister Raya flinches as though struck. "You—I didn't—how did you…?" she splutters, her face turning as red as her hair. "Are—are you //threatening// me?" Samira stares down at Sister Raya, the set of her eyes hard and frigid and so unlike the warmth that usually flickers there like embers when she looks at you. "Consider it a warning. While I do not approve of your methods, I suppose I cannot entirely fault you for your reasons—we are both only trying to take care of our families. But I will only feign ignorance for so long. Do not test my patience. Keep my and my family’s names out of your mouth. And consider this the last of any good grace I will offer you: if you are so strained for coin to send home to your family, you would do well to find another source. Lady Safina grows suspicious." A flurry of emotions flash across Sister Raya’s face in quick succession—shame, fury, fear—her face going from bright red to bone-white in a matter of seconds. She opens her mouth to speak, then quickly shuts it, swallowing thickly before whirling around on her heel and striding off the opposite direction without another word. Samira sighs, her shoulders sagging. Sidestepping out from behind the row of palms you had been obscured behind, you step forward, discreetly clearing your throat to announce your presence. Samira startles, whipping around before quickly schooling her expression into something placid and composed upon seeing you, though her shoulders are still drawn rigid and tight. She offers you a thin, strained smile, dipping into a bow. "Your Highness," she says. When she rises, she studies you for a moment, following your gaze in the direction Sister Raya had fled. Realization dawns on her and she purses her lips. "How long…?" "Long enough," you admit, somewhat sheepishly. You pause. "Sister Raya has been stealing from the priesthood’s coffers?" She seems to take your meaning—that she knew and had not reported it. "I had my suspicions it was her, but I did not know for sure until now. In any case, I don’t think it is an offense she will risk repeating—not with Lady Safina on her trail." You look her over but decide against pressing the issue further. "She certainly seemed the resentful sort, cornering you like that. Is that sort of thing a regular occurrence for you?" [[Continue|Chp1-2.4TalkSam]]

Sister Raya appears to flounder for a moment, caught between what must be her aversion to praising Samira and her reluctance to disagree with royalty. She glances between the two of you for a few moments, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly, before she finally clenches her jaw, a vein throbbing along her temple. She clasps her hands tightly in front of her, fingers blanching from the force of her grip. "Indeed," she says through gritted teeth. "She is quite…learned." "Oh, that’s so good to hear, really," you say. "How would you say she compares to the other priestesses?" "Your Highness…" Samira mutters, one hand coming up to shield her brow. You wave a flippant, teasing hand at her. "Oh, come now, don’t be shy! It isn’t as though this is the first time I’ve sung your praises! This is all in good fun." You lean towards Sister Raya, cupping a hand over your mouth conspiratorially. "Besides, I like to know my acolyte is doing better than all the other nobles’ acolytes—gives me an edge up on them in conversation. I do have quite the competitive streak when it comes to bragging over Samira." She smiles at you—at least you think that’s what she was going for, though it comes across as more of a wince. When she glances at Samira, however, her pointy nose scrunches in distaste, her sharp features contorting into a scowl before she seems to remember herself, and hastily replaces it with a pained smile once more. "She is…" she trails off for a moment, as if trying to think of some underhanded way to compliment Samira. You wink at her, your face eager and expectant—you know she knows //exactly// what you want to hear. Her next words come out slowly as she grinds her jaw, as if each word were painful to utter. "She is…a diamond among rocks, Your Highness." You clap your hands together delightedly. "A diamond among rocks! Such praise! Such humility! Oh—did you hear that, Samira?" Samira sighs. "Yes, Your Highness." "Oh, that is good. Oh, really, I shall have to tell everyone during my next social visits," you say. "Do you mind if I quote you? Of course you don’t. Her successes are yours, am I right in understanding that maxim? You priestesses are so very dedicated to exemplifying the priesthood’s principles—so admirable, really. I’m so glad Samira is so well-renowned among her peers. It wouldn’t do for priestesses-in-training to be bad-mouthing their peers, yes? You agree, of course." Sister Raya blinks, the wrinkle in her brow deepening. "Y-yes, of course." "Excellent. //Ah//—!" you say, clapping a hand to your forehead. "Look how time flies away from me. I didn't mean to keep you, Sister Raya. I'm sure you've //much// more important things to be doing, yes? And really, I must steal my acolyte away now. But it was lovely chatting." You smile sweetly at her, your eyes narrowed in a catty glare. She nods. "Yes, of course. By your leave, Your Highness." You dismiss her and she dips into a bow, a puzzled frown tugging at her lips as she turns to leave. She is halfway down the pathway, about to round the corner behind a thorny tangle of shrubs when you call out to her again. "Oh, and Sister Raya? One more thing." She turns to face you. <div class="choice">[[Like a cat finished playing with its food, you go for the throat.|Chp1-2throat]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Embarrass her.|Chp1-2embarrass]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You look her over just long enough to visibly unsettle her, but ultimately let her go.|Chp1-2unsettle]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Let her go.|Chp1-2go]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2poutflirt") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <<set $flirtedSam to $flirtedSam + 1>>\ <</if>>\ "I—I beg your pardon?" Samira says, blinking owlishly. Sister Raya, for her part, also looks taken aback by your query, her eyebrows shooting up. Samira gawps at you, her mouth hanging open for the briefest moment, before she seems to remember herself. She clamps her mouth shut and does her best to school her expression into something near unaffected, though you do not miss the way her fingers fidget with the gold pendant fixed to her chest, nor the way her brow twitches even as she narrows her eyes sternly at you. "What kind of question is that?" she asks. "A valid one," you say, ignoring Samira’s baffled scoff and fixing Sister Raya with an eager, expectant look. "Come now, inquiring minds wish to know. I need to know if I’ve any competition I need to worry about. She is quite the gem, isn’t she? You agree, of course?" Sister Raya glances back and forth between the two of you, a puzzled flush burning across her face until her cheeks are almost as red as her hair. "That’s—I, yes, I suppose…? I-if you say so, Your Highness." "And I do," you agree. "Now come on, don’t leave me hanging—I’m on pins and needles here." "I—I mean, that’s—" she stutters, fumbling over her own tongue for a few moments before seeming to gather herself. When she glances at Samira, her brow furrows, pointed nose scrunching and thin lips twisting into a snarl before she corrects her expression into something more demure and placating. "I-I’m afraid I don’t know, Your Highness. I have not paid mind to such things." You purse your lips into a pout. "What a boring answer. Surely you—" "//Tch.// You’ve nothing to worry about, Your Highness!" Samira hisses through gritted teeth, her twitching brow drawn over tightly closed eyes. "//Oh?//" She seems to realize the implication of her choice of words, hurriedly barking out her reply before you can begin to tease her. "That’s not—I only meant I do not have any suitors in the priesthood. Now—" "In the //priesthood?// Have you other suitors elsewhere I should be worried about—" "//There-are-no-suitors!//" she hisses. "Nor anyone I am taken with. Certainly we’ve more important things we could be discussing? And I’m sure Sister Raya has other duties she must attend to; let’s not keep her." "Ah, right, that was rude of me, wasn’t it?" you say, turning to Sister Raya. "So sorry to keep you, dear—I do tend to ramble. You must have places to be, yes? You are dismissed then. I’ve important heartfelt confessions to antagonize my acolyte with. Why, it must be //magic// the way I have been //bewitched// by her." You narrow your eyes infinitesimally at Sister Raya, your smile taking on a sharp edge. The wrinkle between her brow deepens, her lips mouthing over your words as a confused frown tugs at the corners of her mouth. She fidgets with the waist of her priestess robes before nodding. "Y-yes, of course. By your leave, Your Highness." She dips into a bow and turns on her heel, scurrying away, sparing you both one last look over her shoulder before she disappears into the gardens. Samira turns to you with a scoff. "What was that?" "What was what?" She inhales through her nose, holding up a finger. "You know what? Nevermind. I refuse to indulge you further." She exhales. "I suppose I should thank you, however, for dealing with her. That was certainly one of the more…interesting ways I’ve seen someone send her scurrying." "Well, now I’m curious—who else has been coming to your rescue?" She folds her arms over her chest. "I would hardly say I needed rescuing. Though if you must know, Aurynn has taken a similar approach as you did in the past." You open your mouth to tease her further but she quickly presses onward, her words spilling so quickly from her mouth in her hurry to get them out you almost don’t understand her. "Exactly how much of our conversation did you hear?" You shrug. "Enough," you admit. You gesture at the spot Sister Raya had fled. "Is that sort of thing a regular occurrence for you?" [[Continue|Chp1-2.4TalkSam]]

She nods, slowly. "Sister Raya was appointed from the same village I was. She’s never been fond of me. It is of no consequence," she assures you. "Hm," you say, unconvinced. Samira's fingers fly to the string of glossy pearls around her throat, fidgeting with and twisting the beads over and over. "Do the other priestesses treat you similarly?" you ask. She shifts uncomfortably on her feet. "Some of them, I suppose. It is no matter. They may think of me what they wish—so long as they don’t interfere with my studies." <div class="choice">[[“I should have a word with them.”|Chp1-2haveword]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You frown, but you doubt Samira would be enthused by your direct interference in the matter, so you don't press the idea.|Chp1-2.4TalkSam2]]</div>

She shakes her head. "While I am touched by your concern, Your Highness, I would not wish to impose on you. Really, that isn’t necessary." Her lips quirk into a small frown and she tugs on one of her braids, her fingers tracing over the criss-crossing gold thread interlaced over her plaited hair. "I care little for the opinions of those whose thoughts are so easily swayed by whatever gust of wind they think will float them higher over their peers. I care far more for your opinion. Knowing you do not share their sentiments is more than enough for me." "Is my opinion really of such importance to you?" "Of course," she says, raising an eyebrow, as if this should be self-evident. She brushes her hands over her robes, dusting off imaginary dirt. "You placed your faith in me when few else would have. I would never have lasted long in the priesthood were it not for your patronage. I owe my place here to you and I would not repay your faith in me with distrust or disloyalty." "I...I see," you say. "Still, as your patron, I feel a sense of responsibility for the way the other priestesses treat you." [[Continue|Chp1-2.4TalkSam2]]

<<set $SamCharList to "rayaconfront">>\ "Have you brought this up with Lady Safina?" you ask instead. "As Head Priestess, she should be able to do something about their behavior towards you." "I would not bother her with something so trivial," Samira says. "She has much on her plate as it is, and I will not be the one to add to it, especially not while she’s still mourning. I doubt it would help, anyhow," she murmurs that last part under her breath, and you suspect you were not meant to hear it. <<if $mcdunkedbyaurynn is true>>\ You open your mouth to protest further, but Samira hurriedly presses onward. "I assume you’ve finished visiting with your $sibling, $Title Nour? I hope it was a nice break for the both of you." She looks you over, as if just now fully taking in your disheveled appearance, still somewhat damp from being dunked in the fountain by Aurynn. <<if $selfesteem is "apathetic">>\ You glance down at yourself; you had forgotten you must look a mess right now. Though it hardly bothers you one way or the other, you pray you don’t run into your mother looking like this. You’d never hear the end of it. <<elseif $selfesteem is "confident">>\ You glance down at yourself; you had forgotten the state of your appearance right now, though you have pulled off far worse. <<else>>\ You glance down at yourself with some amount of alarm; you had forgotten you must look a mess right now, and you cringe internally, suddenly very self-conscious. <<endif>>\ "What happened to you?" she asks. "I, um, went for a…spontaneous swim in the fountains with Aurynn," you say. "...Ah," she says. "I just…won’t ask. Speaking of Aurynn, however, where is he?" She cranes her neck to look behind you. <<else>>\ You open your mouth to protest further, but Samira hurriedly presses onward. "I assume you’ve finished visiting with your $sibling, $Title Nour? I hope it was a nice break for the both of you." She cranes her neck to look behind you, and you know she is searching for your missing retainer. "Where's Aurynn?" <<endif>>\ "I was hoping you might be able to answer that. Did you perhaps see him run by here earlier?" you ask. She frowns. "He ran off? And left you alone?" You bite your lip apprehensively. "Mm," you say. "He started acting strange, but he ran off before I could do anything and I lost track of him." "Define strange," she says. It is not an unfair request—your retainer has his fair share of odd behaviors such that ‘strange’ has become synonymous with ‘typical’ when it comes to Aurynn. "I...I think maybe he was trying to avoid someone? I’m not sure. I couldn’t really see anyone, but then…" you sigh, then shake your head. "I don’t know. Then he suddenly looked rather ill before insisting he needed to go cool off inside." Her frown deepens. "Oh. Was it another one of his migraines, maybe? He would deny it, of course, but I think they’ve been getting worse lately. I would offer to check on him later, though I doubt much would come of it. He always refuses to let me examine him. I’ve had to start sneaking tonics into his bedside drawer in the hopes he’ll take them then," she says. You suspect that Samira’s tonics will go to waste. An excellent apothecary she may be, but for all the effectiveness of her medicines, it would be nearly impossible, you think, to get past the dreadful taste. And if memory serves you correct, you're almost positive you recall Aurynn threatening, in no uncertain terms, to kill himself if he ever has to drink one of Samira's medicines again. "Oh. You’ve been leaving him medicine?" you ask, trying to keep the disgust from showing in your voice. Samira notices it anyway and she clucks her tongue, annoyed, pouting her bottom lip. "Tch. Really, they’re not //that// bad, are they?" she asks. "I don't mind the taste..." You don't see how. You hesitate to respond and she shakes her head. "Nevermind. Don’t answer that," she says, then mutters more to herself than to you, "I need to find a way to make them more palatable…" She sighs. "Well, regardless," she continues. "I may find Aurynn infuriating, but that doesn’t mean I wish to see him suffer. Unless I am his torment's deliverer, in which case it is rightly deserved, but that is beside the point. I just wish he’d just let me help with the pain," she huffs. "Honestly, he would do well to take better care of himself." She glances at you, eyes narrowing. "You //both// would." "I take care of myself just fine," you say. She raises an eyebrow pointedly at you. "Oh? Forgive me for noticing, Your Highness, but you’ve scarcely touched your meals this week, and do not think you are so subtle as to go unnoticed working through the entire night without a wink of sleep. You will run yourself into the ground at this rate." <div class="choice">[[A flare of annoyance warms your blood. Her concern is unnecessary, and you tell her so.|Chp1-2annoyedsam]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You offer her a winning smile, gently teasing her for her concern but assuring her there’s no need for her to worry over you.|Chp1-2reassure]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You school your expression into something studiously neutral and assure her she needn’t worry over you.|Chp1-2stoic]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You sigh, looking away. You know she only worries after you, so you apologize and promise her you’ll take better care of yourself.|Chp1-2promise]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You sigh, looking away. You know she only worries after you, so you apologize and promise her you’ll take better care of yourself, though you don’t really mean it. There’s too much work to be done to afford yourself a break.|Chp1-2lie]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2reassure") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic, + Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Aww, are you worried about me? That’s sweet of you," you say. Her right eye twitches and she clucks her tongue. "//Yes.// And I would appreciate it if you did not treat your own wellbeing as a joke, Your Highness." "You don’t need to worry about me so much," you assure her. "I’m doing just fine. See?" You grin and point at your smile, but Samira only frowns harder. She huffs an annoyed breath and sits down on a small stone bench, readjusting her robes over her legs. Crossing her arms over her chest, she fixes you with a hard stare as she gestures to the spot next to her. You know she technically cannot and would not presume to order you around, but her stare is challenging, as if daring you to disobey. With a sigh, you relent and follow her to the bench, taking a seat beside her. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4BloodOathSam]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2stoic") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified, + Imposing. + Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "I am fine," you insist. "You needn’t worry over me so much." "I would not have to if you would treat your own wellbeing with even half the seriousness you do your duties. If you continue to drain yourself like this, you will run dry—you cannot pour from an empty cup." "I know my limits," you say, crossing your arms. "Know yours." She huffs an annoyed breath and sits down on a small stone bench, readjusting her robes over her legs. Crossing her arms over her chest, she fixes you with a hard stare as she gestures to the spot next to her. You know she technically cannot and would not presume to order you around, but her stare is challenging, as if daring you to disobey. With a sigh, you relent and follow her to the bench, taking a seat beside her. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4BloodOathSam]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2promise") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle, + Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You deflate under her stare. "You’re right. I’m sorry for worrying you. I’ll take better care of myself." She fixes you with a skeptical look, but eventually relents with a terse nod. Wordlessly, she turns and sits down on a small stone bench, readjusting her robes over her legs. Crossing her arms over her chest, she fixes you with a hard stare as she gestures to the spot next to her. You know she technically cannot and would not presume to order you around, but her stare is challenging, as if daring you to disobey. After a brief hesitation, you follow her to the bench, taking a seat beside her. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4BloodOathSam]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2lie") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle, + Manipulative<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You shrink under her stare. "You’re right. I’m sorry for worrying you. I’ll take better care of myself." She fixes you with a skeptical glare before her expression falls, a weary exhale causing her to deflate. "It’s not that you’re a bad liar, Your Highness. But I’ve known you long enough to be able to tell when you are spinning falsehoods. Most of the time, anyway." You look away guiltily, biting your bottom lip. With a huff, she turns and sits down on a small stone bench, readjusting her robes over her legs. Crossing her arms over her chest, she fixes you with a hard stare as she gestures to the spot next to her. You know she technically cannot and would not presume to order you around, but her stare is challenging, as if daring you to disobey. After a brief hesitation, you follow her to the bench, taking a seat beside her. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4BloodOathSam]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2annoyedsam") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational, + Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "I’m //fine.// You needn’t waste your time fretting over me; I know how to handle myself," you snap. To her credit, Samira does not so much as flinch as your ire is directed towards her, instead fixing you with a skeptical glare as she looks you up and down, taking in your weary appearance. "Evidently," she says. "Hmph." Wordlessly, she turns and sits down on a small stone bench, readjusting her robes over her legs. Crossing her arms over her chest, she fixes you with a hard stare as she gestures to the spot next to her. You know she technically cannot and would not presume to order you around, but her stare is challenging, as if daring you to disobey. Grumbling, you relent and follow her to the bench, taking a seat beside her. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4BloodOathSam]]

<<audio ":playing" stop>>\ <<audio "indiantemple" loop play>>\ She gives you a pointed look. "What?" "Allow me to practice on you," she says. "Surely you would not be remiss in assisting me in my studies this once, considering I have repeatedly put off practicing to allow you time to recover. You are, after all, partially responsible for my slip up in my learning, and as your acolyte, I’m afraid it is a rather poor look for the both of us for me to fall behind my Sisters like this." You narrow your eyes at her. "Hm. You’ve certainly mastered the art of guilt-tripping," you say. She smiles wanly. "It comes with the territory, I suppose. Stubbornness runs in the family. If you do not want to be guilt-tripped, then don’t be so stubborn—it is not a battle you will win. Come. I am not so out of practice that I do not remember how to do something as simple as ease a headache or stiff muscles. You’ll feel better afterwards." You exhale. "Very well." <<if $magic is "healing">>\ The sigil on your <<cycle "$sigil" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__shoulder__''" "shoulder">> <<option "''__back__''" "back">> <<option "''__chest__''" "chest">> <<option "''__thigh__''" "thigh">> <<option "''__neck__''" "neck">> <<option "''__wrist__''" "wrist">> <<option "''__ankle__''" "ankle">> <</cycle>>, a series of concentric over-turned teardrop shapes embellished with swoops and splashes of ink, flares to life in response to the sigil on Samira’s left shoulder, the gold ink searing against your skin like an iron brand for just the briefest moment until you feel Samira pressing at the edges of your mind, a subtle prickle in the base of your skull as she seeks your permission to enter. <<else>>\ She retrieves a small, rounded stone, its surface smooth and polished and its center pulsing with a faint crimson glow, from the folds of her robes—a bloodstone. Etched into the surface of the stone is a small oblong sigil. "Fascinating, isn’t it?" Samira muses, rolling the stone over in her hands. "Lady Safina—she really is quite incredible." An awed, reverent look fills her eyes, and you know what she is referring to. You’ve never been very fond of Lady Safina considering her frigid attitude towards you and your other siblings—with the exception of her own children, Parim and Aurora—but you must admit her creation of bloodstones //is// quite impressive. Before her invention, it was virtually unheard of for one to be able to expand their control over foreign branches of magic without a blood oath. Unless you are your grandmother. Though, her methods remain unknown to most, your father having sealed her studies into the matter of harvesting ichor in the library’s vaults, having deemed her life’s research too hazardous and nonviable following her death. Normally, it would be impossible for you to use healing magic on your own as you are not affined to it. But with the aid of a bloodstone you have been attuned to, it works as a sort of channeling device—a funnel of sorts. If you pour your own magic into the stone, your ichor flaring to life within your veins, the small amount of blood sealed within—having belonged to someone with an affinity for healing magic—acts according to your will, allowing you to cast minor healing enchantments. Admittedly, it is weaker magic than if you were naturally affined to healing. But it opens up the possibility for you to treat basic injuries and aches as needed. More importantly, it has allowed you to sponsor Samira as a blood patron, allowing her to practice healing magic through your blood oath. So long as you have a bloodstone, that is. Your attunement with the bloodstone—you think, as you examine the etched sigil on the stone’s smooth surface, which matches the sigils branded into your and Samira’s skin—must work much like a blood oath. At least, that is the conclusion drawn by you and Samira. Lady Safina has thus far been rather tight-lipped about the intricacies of the stones’ manufacture, and as for now, the distribution of such stones is tightly controlled by the priesthood and limited solely to healing magic. Though, you suspect with time and testing, the priesthood may be able to expand the variety of stones available. "Mm," you hum. "Indeed it is." Samira glances at you. "Er, I know she hasn’t been the kindest to you. I just meant—" "I know. It’s fine." She nods and sets the bloodstone in your palm. It feels uncannily warm within your hand, almost //alive// even, as the sealed blood within thrums rhythmically like a pulse. You rub your thumb over the symbol etched into the surface and it lights up. The sigil on your <<cycle "$sigil" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__shoulder__''" "shoulder">> <<option "''__back__''" "back">> <<option "''__chest__''" "chest">> <<option "''__thigh__''" "thigh">> <<option "''__neck__''" "neck">> <<option "''__wrist__''" "wrist">> <<option "''__ankle__''" "ankle">> <</cycle>>, a series of concentric over-turned teardrop shapes embellished with swoops and splashes of ink, flares to life in response to the sigil on Samira’s left shoulder, the gold ink searing against your skin like an iron brand for just the briefest moment until you feel Samira pressing at the edges of your mind, a subtle prickle in the base of your skull as she seeks your permission to enter. <<endif>>\ To let her in would be to fasten a thread round each of your joints, to hand her the crossbar and to play the marionette. Only, every thread connecting you to the crossbar is of delicate gossamer. Every tug of the strings a suggestion merely. And, should you wish it, you could easily snap the threads that bind you to Samira’s will. The connection your blood oath offers is a way for your acolyte to guide your hand—the pairing of a priestess’ skill in healing aided by the strength of your own ichor; medicine and magic working in tandem, that your acolyte might prove a more effective healer with the aid of ichor to supplement her studies as an apothecary. <<if $magic is "healing">>\ Some might think it redundant for you to take on an acolyte when your secondary affinity is for healing magic already—after all, why train a priestess to guide your blood with her healing hand if you could just heal your patient yourself? But you have never formally studied medicine, and you had figured taking Samira under your wing could serve as an opportunity to learn from each other. You might have one day formally joined the priesthood yourself, as it is the typical path nobles attuned to healing take, had you not been called away by war, and had your four eldest siblings not been slain, leaving you second-in-line. Now more than ever, your role in your family’s dynasty is much more pivotal and you cannot see yourself having the time to dedicate yourself to the priesthood. Still, you’ve learned much from Samira. Your initial experience with healing magic had been mostly combat based—casting wards and alleviating minor injuries mid-battle. Since taking Samira on as your acolyte, she’s taught you how to handle more serious illnesses and injuries and has instructed you in the basics of medicine. <<endif>>\ Samira had confided in you her suspicions that Lady Safina, through her matching of unaffined priests and priestesses to train with demibloods, and through her conception of bloodstones, intended for common-born additions to the priesthood to one day be able to utilize healing magic on their own—//without// the patronage of a demiblood. An unconventional idea, to be sure. <div class="choice">[[You are unsure most nobles will take so kindly to the idea of mortalbloods being able to command the elements the way demibloods do, but you find the idea…surprisingly fascinating and noble.|Chp1-2bloodprogressive]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It's a strange thought—one you'd have to get used to, and one that would obviously not come without its many problems and pushbacks. However, you admit it has the potential to open up a great many opportunities for study and expansion of access to healing magic among your people.|Chp1-2bloodmiddle]]</div> <div class="choice">[[The idea unsettles you greatly—it is, you feel, a violation of the sanctity of ichor and your gods’ will.|Chp1-2traditionalist]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2bloodprogressive") <= 1>>\ <<set $prog to $prog + 20>>\ <<set $trad to $trad - 20>>\ <<set $politicsnum to $politicsnum - 20>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $politicschosen to true>>\ Perhaps you were unsettled by the idea at first—as a demiblood, your ichor is a holy gift to you from your gods, their very blood, the power and responsibility associated with it having always been something reserved for nobility as the caretakers of your people. You were uncertain mortalbloods would be able to wield magic with the reverence and responsibility required of it. But having worked alongside Samira for so many years, you had found your fears to be mostly unfounded. Certainly, such a revolutionary change would not be without its challenges, but if it meant more people like Samira would be able to make use of magic, you think it would be a change for the better. Samira was more qualified to use magic than many nobles you could think of. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4ConnectSam]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2traditionalist") <= 1>>\ <<set $trad to $trad + 20>>\ <<set $prog to $prog - 20>>\ <<set $politicsnum to $politicsnum + 20>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $politicschosen to true>>\ As a demiblood, your ichor is a holy gift to you from your gods, sacred power entrusted to you to protect those who fall under your care. Had it been your gods’ will, all humans would be demibloods, but as it was, they were not. And you are certain that mortalbloods would not be able to handle the responsibility that comes with magic; they were not used to it. They could not be trusted with it. Ichor was something entrusted to the few to watch over the many—magic among the masses would spell chaos and confusion. You know Samira treats your blood oath with the reverence and deference it deserves, but it is one thing to practice magic with a demiblood as a guide and another thing entirely to practice it on one’s own. She has never walked the thin line between control and chaos, has never felt her blood boil and rage and buck against her, has never had to face the carnage she had wrought after letting control slip like sand through her fingers, has never felt the agony that is your goddess’ blood blazing through your veins like liquid fire after you have overextended your magic. She does not //know.// No mortalblood does. It is not a responsibility they are prepared to inherit. The only mages without ichor are Maian mages. And Maian mages are outlawed for a reason. You are uncertain as to the accuracy of her suspicions regarding Lady Safina’s intentions, but nevertheless, you will carry out your duty to your acolyte as a guiding hand as you always have. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4ConnectSam]]

A prickle again, at the base of your skull. A knock, a request for permission. You take a deep breath and let her in. It is something you should be used to and yet every time, you feel wholly unprepared for the sensation. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4ConnectSam2]]

Despite having done this many times, you have yet to get used to the feeling of someone else beneath your skin, and you are unsure you ever will. It feels almost…invasive. It does not come naturally to you, you think—to put yourself in so vulnerable a position, regardless of your ability to escape it with ease. Vulnerability is weakness, and weakness gets you killed. You have no room for weakness. Still, as Samira’s blood patron, you have a duty now to assist her in her studies, and as her friend, you would not be so insensitive as to spurn her now. With no blood patron, Samira would be unable to continue her studies as a priestess, and you know of few others who would be willing to take her under their wing. You can suffer through a little discomfort to help her. You shift in your seat and Samira glances at you apologetically. "Sorry," she says. "I know it must feel strange. I’ll make it quick. You’ll feel better afterwards, I promise." You nod and she gets to work, a wrinkle forming between her brow as she concentrates. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4SamHealsDislike]]

There are few you would trust enough to take a blood oath with. And so it is a comforting thing, you think, to place yourself in the palm of another and know they would not harm you even when you are most vulnerable. Faith can be so often misplaced, trust among the viperous pit that is court social circles so brittle, and so you are grateful to have a friend like Samira. She hesitates for a moment, then gestures towards your hands. "May I…? It’s just that it’s a bit easier if I have a physical connection as well. More grounding." <div class="choice">[[You nod and let her take your hands. |Chp1-2nodhands]]</div> <div class="choice">[["I thought you’d never ask." ♥|Chp1-2neverask]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You nod stiffly and let her take your hands, turning away and averting your eyes. ♥|Chp1-2stiffnod]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“I’d rather you didn’t.”|Chp1-2donttouch]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2embarrassed") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedSam to $flirtedSam + 1>>\ <</if>>\ Your older siblings had explained to you what to expect when undertaking a blood oath with someone. Some—Ember in particular—in //far// more vivid detail than necessary, but it was another thing entirely to actually experience it. It wasn’t as though you didn’t know what you had been getting into when you took an oath with Samira. You had, after all, taken one first with Aurynn before meeting your acolyte. However, you have rarely made use of your blood oath with Aurynn, having made it more as a symbol of your faith in the man you had decided to appoint as your retainer, and his in you. Besides, being of noble blood, Aurynn is already capable of magic, and furthermore, he rarely uses his magic anyway. For all his abundance of flirtatious jokes regarding your blood bond, he has expressed little serious interest in actually making use of it. Since taking Samira on as your acolyte, you’ve made use of your blood bond regularly. It is a…singular experience, like having someone else wear your skin, like you share one body, like her heart beats in tandem with yours. And though you can sense her within you, tracing every vein, you cannot be sure just how much //she// can sense //you.// Your bond has only ever been a one way street, with her presence joining you in your body. Your pulse races, face burning, and you wonder if she can feel the excited rush of your blood. The tingle of your skin. The flutter of your stomach. She glances at you, hesitating for a moment, then gestures towards your hands. "May I…? It’s just that it’s a bit easier if I have a physical connection as well. More grounding." <div class="choice">[[You nod and let her take your hands. |Chp1-2nodhands]]</div> <div class="choice">[["I thought you’d never ask." ♥|Chp1-2neverask]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You nod stiffly and let her take your hands, turning away and averting your eyes. ♥|Chp1-2stiffnod]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“I’d rather you didn’t.”|Chp1-2donttouch]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2nodhands") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified, + Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $holdsamshands to true>>\ She inclines her head, taking your fingers between hers, her grip cool and steady, her fingers calloused from her work the gardens. A wrinkle forms between her brow as she concentrates, her hands squeezing yours. Her pulse flutters against the tips of your fingers. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4SamHeals]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2neverask") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedSam to $flirtedSam + 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic, + Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $holdsamshands to true>>\ "Why, I thought you’d never ask," you say, enthusiastically offering her your hands. "Tired of keeping your hands to yourself already?" Her expression sours instantly, and she narrows her eyes at you, an eyebrow quirked, her lips pursed. Glancing back at your outstretched hands, she hums thoughtfully. "Nevermind. I think I can manage without," she says. You pout pathetically, your hands falling limp at your wrists. She continues to frown at you, but after your sixth or seventh forlorn sigh, she finally rolls her eyes, taking your fingers between hers, her grip cool and steady. You perk back up, beaming. She shakes her head, but you don’t miss the amused tilt of her lips. A wrinkle forms between her brow as she concentrates, her hands squeezing yours. Her pulse flutters against the tips of your fingers. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4SamHeals]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2stiffnod") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedSam to $flirtedSam + 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified, + Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $holdsamshands to true>>\ Her fingers find yours, her touch hesitant at first before she takes your hands gently in her own, her grip cool and steady. You feel her looking at you from the corner of your eyes, but you keep your face turned away, features carefully composed in your best attempt at an unperturbed expression. "Are you nervous?" she asks, voice low and sonorous. <div class="choice">[["No." You angle your head farther away, attempting to escape her dark-eyed stare. ♥|Chp1-2noturn]]</div> <div class="choice">[["Yes," you admit. There’s little use in hiding it. ♥|Chp1-2yesnervous]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You bristle, and in an attempt to spare your dignity, you flip her question around on her. ♥|Chp1-2bristle]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2donttouch") <= 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Imposing, + Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $holdsamshands to false>>\ She nods. "Of course," she says, pulling back and clasping her hands primly in her lap. She takes a deep breath in and gets to work, a wrinkle forming between her brow as she concentrates. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4SamHeals]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2noturn") <= 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Mmhmm," she hums, an amused lilt to her voice. "Of course not." You swallow, pointedly staring straight ahead as you try to ignore her thumb tracing over the ridges of your knuckles, the way your hand seems to slot perfectly against the palm of hers, the steady drum of her pulse against your fingertips. "Your pulse is rather high," she says. "Are you sure you’re feeling alright?" She cranes her neck to look your face over, her braids cascading over her shoulder, hood falling open over the curve of her collarbone. She releases one of your hands to press the back of her hand against your forehead. It is all you can do not to flinch away. You swallow, arching an imperious eyebrow at her. "It’s merely the heat," you supply. "The heat?" she says. "The heat," you agree. "Hm," she hums. "Perhaps you should let me look you over, still. Just to be safe." "That won’t be necessary," you say, a bit too readily. "I’m fine." She stares after you for a moment. "I see," is all she says. She gives your hands a small squeeze and gets to work, a wrinkle forming between her brow as she concentrates. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4SamHeals]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2yesnervous") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "There’s no need," she says. "It's not like I've ever burst any of your veins." "That’s not what I mea—wait, was that a possibility?" "...No." "That is distinctly not reassuring." "Relax," she says, smoothing her thumbs over the ridges of your knuckles. "Or you’re going to burst your own veins, your pulse being what it is." You open your mouth to retort, only to close it again, pursing your lips. Samira chuckles softly to herself. She gives your hands a small squeeze and gets to work, a wrinkle forming between her brow as she concentrates. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4SamHeals]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2bristle") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "No," you snap, far too abruptly to be entirely casual. You pivot to stare her down. "Are //you?//" You half expect her to quietly shake her head and brush you off or simply roll her eyes, but instead she seems somewhat taken aback, her posture going stiff as she schools her face into a studious frown. "No," she says quickly. "Of course not. I’ve done this plenty of times. I've no need to be." She readjusts in her seat several times, refolding her skirts over her knees as she avoids your eyes, head craned low while she focuses her attention on your hands. Perhaps it is your desire to escape your own embarrassment that drives you to surge to the offensive, but like a lion seeking out the weakest wildebeest to cull, you prod her further, testing for vulnerability. "Ah, well, consider me convinced," you say, lifting your chin haughtily. "Are your hands normally this hot?" Her eyes flit to yours, narrowing. "Are //yours?// My hands run cold." Your nose scrunches and you scoff, switching directions to nip elsewhere, hunting for whatever line might provoke her, might fluster her, might slip past her disciplined demeanor and trip her up. You look her up and down, appraising her, and she holds your stare, a challenge written there. A stand-off it is, then. You pull your hands from her grip, wiping them slowly and deliberately over your lap. "Tell that to your palms," you say. "You //sweat.//" "I wasn’t going to say anything. But now that you mention it…" Eyes never leaving yours, she scrubs her own hands over the skirts of her robes. "So do you." Something about her accusing stare irks you. "I’m //not// nervous," you say, grinding your jaw. "Ha! Your efforts would be better spent convincing the leopard she has no spots," Samira crows. You squint at her, lips twisting in indignation. "And yours would be better spent putting up a decent front," you say. You glance at her chest, at the spot above her heart, then back to her eyes. "Too bad your heart gives you away." It is, admittedly, a shot in the dark, a wild stab—you cannot sense the rhythm of her heartbeat. It’s true you have always wondered just how connected your blood oath makes the two of you—whether or not Samira can sense the heat flaring beneath your skin, can feel the crawl of your embarrassment. You both agreed not to speak of it; you feared acknowledging it might open a door you would not be able to close afterwards. But now you wonder if she has ever wondered the same. If, as she sits beside you for the thousandth time, her mind races, fearing you might be able to sense her thundering heart, the rush of her blood. You had always assumed your oath worked like a river, flowing one direction—your sensations toward Samira. And so you honestly don’t expect the jab to land. She flinches as if struck, eyes widening in alarm. Her fingers fly to her chest. "You can…?" You are too taken aback by her reaction to feign any kind of smug indifference and so you blink stupidly, eyebrows raised. Her lips immediately twist into a scowl. "You //can’t,//" she says, letting out an affronted scoff. She reaches for your hands again, taking them in a painfully tight grip. "You aren’t usually so disruptive. Let’s stop talking for a bit, shall we? I concentrate better when it’s quiet. Wouldn’t want me to accidentally burst a couple veins, hm?" Your brow furrows. "Is...is that a possibility…?" "Oh, //certainly//," she says with a tight smile, and you take her meaning: //’It’s a warning.’// "But don’t worry. I am practiced enough to weave a simple spell without damaging anything overly important. //If// you are quiet." You purse your lips and fall silent. You’ll still count this as a victory—you did manage to weasel your way under her skin. She nods, satisfied, and gets to work, a wrinkle forming between her brow as she concentrates. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4SamHeals]]

<<if ($magic is "healing") and ($dranksamstonic is false)>>\ Your blood hums, fingers buzzing as streaks of honey-gold paint themselves across your arms, streaming like watercolor, your veins illuminated with the soft golden glow of ichor. You feel Samira coax the pain from your pounding skull, the drumming at your temple dying down to blissful silence. She moves like honey through your veins—slow and nectarous. Where she goes, the pain ebbs away. <<elseif ($magic is "healing") and ($dranksamstonic is true)>>\ Your blood hums, fingers buzzing as streaks of honey-gold paint themselves across your arms, streaming like watercolor, your veins illuminated with the soft golden glow of ichor. You feel Samira coax the pain from your stiff, sore limbs. She moves like honey through your veins—slow and nectarous. Where she goes, the pain ebbs away. <<elseif ($magic is "gravity") or ($magic is "illusion") or ($magic is "fire") and ($dranksamstonic is false)>>\ Your blood hums, fingers buzzing as streaks of honey-gold paint themselves across your arms, streaming like watercolor, your veins illuminated with the soft golden glow of ichor. The bloodstone warms in your hands, pulsing at your fingertips. You feel Samira coax the pain from your pounding skull, the drumming at your temple dying down to blissful silence. She moves like honey through your veins—slow and nectarous. Where she goes, the pain ebbs away. <<else>>\ Your blood hums, fingers buzzing as streaks of honey-gold paint themselves across your arms, streaming like watercolor, your veins illuminated with the soft golden glow of ichor. The bloodstone warms in your hands, pulsing at your fingertips. You feel Samira coax the pain from your stiff, sore limbs. She moves like honey through your veins—slow and nectarous. Where she goes, the pain ebbs away. <<endif>>\ A pleasant warmth washes over you, seeping beneath your skin and cording through your aching muscles. It is at once soothing and tiring, a languid tranquility bought with your own energy, and it leaves you feeling drowsy—like a serval lying down for a nap beneath a swaying tree, dappled sunlight filtering through fluttering leaves and painting its spotted fur in sunny swathes of saffron. You understand now Farwah’s favorite pastime, wishing you yourself could curl up right here and now and doze off. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4SamSever]]

<<if ($magic is "healing") and ($dranksamstonic is false)>>\ Your blood hums, fingers buzzing as streaks of honey-gold paint themselves across your arms, streaming like watercolor, your veins illuminated with the soft golden glow of ichor. You feel Samira coax the pain from your pounding skull, the drumming at your temple stuttering down to silence. She moves slow and thick through your veins, her presence like the tickle of searching stems beneath your flesh. Where she goes, the pain ebbs away. <<elseif ($magic is "healing") and ($dranksamstonic is true)>>\ Your blood hums, fingers buzzing as streaks of honey-gold paint themselves across your arms, streaming like watercolor, your veins illuminated with the soft golden glow of ichor. You feel Samira coax the pain from your stiff, sore limbs. She moves slow and thick through your veins, her presence like the tickle of searching stems beneath your flesh. Where she goes, the pain ebbs away. <<elseif ($magic is "gravity") or ($magic is "illusion") or ($magic is "fire") and ($dranksamstonic is false)>>\ Your blood hums, fingers buzzing as streaks of honey-gold paint themselves across your arms, streaming like watercolor, your veins illuminated with the soft golden glow of ichor. The bloodstone warms in your hands, pulsing at your fingertips. You feel Samira coax the pain from your pounding skull, the drumming at your temple stuttering down to silence. She moves slow and thick through your veins, her presence like the tickle of searching stems beneath your flesh. Where she goes, the pain ebbs away. <<else>>\ Your blood hums, fingers buzzing as streaks of honey-gold paint themselves across your arms, streaming like watercolor, your veins illuminated with the soft golden glow of ichor. The bloodstone warms in your hands, pulsing at your fingertips. You feel Samira coax the pain from your stiff, sore limbs. She moves slow and thick through your veins, her presence like the tickle of searching stems beneath your flesh. Where she goes, the pain ebbs away. <<endif>>\ A wave of warmth washes over you, seeping beneath your skin and cording through your aching muscles. It is at once soothing and tiring, despite your discomfort—a languid tranquility bought with your own energy, and it leaves you feeling drowsy, like a serval lying down for a nap beneath an evening sunbeam. You understand now Farwah’s favorite pastime, wishing you yourself could curl up right here and now and doze off. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4SamSever]]

Through heavy-lidded eyes, you glance at Samira and find her gaze on your throat, completely fixated on the golden glow coursing in inky lines beneath your skin, fading out like dying embers. <<if $selfesteem is "confident">>\ Your lips quirk up in a knowing smile—it wouldn't be the first time your skin, lit up by amber rivers, has drawn stares. Samira’s eyes flick to yours and she immediately looks away, reaching up to stroke one of her braids. You stare at her for a moment, but she seems intent on pretending not to notice. Taking some pity on her, you decide to give her an out with conversation. "Your family," you say. "How are they?" <<elseif $selfesteem is "apathetic">>\ Your fingers fly to your neck without thinking and Samira immediately looks away, reaching up to stroke one of her braids. You stare at her for a moment, but she seems intent on pretending not to notice. You shrug to yourself. You’ve never thought much about how you look lit up while your ichor flares up beneath your skin. Though you suppose, for someone incapable of magic, it must be a novel sight, even after years of seeing it again and again whenever she made use of your blood oath. When it appears Samira has no intention of breaking the silence, you clear your throat. "Your family," you say. "How are they?" <<else>>\ You shift uncomfortably, angling your head away in an attempt to hide your throat. Not that it helps much, what with the rest of your skin lit up by faint amber rivers. Her eyes flick to yours and you both immediately look away, Samira standing slightly to readjust her skirts beneath her legs and sitting back down slightly farther away from you. You clear your throat, attempting to distract the both of you with conversation. "Your family," you say a bit too hastily. "How are they?" <<endif>>\ She is quiet, her face darkening for the briefest moment, and you wonder if she must be thinking about what Sister Raya had called her and her family: //tainted.// Her cloudy expression vanishes as quickly as it had come, however, and she turns to look at you, a faint smile playing at her lips. "They are well," she says. "My brothers have grown so much since I last saw them. They’ll be taller than me soon at this rate. Omar is already taller than my father, and Jani is quickly catching up." She laughs, a deep, rich chuckle, and shakes her head in disbelief. "I can hardly keep up with how much food they go through now. I send money home and they tear through it so much faster than they used to. Teenage boys eat so much." "That they do," you say, though if Samira notices the trace of horror lacing your tone, she doesn’t comment on it. You remember watching your brothers Ember and Castor tearing through enough food for five on more than one occasion—you’ve never quite been able to get the image out of your head. <<cycle "$teeneating" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__You’d like to think you never scarfed down dubious amounts of food in such a horrifying manner when you were a teenager, but that would probably be wishful thinking, if Nour’s scandalized face was anything to go off of whenever you dined together.__''" "scarfed">> <<option "''__Sure you ate a lot as a growing teenager too, but you at least had the decorum to pace yourself when eating and not inhale entire plates of food with the horrifying speed matched only by your brothers, the twins.__''" "paced">> <</cycle>> "How’s your father?" you ask. "Still griping over the pains of city life?" She smothers the grin that threatens to break out over her face, covering her mouth discreetly with one hand until she has managed to compose herself. "I don’t think he’ll ever get used to it," she says. "He did spend his whole life in our home in Aspyn, after all." "He misses it?" "He shouldn’t," she mutters. You look at her strangely and she quickly adds, resolutely, as if trying to convince herself, "There’s little left to miss in Aspyn. He’ll grow to like the capital. Just as my brothers have." "What about you?" "What about me?" "Do you ever miss it? Your home? In Aspyn?" She pauses for long moment, as if mulling it over. When she speaks, her words are slow and deliberate. Careful, as if meticulously selected. "Parts of it, I suppose," she says. "My surrogate mother, Dania, still owns her Apothecary there. I’d have moved her with us, but she refused." She shakes her head, words falling easier over her tongue now. "I send her money every month, even though she always writes me to quit it. Says she doesn’t need it. She does. I worked that shop every day for years. She’s just too stubborn to admit it." "Dania...she’s the one who taught you to garden, right?" "Sort of. She drilled me on every medicinal herb, poison, and antidote known to man—wouldn’t let me step foot inside her shop until I’d had everything memorized. I think I hated it at first," she says, and you nod. You’re quite familiar with relentless tutors. "But at some point, it became a special interest, I suppose. Plants, I mean—and not just the medicinal variety. Dania had a book on horticulture she let me borrow. She let me use a corner of her garden to grow whatever I wanted." "Are you familiar with most of the flora in the palace gardens, then?" "Most of them. They’ve quite a few foreign species here, some I hadn’t heard of prior." "You said earlier you wished to tend to the garden while you waited. Any particular reason you chose this spot? Have you any favorites over here?" She turns and gestures to a large flowering bush behind you, its twisting stems bursting with curls of pointed leaves and trumpet-shaped flowers. She plucks a small lilac-colored blossom from the stem and holds it out to you. You take it, running a finger over its thin, flaring petals. "Celestyl’s Slumber," Samira explains, and you raise an eyebrow. "It was one of the few foreign blooms Dania always kept in stock. I came here to prune some of its flowers. My reserves were starting to run low." She retrieves a small bag of purple petals from her apothecary’s satchel to show you. "What does it do?" "It works wonders as a sleep aid—you’ll find no better remedy for when sleep evades you. It’s potent, though—just a few petals will make you drowsy. Too large a dose and it can knock you out almost immediately," she says. She plucks another blossom from the bush, rolling it between her fingers thoughtfully. "Most people add them to their favorite tea blend. They pair well with anything, really. The flavor is quite mild, almost tasteless. Most people won’t recognize the taste unless they are quite familiar with it." She pauses, then adds, "The leaves are definitely poisonous, though, so be sure to avoid eating any." "//Poisonous,// you say?" "Don’t get any ideas," she says. "Sounds like quite the useful little plant." "Mm," she agrees. "They’re also pretty." <div class="choice">[[She offers you the second blossom clutched between her fingers, placing it delicately within your palm alongside the first.|Chp1-2flowerpalm]]</div> <div class="choice">[[She considers the second blossom clutched between her fingers for a moment, before tucking it behind your ear. ♥|Chp1-2flowerear]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link 'She considers the second blossom clutched between her fingers for a moment, before pinning it to the front of your $clothes, securing it in place with a pin from her hair. ♥' 'Chp1-2pinflower'>><</link>></div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2throat") <= 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Imposing<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Despite your amiable tone, nothing about your smile is friendly. "If I ever catch you speaking ill of my acolyte again, I’ll cut out your tongue, alright?" Sister Raya blanches, her face deathly pale, like a bone bleached beneath a baking sun. Her freckles stand out like a spray of dried blood over her bone-white face. Even Samira’s eyes widen, darting briefly in your direction before she looks away. It is all Sister Raya can do to squeak out a hoarse, "Yes, Your Highness," before offering you another stiff bow, fists clutching the fabric of her priestess robes. When you wave a hand, she pivots on her heel, scurrying away quick as a mouse, her retreating form vanishing into the tangles of the garden. You turn to Samira and she almost seems to shrink back a bit, but at the sight of your furrowed brow, she quickly corrects herself, righting her posture, though she seems to be studiously avoiding your eyes. It takes her a moment to find her voice as she clears her throat. "I’m sorry you had to get involved in that. How…how much of our conversation did you hear…?" You purse your lips, looking her over. "Enough," you admit, somewhat guiltily. You gesture at the spot Sister Raya had fled. "Is that sort of thing a regular occurrence for you?" [[Continue|Chp1-2.4TalkSam]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2embarrass") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You cluck your tongue disapprovingly, looking over her like a disappointed mother—which isn’t a look that’s exactly hard to mimic; you think the image of your mother’s face each time you had failed to meet her standards during her rigorous training has been forever seared into your memory. "Your robes are soiled, dear," you say, gesturing to an ink stain along the side of her priestess robes. "Do pay better mind to your appearance in the future, especially in the presence of your betters, hm?" Her eyes widen, darting to the spot you’d indicated, her hands fumbling with her skirts as she searches for the stain. When she finds it, her face turns bright red and all she can do is offer you a stiff, awkward nod, squeaking out a quick, "Your Highness," before she bows again and pivots on her heel, scurrying away, her retreating form vanishing into the tangles of the garden. Samira turns to you with a weary sigh, shaking her head—though you don’t miss the amusement flickering in her eyes. "That was…certainly one way of dealing with her," she says, and there is a cautious stiffness to her stance when she meets your eyes. "How much of our conversation did you hear?" "Enough," you admit. You gesture at the spot Sister Raya had fled. "Is that sort of thing a regular occurrence for you?" [[Continue|Chp1-2.4TalkSam]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2unsettle") <= 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative + 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Manipulative, + Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Your face falls blank as you stare at her intently for a long moment, the silence stretching between you, and Sister Raya swallows, face paling as she shifts uncomfortably. It is another long few seconds before you release her. A sweet smile decorates your lips, sliding so smoothly across your face that Sister Raya blinks, as if taken aback by the sudden shift in expression. "Be careful on your way back," you say. "I—y-yes, thank you, Your Highness," she stammers. You wave her away and she quickly bows again before pivoting on her heel and hurrying down the pathway, her retreating form vanishing into the tangles of the garden. Samira turns to you with a weary sigh, shaking her head—though you don’t miss the amusement flickering in her eyes and threatening to curve her lips. "That was…certainly one way of dealing with her," she says, and there is a cautious stiffness to her stance when she meets your eyes. "How much of our conversation did you hear?" "Enough," you admit. You gesture at the spot Sister Raya had fled. "Is that sort of thing a regular occurrence for you?" [[Continue|Chp1-2.4TalkSam]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2go") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified, + Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You look her over, but eventually relent and shake your head. You feel as though you’ve done a sufficient job of ensuring your warning will sink in. "Nevermind," you say, waving your hand. She bows again and continues down the pathway, sparing you one last glance as she rounds the corner, her retreating form vanishing into the tangles of the garden. Samira turns to you with a weary sigh, shaking her head—though you don’t miss the amusement flickering in her eyes and threatening to curve her lips. "That was…certainly one way of dealing with her," she says, and there is a cautious stiffness to her stance when she meets your eyes. "How much of our conversation did you hear?" "Enough," you admit. You gesture at the spot Sister Raya had fled. "Is that sort of thing a regular occurrence for you?" [[Continue|Chp1-2.4TalkSam]]

Velvet amethyst petals tickle at your skin, the blossoms cupped within your palm. "Thank you." She nods. "They take a few weeks to dry. I can fetch you some dried specimens in the meantime. I usually keep some on hand in my chambers." She pauses. "I could fetch you some to give to your $sibling, $Title Nour, as well? I’m...unaware of $their sleeping habits, but I would posit it’s always useful to have a sleep aid on hand regardless." You nod, slowly. "I’m sure $they would appreciate the gesture." Samira nods as well, throat bobbing as she swallows. She glances at you in askance, readjusting her skirts. "How did your visit with $Title Nour go? I hope you were both able to relax, at least for a moment." You frown and Samira’s brows draw together in concern. You angle your head in her direction, your gaze rooted firmly to the blossoms in your palm. "My $sibling is getting married," you say. She stares at you for a moment, as if trying to gauge how she should react. "Oh?" she says finally. You turn away. "This has yet to be publicly announced, so you will not speak a word of this to anyone, but…" You tell her what Nour had explained to you—about $their match with $kTitle Kieran, about the ill-timing of everything, about $their departure after the first night of Thissys. Samira listens quietly, nodding along, her warm sienna eyes trained on your face. When you are finished, she is silent for a beat, her lips pursed together, before she speaks up. "I’m sorry," she says, voice soft. "How…how are you feeling?" "My $sibling is marrying; I should be happy for $them," you say, squaring your jaw. "Under normal circumstances, I would be." But instead you feel… <div class="choice">[[Furious.|Chp1-2furious]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Heartbroken.|Chp1-2heartbroken]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Numb.|Chp1-2numb]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Confused.|Chp1-2confused]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2flowerear") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedSam to $flirtedSam + 1>>\ <</if>>\ You draw in a breath, not daring to move as her fingertips graze your cheek, the flower’s stem sliding behind your ear, the soft touch of its velvet petals caressing your temple. When her eyes finally find yours, her breath hitches. Her hand remains frozen by the side of your face, as if only just now realizing the brazenness of her actions. After another moment of hesitation, she pulls away, her hand retreating to play at the edges of her hood. She gestures at the first blossom still cupped within your palm. "They take a few weeks to dry. I can fetch you some dried specimens in the meantime. I usually keep some on hand in my chambers." She pauses. "I could fetch you some to give to your $sibling, $Title Nour, as well? I’m...unaware of $their sleeping habits, but I would posit it’s always useful to have a sleep aid on hand regardless." You nod, slowly. "I’m sure $they would appreciate the gesture." Samira nods as well, throat bobbing as she swallows. She glances at you in askance, readjusting her skirts. "How did your visit with $Title Nour go? I hope you were both able to relax, at least for a moment." You frown and Samira’s brows draw together in concern. You angle your head in her direction, your gaze rooted firmly to the blossoms in your palm. "My $sibling is getting married," you say. She stares at you for a moment, as if trying to gauge how she should react. "Oh?" she says finally. You turn away. "This has yet to be publicly announced, so you will not speak a word of this to anyone, but…" You tell her what Nour had explained to you—about $their match with $kTitle Kieran, about the ill-timing of everything, about $their departure after the first night of Thissys. Samira listens quietly, nodding along, her sienna eyes trained on your face. When you are finished, she is silent for a beat, her lips pursed together, before she speaks up. "I’m sorry," she says, voice soft. "How…how are you feeling?" "My $sibling is marrying; I should be happy for $them," you say, squaring your jaw. "Under normal circumstances, I would be." But instead you feel… <div class="choice">[[Furious.|Chp1-2furious]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Heartbroken.|Chp1-2heartbroken]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Numb.|Chp1-2numb]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Confused.|Chp1-2confused]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2pinflower") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedSam to $flirtedSam + 1>>\ <</if>>\ Her head tilts to the side, her fingers diving beneath her hood and emerging with a small gold hair pin. Leaning forward, her fingers brushing against your chest, she pins the flower to the front of your $clothes, fastening it in place with her hair pin and straightening it a few times. Seemingly satisfied, she smooths a hand over the space just below your collarbone, where your chest meets your shoulder, ironing out minute wrinkles in the fabric of your $clothes. It is then that her eyes find yours, glancing up at you from beneath long fluttering lashes, and her breath hitches. She straightens at once. Clearing her throat, she gestures at the first blossom still cupped within your palm. "They take a few weeks to dry. I can fetch you some dried specimens in the meantime. I usually keep some on hand in my chambers." She pauses. "I could fetch you some to give to your $sibling, $Title Nour, as well? I’m...unaware of $their sleeping habits, but I would posit it’s always useful to have a sleep aid on hand regardless." You nod, slowly. "I’m sure $they would appreciate the gesture." Samira nods as well, throat bobbing as she swallows. She glances at you in askance, readjusting her skirts. "How did your visit with $Title Nour go? I hope you were both able to relax, at least for a moment." You frown and Samira’s brows draw together in concern. You angle your head in her direction, your gaze rooted firmly to the blossoms in your palm. "My $sibling is getting married," you say. She stares at you for a moment, as if trying to gauge how she should react. "Oh?" she says finally. You turn away. "This has yet to be publicly announced, so you will not speak a word of this to anyone, but…" You tell her what Nour had explained to you—about $their match with $kTitle Kieran, about the ill-timing of everything, about $their departure after the first night of Thissys. Samira listens quietly, nodding along, her sienna eyes trained on your face. When you are finished, she is silent for a beat, her lips pursed together, before she speaks up. "I’m sorry," she says, voice soft. "How…how are you feeling?" "My $sibling is marrying; I should be happy for $them," you say, squaring your jaw. "Under normal circumstances, I would be." But instead you feel… <div class="choice">[[Furious.|Chp1-2furious]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Heartbroken.|Chp1-2heartbroken]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Numb.|Chp1-2numb]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Confused.|Chp1-2confused]]</div>

None of it is fair. None of it makes sense. It is no surprise that Nour should be expected to marry into another royal or noble family, but to expect your $sibling to marry a //stranger,// the $kchild of your father’s enemy, for whom your $sibling holds no amount of affection—just what is your father thinking? It goes against everything a marriage has ever been—a uniting of families between friends or lovers or allies. It has always been custom that, even in arranged matches between nobility, the pair share some form of emotional loyalty, be it platonic devotion, romantic enchantment, or simply an alignment of minds and goals. A lack of loyalty makes a poor foundation for a family. And so it infuriates you that your $sibling is to be robbed of a traditional marriage, to be robbed of any choice in the matter, to be robbed of $their home, of $their family, of everything $they'<<ve>> ever known. And as for yourself—you are to be robbed of another sibling, after having just been robbed of four. And that, on top of it all, you’ve hardly any answers as to //why//. You grit your teeth, your fingers closing too firmly over the petals in your palm. "I just…don’t understand," is all you say. "What will you do?" Samira asks. "I’ll speak with my father." [[Continue|Chp1-2.4SamPray]]

Worry gnaws at your stomach, your chest seized by heartbreak. It hardly seems real. How can it be? You only just got back, and now Nour is to leave again? To go somewhere you will not be able to follow $them, somewhere surrounded by strange places, strange faces—faces that will surely hate $them. And how could they? They do not know Nour as you know $them, all soft smiles and awkward conversation and graceless bows—for your $sibling had never made good friends with balance or banter, preferring instead to accompany you and your siblings quietly during social gatherings and ceremonies. Who will rescue $them from such //scintillating// conversation with Lord So-And-So and Lady Such-And-Such when it is clear your $sibling is flailing for a graceful exit, if not you? Who will accompany $them to tea? Do they even host teatimes in Celestyl? Would anyone join your $sibling, or would $they always sit alone? Would $they be able to make friends, or will no one see past the fact that your $sibling is but an enemy held within their walls like a pretty bird in a cage, both a trophy and a hostage? And will you be allowed to visit? Will $they? And do you think, perhaps, that when $they <<are>> gone, will the palace here, at home, in Theia, forever feel so empty? So quiet? When you sit on that throne which should have seated your eldest brother—when you sit in his place, an empty $dynast in an empty palace, will the silence never cease unsettle you? Gone are the patter of seven pairs of feet upon sandstone floors. Gone are sounds of bickering that always heralded the arrival of the twins. Gone is the melodious tinkling of metal jewelry that accompanied your eldest sister as she walked. Gone is the thud of the butt-end of your eldest brother’s spear against stone as he paused to point out a bird to his retainers. And gone will be the telltale clang of another gold bangle falling loose from your $sibling’s hair, and the scuffle of $their feet as $they <<are>> forced to chase the fleeing hoop down the corridor. Seven pairs of feet. Now two. You swallow thickly, shaking your head as your fingers close over the petals in your palm. "It doesn’t seem real," you whisper. "What will you do?" Samira asks. "I’ll speak with my father." [[Continue|Chp1-2.4SamPray]]

You are, you think, still in shock. It hardly seems real. How can it? You had expected the news to affect you more than it has, but instead you are mostly filled with…//anticipation.// The //anticipation// of pain, of loss, of fury, of sorrow, of //anything// to hit you, like waiting for a weight strung up above you to come crashing down and leave you crushed hopelessly beneath it, unable to stand. It was as though you had spent years wading through glacial waters, every stiff step agony, every freezing breath torment, every loss the biting, stabbing, sting of ice against your skin. Until, so gradually you had not noticed its happening, the icy chill had sunk deep beneath your flesh, down, down, down into your very bones, settling there, heavy and cumbersome like stones. And you realized the sting no longer bothered you—you could not feel it. A staticy tingle, at most. Everything was mind-chillingly...numb. You shake your head, fingers closing over the petals in your palm. "It doesn’t seem real," is all you say. "What will you do?" Samira asks. "I’ll speak with my father." [[Continue|Chp1-2.4SamPray]]

Mostly, you are desperate for answers. It is unreasonable, irrational, surely, for your father to send your $sibling to Celestyl over you. Nour has already been coronated, after all. Your mind swims with so many questions, buzzing with the why, why, why, //why// of it all. You’ve hardly any room to feel anything else over the news right now. You shake your head, fingers closing over the petals in your palm. "I just don’t understand," is all you say. "What will you do?" Samira asks. "I’ll speak with my father." [[Continue|Chp1-2.4SamPray]]

"You want him to send you instead, don’t you?" You glance at her in askance, then lift your chin. "That’s...that's how it should have been in the first place," you say. She looks as though she wants to say something, but instead she goes quiet, turning to stare ahead of her, eyes unfocused. You open your mouth to speak when a sonorous gong reverberates through the air—once, twice, thrice—signaling the time for evening prayer. "Ah," you mutter. You had lost track of the time. "Should I escort you back to your room, Your Highness?" Samira asks. You usually spoke your evening prayers in the privacy of your chambers, sitting cross-legged on your prayer mat on your balcony, or—when you found yourself plagued with a headache and the evening sun was far too strong for your eyes—in the dark of your room, illuminated only by the glow of a few solitary candles. You shake your head. "No need," you say. You feared if you retired to your room now, you would not leave until morning, and you still needed to find Farah later, to speak to your father, and to pass along your permission to grant Aurynn access to the library’s vaults to the librarian. Plus, you still had a hefty stack of correspondence to sort through before bed. She nods. "Then, would you prefer to speak your prayers here?" "If you do not mind." She shakes her head and gathers up her legs beneath her, shifting to sit cross-legged on the stone bench and you do the same, placing a hand on either knee and closing your eyes. It is the same prayer you offer your goddess, Theia, every night—to watch over your family, both those She holds in Her Hallowed Halls and those who still walk the halls of the Solar palace. A prayer for your people, that this year might prove more bountiful than the last, that your people won’t suffer another year of famine and drought. And a prayer of apology, for all the ways in which you failed to keep your friend, your family, your people safe. Only this time you add another plea to your usual regiment. <div class="choice">[[Ask Theia to watch out for Nour.|Chp1-2praynour]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link 'You pray $kTitle Kieran never arrives.' 'Chp1-2praykieran'>><</link>></div>

//And if there is to be no other way around it, and Fate is to take Nour from me as well, please keep Your watchful eyes on $them and protect $them when I cannot, and if You are willing, guide $them back to me often, that I might not forget $their face nor the sound of $their voice.// You are pulled from your thoughts by the sound of soft footsteps sifting through sand. "Praying, are we?" a voice says. "Hope Theia hears them. She never hears mine." [[Continue|Chp1-2.4SamAurynnReturn]]

//And if You are so willing, please dash $kTitle Kieran’s ship against the rocks along the Obsidian Coast, that $kthey might not take my $sibling from $their home.// You pause, thinking perhaps that might be asking a bit too much. //Or, at the very least, if there is to be no other way around it and the Lunar $kTitle is to whisk my $sibling away no matter what, please, by Your grace, consider cursing $kTitle Kieran with a terrible allergy to living.// You are pulled from your thoughts by the sound of soft footsteps sifting through sand. "Praying, are we?" a voice says. "Hope Theia hears them. She never hears mine." [[Continue|Chp1-2.4SamAurynnReturn]]

Your eyes flutter open and you turn your head to see Aurynn striding towards you, twirling his glaive absently. He comes to a stop just a short distance from you, crossing one foot over the other as he leans his shoulder against a palm tree. He looks better than last you had seen him, though not by much—his hair, while still somewhat limp and damp, has been pinned back beneath his headdress. His skin has regained some of its glow, though there is still a tired, haggard look to his eyes, a droop to his posture that even his lazy grin cannot completely mask. "I didn’t know you prayed," you say. "I don’t," he says with a shrug. He notices you studying him and waves a dismissive hand at you. "I’m feeling better now. Sorry for ditching you like that." You frown, looking him over but he studiously avoids your gaze. Samira glances between the two of you. "Well…now that you’re here, do you want to pray with us?" she asks. "Nah," he says, blowing a breath out through his bottom lip, sending his hair fluttering. "I only get on my knees for one reason and one reason only. And the goddess ain’t it." Samira huffs out an annoyed breath. "Do you have to turn everything into an innuendo?" "Joke’s on you, priestess. I don’t even know what that means." "Theia grant me patience," she mutters, squeezing her eyes shut as she goes back to finishing her prayer, her lips moving wordlessly. "While you’re at it, can you ask the goddess to consider unbanning me from that little sweet shop across from the tailor’s? You know the one, yeah? In the city plaza? I miss that place. They made the best rice pudding and really, nowhere else can compare. I’m starting to think divine intervention is the only thing that will convince the owner to let me back in." Aurynn sighs wistfully. "The goddess does not entertain such requests," Samira says. "How’d you even get banned in the first place?" you ask. "Please don’t encourage him, Your Highness," Samira says. "...I, uh. Didn’t realize the owner’s wife was a monogamous married woman when I hit on her. Or that the other man working there was their son. Whom I also hit on," he says. "...And when I tried to hit on the owner to make things fair, I don’t think he took it very well." "Are you serious?" you ask. He nods his head sadly. You stare at him for a long moment before you roll your eyes, shaking your head as you climb to your feet and dust off the backs of your legs. Samira does the same after finishing her prayer. "Well," you say. "I suppose I should go find Farah. I promised her I’d find her after talking with Nour." Samira and Aurynn must catch the hesitance in your tone and the hard set to your brow because they exchange a brief look with each other. "You know," Aurynn says. "I’m sure she didn’t mean it. What she said. Just give her some time to cool off, yeah?" //’I hate you.’// Your stomach coils. You hope he is right; you don’t think you could bear it if your little sister truly hated you. "She asks after you all the time, you know," Samira adds, voice soft. "She does?" Aurynn nods, flipping around to lean his back against the tree. "Oh, yeah. My reports to her have started to become increasingly monotonous. You should really do something other than attend meetings all day and do paperwork some time. Give me something actually interesting to tell her about." "And I really do grow tired of lying to the little princess on your sleeping and eating habits, Your Highness," Samira says. "She’s taken to accompanying me to the kitchens to fetch you refreshments when I notice you’ve scarcely touched your meals and if I have to evade her attempts to ask me if you liked the pastries she picked out one more time, I might develop heart palpitations from the anxiety it’s giving me." <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") or not ($hairlength is "shaved") or not ($hairstyle is "headscarf")>>\ You aren’t quite sure how to respond, so you turn, busying your fingers in your hair. <<else>>\ You aren’t quite sure how to respond, so you turn, busying your fingers with the neckline of your $clothes. <<endif>>\ "Oh," you say quietly. Before Aurynn or Samira can say anything else, you turn on your heel and stride away, your feet carrying you to—if memory serves you correctly and time has not erased the habit—the place you suspect you will find your little sister. [[Continue|Chp1-2.5FindFarah]]

You round a corner, stepping around a large bed of speckled amethyst wildflowers, the soft woodsy scent of lavender hanging in the air. It didn’t take long to pick up on Farah’s trail as you already had an inkling as to where she might have headed. Her little footprints wind haphazardly along the sandy pathways and you follow them to a secluded corner of the gardens—a collection of large pruned shrubs surrounded by beds of jewel-like blossoms, sandstone benches, and a small gurgling bird bath. You recognize it as Castor’s and Ember’s favorite reading spot. Well, more accurately—//Castor’s// favorite reading spot. You’re pretty certain the only time you’d seen Ember lounging here with a book was when he was using it to shade his eyes while he napped. You hear Farah first—a few small sniffles, and when you creep closer, you find her wedged in the tight space between two bushes, sitting with her knees tucked up against her chest and her back to you. She has discarded her sandals, her bare feet dirtied and scuffed, and an acidic sour smell hangs about her. Aurynn and Samira hang back as your steps slow to a stop behind her. Farah tenses, head twitching in your direction. "Go away," she snaps. Her fingers play idly with a pebble, dirt and sand caked under her nails. "Can we talk?" you ask. She whips around, surprised. Upon seeing you, she cringes, shrinking back slightly before turning back around. After a moment, she shrugs. "I thought you were Lady Helia again," she mumbles. Approaching slowly, as if afraid she’ll spook, you step around her, wedging yourself between the bushes and settle down next to her. You fold your legs beneath you and glance at her sidelong. "You’re not gonna bite me again, are you, spitfire?" She wrinkles her nose at the nickname, but sniffs and shakes her head, her hair falling over her face as she continues to poke and prod at the sand, using her pebble as a sort of makeshift shovel. You watch her quietly for a while before you speak up again. "So. Are you gonna tell me what happened between you and Magnus?" She tenses visibly, grinding the pebble into the soil aggressively. "Nothing happened." "Farah." "We aren’t friends anymore," she growls through gritted teeth. "You said that before. What happened?" "...Ipnchdhm." "What?" "I pnchedhm." "//What?//" "I //said// I //punched// him," she snaps. "...And…and I also hit him over the head with a game board. But before you get mad at me for it, he deserved it. I’d do it again." You scrub a hand over your face and take a breath, letting it out slowly. "Okay," you say, eyeing her in askance. "Why did you punch him? And hit him over the head with a game board?" She scowls. "For talking shit." "//Farah.//" "//What?// It’s //true!// You weren’t there. He said Nour would make a weak $dynast—that $they <<are>>n’t fit to rule. And he said I couldn’t get mad ‘cause he knows it’s true because everyone’s saying it. And that that’s why Nour…why $they…" She trails off, looking uncertain. Sucking in a sharp breath, she shakes her head and tries again. "He said you and Nour are…are blood-drinkers. Like Grandmother." You can feel Farah peeking at you through the curtain of her hair out of the corners of your eyes. <div class="choice">[[It takes considerable effort to resist the dark frown that threatens to twist the corners of your mouth, but somehow you manage to compose your face into something studiously neutral.|Chp1-2.5FarahRumorsAloof]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Never having been good at masking your emotions, you fail to resist the dark frown that twists the corners of your mouth.|Chp1-2.5FarahRumorsSincere]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You try to resist the dark frown that threatens to twist the corners of your mouth, but after a moment, your features succumb to a scowl. You can piece together where she is going with this. It is, after all, your least favorite rumor since the deaths of your siblings.|Chp1-2.5FarahRumorsSincere]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It takes considerable effort to resist the dark frown that threatens to twist the corners of your mouth, but you manage to ease your face into something more carefully relaxed and nonchalant, though you don't think Farah misses the subtle narrowing of your eyes.|Chp1-2.5FarahRumorsManip]]</div>

<<set $grandmother to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-2.5FarahRumorsManip") <= 1>>\ <<notify 3s>>+ Manipulative, Grandmother Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <<set $manipulative += 1>>\ <</if>>\ "...Oh?" you say. She hurries on. "B-but you said Grandmother never drained //family.// She only did so with those Maia-worshipping Starfellans. To get stronger. To protect us." You nod. "He said that you and Nour…that you…" She makes a gesture like drawing a dagger over her wrist before bringing it to her mouth. "...from Parim. A-and Aurora, and Castor, and Ember." Her voice fades out to a whisper and she is silent a moment before vigorously shaking her head. "He’s a //liar,//" she seethes. She still stubbornly refuses to meet your gaze, crossing her arms over her crouched knees. "So I told him to shut up or I’d punch him," she says. "He didn’t shut up." You pause at that. You know the boy was likely only repeating what his father told him. You’ve heard the nobles gossiping yourself. It was one of the more relentless and unsavory rumors, whispered behind hands in hushed conversations as you passed by gawking courtiers who must surely think themselves clandestine—in the following stares, even, of your own soldiers, an unspoken question in their eyes. It was always something along the same vein. After all, until your grandmother’s death, she had been nearly akin to a God-Empress, supping on stolen ichor, her aura alone enough to drive men to their knees. And so, surely, it stands to reason you and Nour would not let your slain siblings’ precious ichor go to waste, even if it meant taking it from their corpses. Waste not, want not. Or worse still—an uglier rumor: some illicit plot, a deal made between you and Nour or you and your mothers. Four bodies in your way to the throne, four obstacles to be removed. You could so easily blame their deaths on the war—it had taken so many lives already. What were four more? And each corpse you climbed atop would only make felling the next easier, your appetite sated on the prior’s ichor. An illicit deal, yes, between you and Nour—$them, the $dynast, and you, $their right hand. Or! Perhaps an unfinished sinister plot on your part—one more $sibling standing between you and the throne. One more body to remove. Nour did not often get angry. But even your taciturn $sibling could not hold $their tongue when such rumors fell upon $their ears. It was one of the only times you had seen $them get truly furious, head snapping towards a pair of tittering, gawping courtiers, their scandalized whispers not nearly so covert as they had thought. You had not thought Nour’s soft face capable of such a wrathful scowl, nor $their gentle fingertips of such blistering heat. The court gossips had made sure to keep a greater distance after that. It isn’t the first time you have heard such rumors and you doubt it will be the last. Though, you are unsurprised that through a child’s imagination, your grandmother’s holy culling of Maian cultists from Starfell has become twisted into a picture of sanguinary appetite. There was, of course, no blood-drinking involved. Your grandmother’s methods for extracting ichor were, as your mother had explained to you, far more delicate and refined. Still, such comments about your $sibling grate at you. <div class="choice">[[You don’t hold your tongue when it comes to chastising gossipy nobles.|Chp1-2.5chastise]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Despite your anger, you hold your tongue when it comes to the nobles. You don’t want to make things harder for Nour.|Chp1-2.5holdtongue]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-2.5chastise") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational, + Imposing<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You’ve rarely been one to keep your opinions to yourself and so you don’t bother hiding your distaste for the more loose-lipped nobles at court. And even if it has earned you a reputation for being ill-mannered and impertinent, you have no regrets. You stare at Farah for a long time. Her fingernails bite into the flesh of her arms, her face shrouded by a tangle of messy, stringy hair. You know you probably should reprimand her—regardless of the boy’s comment, she shouldn’t go around beating up noblemens’ sons—but right now you can’t bring yourself to say anything. As a child, she can get away with what you would never be able to among gossipmongers. "Well?" she says. "Well?" "Are you going to yell at me? For punching him?" You are silent for a beat before you speak. "No," you say. You pause. "...Did you deck him pretty good at least?" The ghost of a smile flickers across Farah’s lips, but it is gone just as quickly. She nods. "I broke his nose." You nod slowly. "...Good." You both fall quiet and Farah goes back to picking at the dirt. After several moments, you speak up again. "Farah—" [[Continue|Chp1-2.5FarahAskNour]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2.5holdtongue") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified, + Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You know you will need the nobles’ support to help rebuild Theia with the war over now, and so you swallow your pride as Nour’s $sibling and avoid directly reprimanding the nobles who gossip about $them. It’s harder still to bite back your venom when the gossip turns to such unsavory rumors, your late siblings’ names passed back and forth in hushed exchanges, but as your mother would say, //’a convincing smile makes it all worth the while’//. So you mask your displeasure behind your most diplomatic smile and work on loosening the noble’s coffers instead. You stare at Farah for a long time. Her fingernails bite into the flesh of her arms, her face shrouded by a tangle of messy, stringy hair. You know you probably should reprimand her—regardless of the boy’s comment, she shouldn’t go around beating up noblemens’ sons—but right now you can’t bring yourself to say anything. As a child, she can get away with what you would never be able to among gossipmongers. "Well?" she says. "Well?" "Are you going to yell at me? For punching him?" "I //should,//" you say, then sigh. "But no. Just…don’t make a habit out of punching nobles. It won’t earn you many friends at court." She frowns, but does not protest further. You both fall quiet and Farah goes back to picking at the dirt. After several moments, you speak up again. "Farah—" [[Continue|Chp1-2.5FarahAskNour]]

<<audio ":playing" stop>>\ <<audio "sadpiano" loop play>>\ "Nour’s leaving," Farah blurts out, turning to face you fully. Her eyes are red and puffy, as though she has been crying for a while. "<<Are>>n’t $they?" Your mouth opens a few times only for you to shut it again. She watches you intently, face serious and expectant, but a tremor goes through her brow, as if she is holding back a reservoir of emotion, and you fear your answer will be what breaks the dam. Your shoulders sag and she immediately understands, turning swiftly away, chin trembling, crestfallen. "How did you know?" you ask quietly. She sniffs. Her eyes begin to water and she swipes a hand hastily at the base of her eyes. She tugs on her hair, pulling it around the sides of her face to shield herself from view. "I—" her voice breaks off in a squeak and she swallows, trying again. "I couldn’t sleep last night. I went to go find Father, to see if he might let me sit with him while he worked. But he was busy. I could hear shouting through his door. They sounded really angry. Then Nour’s mother stormed out, saying something about...about Nour a-and a ship and how she wouldn’t let Father or your mother get away with it." You frown. Nour’s mother, Lady Najaat, has always been especially pertinacious in her endeavors to better Nour’s and her own status at court, even at the expense of your siblings and your father’s other consorts. You know she must be beyond furious at this revelation, having her $child reduced from Crown $Title to political hostage in a matter of hours. Your own mother, while much more subtle in her scheming, has also always endeavored to improve your and her position at court, even if that sometimes meant pitting you indirectly against your siblings; you had made it clear you did not approve of her meddling in your siblings’ affairs, but you know that has not stopped her entirely from doing so. She has just taken to doing so…more delicately. Your brow furrows and you wonder if she might have anything to do with the decision to select Nour for the match with $kTitle Kieran. You’ll have to find her later. Beside you, Farah hiccups and draws in a shaky breath. "I wanted to know if it was true. If Nour really was leaving. I haven’t been able to ask $them since I heard that fight—$they’<<ve>> been too busy. I…I figured that was what $they <<were>> going to talk to you about. When you got $their letter." She picks up the pebble she’d been playing with, rolling it over into the center of her palm. She stares at it for a few moments, then balls her fists. Gritting her teeth, she hurls it over the bush where it sinks into the soft sandy pathway. "And it //is// true! $They’<<re>> leaving! //Again.//" She whips around to face you. "And what about you? Are you leaving again, too? Are you leaving with Nour?" You swallow. "No, Farah. I’m not leaving." "Where’s Nour going? For how long? And //why?//" "To Celestyl. For a…for a marriage match. With the Lunar Crown $kTitle." "So $they’<<re>> going to go live in Celestyl?" she turns away again, a scowl tugging at her lips. You look away, your mouth dry. "Yes." "...When <<are>> $they leaving?" "Next week. Nour wants to talk to you about this tonight—" She interrupts you with a screech, pounding her heels into the sand repeatedly. After a moment she heaves a deep breath and ducks her head between her knees, hugging her arms around her lanky legs. Her knuckles turn white as her fingernails dig into her calves, leaving crescent-shaped indents in her skin. She mumbles something, but it is muffled against her legs. You tentatively reach out and place a hand against her shoulder. "What was that?" you ask, your voice low and soft, like you are talking to a scared animal. She tilts her head slightly and speaks again, voice shaky. "You both //just// got back. You //just// got back. You said you were coming //home//. You’re supposed to //stay.// //Here//." "Farah…" She shakes her head and shrugs your hand off her shoulder. "You //promised.// You’re a liar. You all promised, you all did. You’re all //liars.//" She begins to rock back and forth. "You said you’d come home for my tenth birthday. You said you'd come see me. You’re a liar." she whispers. Your throat feels thick and you have trouble swallowing. "I said I would //try.// And I wanted to, Farah. We all did. We just—" "I was so angry when no one came. Not one of you. Even though you said you would. Even though you promised. //Nobody// came. Not even Magnus. He was visiting his aunt." She bites her lip. "It was //mortifying.//" Her nails dig deeper into her legs, hard enough to break the skin and you have to rip her hands away. "Stop that!" you say. Her fingers stay poised above her legs, stiff and bent at the knuckles, twitching as if itching to bite into her flesh again. "I…I only wanted…" She trails off, shaking her head and swipes the back of her hand across her nose. "I stopped sending letters. I didn’t want to speak to any of you." A pained gurgling sound climbs out of her throat and she chokes, sniffing loudly. "Ember and Castor promised they’d come home for my eleventh birthday, to make up for missing my tenth. They sent me a letter saying so. They said we’d have a picnic in the garden with mother, like we used to every year when I was little," she says. "Castor swore he’d come even if he had to walk all the way home. Ember said they’d cut off their own foot before missing it," she sucks in a sharp breath, her voice pitching higher. "They both kept their promise, I guess. Just not how I’d expected them to." A strangled sob squeaks out of her throat and she bites down on her fist to stifle it. With her other hand, she reaches into one of the pockets in her little red dress and fishes out a pair of matching lockets. //The twins’.// She holds them out to you, her face still buried in her knees and you take them from her, turning them over in your hand. Two gold lockets, one for each twin, with the initials //E. A.// and //C. A.// engraved into the back of each one. "Those arrived the day before my birthday," she chokes on a breath, her chest heaving violently as her shoulders begin to shake with heavy, shuddering sobs. "M-mother has barely said a word since the news. She’s locked herself in her room and hasn’t left in months. She just sits by the window all day. She doesn’t even seem to notice when I’m there." You close your hand tightly around the lockets, the cool metal chain digging into your flesh. <div class="choice">[[Your own chin begins to tremble, and a silent tear rolls down your cheek.|Chp1-2.5crygentle]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You bite down on your lip, trying to keep your chin from trembling. You take a deep, noiseless breath, squaring your shoulders.|Chp1-2.5dignified]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You bite down on your lip hard enough to hurt. Every reminder of the loss of your siblings fills you with a cold anger. You take a deep, noiseless breath, squaring your shoulders.|Chp1-2.5imposing]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You bite down on your lip hard enough to hurt. Every reminder of the loss of your siblings infuriates you. You take a deep, noiseless breath, squaring your shoulders.|Chp1-2.5confrontational]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You bite down on your lip, trying to keep your chin from trembling, your mind racing to jump from one distraction to another, anything to keep yourself together.|Chp1-2.5charismatic]]</div>

<<set $soleil to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-2.5crygentle") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify 3s>>+ Gentle, Lady Soleil Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Farah rocks, twisting her bare feet into the sand as she shakes her head, grinding her forehead against her knees. "Mother doesn’t talk anymore. Father barely speaks to me—he never has time for me between all his meetings. Same with Nour; $they’<<re>> always busy. And so are you. Even though you’re back it’s like you might as well not even be here. And all of you…you barely talk about them anymore. Parim, Aurora, Castor, Ember…" she chants their names, as if trying to commit them to memory, banging her head against her knees with each name uttered. "It’s like you all want to pretend they never existed. Like you all just want to forget." She looks up at you, her red-brown hair tangled and matted to her face. Tears carve their way down her swollen red cheeks. "They were //real.// I don’t want to pretend like they never existed. I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to forget them," she whimpers. <div class="choice">[[You slide closer, wrapping your arms around her.|Chp1-2.5hugfarah]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You freeze, unsure of what to do, of how to comfort her.|Chp1-2.5awkward]]</div>

<<set $soleil to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-2.5dignified") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<notify 3s>>+ Dignified, Lady Soleil Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Farah rocks, twisting her bare feet into the sand as she shakes her head, grinding her forehead against her knees. "Mother doesn’t talk anymore. Father barely speaks to me—he never has time for me between all his meetings. Same with Nour; $they’<<re>> always busy. And so are you. Even though you’re back it’s like you might as well not even be here. And all of you…you barely talk about them anymore. Parim, Aurora, Castor, Ember…" she chants their names, as if trying to commit them to memory, banging her head against her knees with each name uttered. "It’s like you all want to pretend they never existed. Like you all just want to forget." She looks up at you, her red-brown hair tangled and matted to her face. Tears carve their way down her swollen red cheeks. "They were //real.// I don’t want to pretend like they never existed. I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to forget them," she whimpers. <div class="choice">[[You slide closer, wrapping your arms around her.|Chp1-2.5hugfarah]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You freeze, unsure of what to do, of how to comfort her.|Chp1-2.5awkward]]</div>

<<set $soleil to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-2.5imposing") <= 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify 3s>>+ Imposing, Lady Soleil Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Farah rocks, twisting her bare feet into the sand as she shakes her head, grinding her forehead against her knees. "Mother doesn’t talk anymore. Father barely speaks to me—he never has time for me between all his meetings. Same with Nour; $they’<<re>> always busy. And so are you. Even though you’re back it’s like you might as well not even be here. And all of you…you barely talk about them anymore. Parim, Aurora, Castor, Ember…" she chants their names, as if trying to commit them to memory, banging her head against her knees with each name uttered. "It’s like you all want to pretend they never existed. Like you all just want to forget." She looks up at you, her red-brown hair tangled and matted to her face. Tears carve their way down her swollen red cheeks. "They were //real.// I don’t want to pretend like they never existed. I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to forget them," she whimpers. <div class="choice">[[You slide closer, wrapping your arms around her.|Chp1-2.5hugfarah]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You freeze, unsure of what to do, of how to comfort her.|Chp1-2.5awkward]]</div>

<<set $soleil to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-2.5confrontational") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational += 1>>\ <<notify 3s>>+ Confrontational, Lady Soleil Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Farah rocks, twisting her bare feet into the sand as she shakes her head, grinding her forehead against her knees. "Mother doesn’t talk anymore. Father barely speaks to me—he never has time for me between all his meetings. Same with Nour; $they’<<re>> always busy. And so are you. Even though you’re back it’s like you might as well not even be here. And all of you…you barely talk about them anymore. Parim, Aurora, Castor, Ember…" she chants their names, as if trying to commit them to memory, banging her head against her knees with each name uttered. "It’s like you all want to pretend they never existed. Like you all just want to forget." She looks up at you, her red-brown hair tangled and matted to her face. Tears carve their way over swollen red cheeks. "They were //real.// I don’t want to pretend like they never existed. I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to forget them," she whimpers. <div class="choice">[[You slide closer, wrapping your arms around her.|Chp1-2.5hugfarah]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You freeze, unsure of what to do, of how to comfort her.|Chp1-2.5awkward]]</div>

<<set $soleil to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-2.5charismatic") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic += 1>>\ <<notify 3s>>+ Charismatic, Lady Soleil Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Farah rocks, twisting her bare feet into the sand as she shakes her head, grinding her forehead against her knees. "Mother doesn’t talk anymore. Father barely speaks to me—he never has time for me between all his meetings. Same with Nour; $they’<<re>> always busy. And so are you. Even though you’re back it’s like you might as well not even be here. And all of you…you barely talk about them anymore. Parim, Aurora, Castor, Ember…" she chants their names, as if trying to commit them to memory, banging her head against her knees with each name uttered. "It’s like you all want to pretend they never existed. Like you all just want to forget." She looks up at you, her red-brown hair tangled and matted to her face. Tears carve their way down her swollen red cheeks. "They were //real.// I don’t want to pretend like they never existed. I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to forget them," she whimpers. <div class="choice">[[You slide closer, wrapping your arms around her.|Chp1-2.5hugfarah]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You freeze, unsure of what to do, of how to comfort her.|Chp1-2.5awkward]]</div>

You slide closer, pressing yourself up against her and wrap your arms tightly around her. She collapses against you, her whole body trembling as she wails. "I’m sorry," you whisper, rocking with her. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry." You fold her closer against your chest. Her little hand finds your arm and she clings to it. "I’m sorry," she bawls. "I know I make things harder for you and you can’t get any work done because of me. I just wanted to be near you." She lifts her head to look at you, her brow pinched with worry, her hand squeezing your arm hard enough to hurt. "I didn’t mean it—what I said before. I don’t hate you; I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t hate me. I didn’t mean it, I //swear.//" You smooth a thumb over her brow, trying to ease away the knot there. "I know you didn’t mean it. I don’t hate you. I could never hate you, Farah." She lowers her head and begins to cry harder. "You should. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was Parim’s tea set. I’m so sorry. I didn't know. I didn't know it was his," she sobs, her voice sounding hoarse and painful to use. "I’ll fix it, I promise. I swear I’ll fix it. I didn’t mean it." You drop your chin to the top of her head, running a hand over her hair. "I don’t hate you," you say. A pang of hurt seizes your chest at the mention of Parim’s tea set again. You aren’t sure there is any fixing it, but you don’t say this. It is now among a long list of things you have lost. "Hey, don’t…don’t worry about the tea set. It’s...it's okay. I know you didn’t mean it." She shakes her head but doesn’t say anything. Instead, she clings to you, her grip almost painful, as she cries until she cannot cry anymore, and when her sobs finally subside, her body sagging against yours, the two of you sit together just breathing against each other for a long while, the taste of salt fresh on your tongue. Eventually, Farah’s breathing begins to even out; you nudge her gently and she slowly peels herself away from you, rubbing her eyes as if she had briefly fallen asleep. [[Continue|Chp1-2.5FarahGetUp]]

Your hand hovers over her shoulder before you pull it back, biting your lip and feeling distinctly awkward. This sort of thing has always been best left to Nour; $they <<were>> always much better at comforting than you. //Okay, just think. What would Nour do right now?// You scoot closer to Farah and wrap an arm around her shoulders. She immediately collapses against you, her whole body trembling as she wails. Her little hand finds your arm and she clings to it. "I’m sorry," she bawls. "I know I make things harder for you and you can’t get any work done because of me. I just wanted to be near you." She lifts her head to look at you, her brow pinched with worry, her hand squeezing your arm hard enough to hurt. "I didn’t mean it—what I said before. I don’t hate you; I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t hate me. I didn’t mean it, I //swear.//" You stiffly pat her arm. "I know you didn’t mean it. I don’t hate you, Farah." She lowers her head and begins to cry harder. "You should. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was Parim’s tea set. I’m so sorry. I didn't know. I didn't know it was his," she sobs, her voice sounding hoarse and painful to use. "I’ll fix it, I promise. I swear I’ll fix it. I didn’t mean it." A pang of hurt seizes your chest at the mention of Parim’s tea set again. You aren’t sure there is any fixing it, but you don’t say this. It is now among a long list of things you have lost. "Hey, don’t…don’t worry about the tea set," you say. "I don’t hate you. I promise." She shakes her head but doesn’t say anything. Instead, she clings to you, her grip almost painful, as she cries until she cannot cry anymore, and when her sobs finally subside, her body sagging against yours, the two of you sit together just breathing against each other for a long while. Eventually, Farah’s breathing begins to even out; you nudge her gently and she slowly peels herself away from you, rubbing her eyes as if she had briefly fallen asleep. [[Continue|Chp1-2.5FarahGetUp]]

<<set $farahdivination to true>>\ You pat her on the back. "Come," you say. "Let’s get you to your room so you can sleep for a bit. Nour will come find you later." You try to take her hand to pull her up with you, but she pulls away, shaking her head. She swipes the back of her hand across her nose and sniffs. "No," she croaks. "I don’t want to go to sleep." "You’re clearly tired, spitfire. You were just falling asleep not even a moment ago," you tease gently. When she doesn’t respond, you poke her in the shoulder and she squirms away. "I don’t want to go to sleep," she repeats. You frown, leaning in to scrutinize her more closely. She makes a face and tries to turn away, but you plant both hands on either side of her face and turn her towards you, brushing aside her stringy, snarled hair. Perhaps you hadn’t been able to tell in the dim lighting of your room earlier, or perhaps you had been too tired yourself to notice, but looking at her more closely now you can see just how exhausted she looks. Dark baggy circles hang heavy beneath her drooping eyelids and her face looks gaunt and pale. You narrow your eyes at her. "Farah, when was the last time you slept?" She shrugs and tries to squirm away again. "//Farah.//" She pouts her lip and sighs. "I dunno. Maybe the day before yesterday. Or maybe the day before that? I don’t remember." "Why haven’t you been sleeping?" She wriggles out of your grip and props herself into a crouching position, hugging her arms around herself. "I don’t like to," she says. "...I have nightmares." "Oh," you say, and it sounds dumb coming out of your mouth, but you can think of little else to say as your brother’s mangled throat flashes once more through your mind. You swallow, eyes flitting to her. "I get them too, sometimes." She glances at you from the corners of her eyes before her gaze falls back to the dirt. "...They feel really real." You nod. "Yeah," you say. "Yeah. They do." "Sometimes I think…" she trails off, biting her lip and tries again. "I had a dream about Castor. Soon after he and Ember sent me their letter saying they’d come home. He…he was walking somewhere. But I didn’t recognize where. It didn’t look like he was walking home. I couldn’t see Ember anywhere. And Castor…he looked so…I’ve never seen him look like that before. He wouldn’t listen to his retainers, either—they kept pulling at him but he just shook them off. I woke up feeling sick. I was so nauseous I couldn’t get out of bed for days. That was just a few weeks before those arrived," she says, gesturing to the lockets wrapped around your fist. "I had lots of dreams like that, while you guys were gone. Mother said they were just nightmares, but…sometimes they felt really, really…//real.//" Your pause at that, brow furrowing as you examine her again in more detail. Often difficult to recognize the signs, foresight is a subtle art that manifests differently for different people, the manner by which one receives their premonitions varying greatly from person to person. Has she begun to develop premonitions as well? She stares back at you, quiet and expectant, in her eyes a silent plea—a plea for you to believe her. "They feel kind of like…warnings," you say. "Of something that hasn’t happened yet." Her whole demeanor shifts instantly, her sagging shoulders straightening as she turns to face you. She nods. "I don’t know what to do," she whispers. You wish you did as well. Still, you offer her a stiff, reassuring smile and ruffle her hair. "I’ll teach you." "Promise?" "Promise." "Pinky swear?" You link your pinky with hers. "Pinky swear." She nods, satisfied. You pick yourself up with a grunt, dusting off your clothes. You hold a hand out to Farah and pull her up. "Well," you say. "Let’s get you off to a nap now, alright? Nour will be looking for you soon." She nods. Bending down, she fishes her sandals out from beneath the bush and puts them on, weaving her way back out from between her hiding place and onto the sandy path. You follow and catch her by the elbow before she can keep going. "Hey—!" You shush her. She looks a mess, covered in sand, her hair falling limply in twisted tangles, and it is now you notice a messy wet stain along the front of her dress. "What happened here?" you ask, gesturing at her sullied dress. She glances down, blanching, lowering her head and looking as though she’d very much like to shrink in on herself. She tries to squirm out of your grip but you don't let her. "...I threw up," she says quietly. "...Oh," you say. That explains the smell. "That’s alright. Let’s get you to your room and get you cleaned up." Though, you can’t have her traipsing about the palace looking like she’d climbed out of a pit in the ground. She is a princess, after all. You comb your fingers through her ratty hair, trying to work out the worst of the knots and make her look at least somewhat presentable. "What are you doing?" Farah tries to pull away again but you catch her by the shoulders and hold her in place. "Stay still." She relents with a huff. You scrub the dirt from her cheeks, dust the back of her dress off, pin her hair in place as best you can, and step back, but not before tweaking her nose. She glares at you. "What was that for?" "Your nose was crooked." "No it wasn’t." Despite herself, she reaches up to feel the bridge of her nose. "Well it isn’t anymore. I fixed it for you." Farah narrows her eyes at you suspiciously but doesn’t argue. You turn and begin to lead her back through the gardens, Aurynn and Samira taking notice and trailing at a distance behind the two of you, but not before Samira offers Farah the thin marigold throw she usually keeps draped over one arm. Farah tries to protest that she’ll get it dirty, but Samira shushes her and drapes it over Farah’s head like a hood, wrapping it snugly around her shoulders like a cloak. Farah stays an arm’s length from you and regards you quietly as you walk, an unspoken question in her eyes as she glances towards your hand. "What is it, spitfire?" Her eyes dart uncertainly to yours. It takes her a moment to find her voice. "Can…can I hold your hand?" <div class="choice">[[You nod, holding your hand out to her.|Chp1-2.5holdhand]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You swallow and avert your eyes. "Come now, aren’t you a bit old for that?"|Chp1-2.5old]]</div>

She steps forward tentatively, her hand slipping into yours. She hesitates only a moment before huddling against your side, her other hand coming up to cling to your forearm, and it is like she is six years old again—that little girl who would wrap herself around your legs when you came to visit, laughing as you stumbled down palace corridors, and again when it was time for you to leave as she would cling to you and cry and beg you to stay. You make your way back to the palace interior and deposit Farah at her bedroom door, giving her a nudge inside. "Go on." She takes a step inside, then turns around to face you. "Will you stay? Just until I fall asleep? Mother used to, but now…" she trails off. "...I don’t like being alone." "Alright," you say. [[Continue|Chp1-2.5FarahRoom]]

She blinks and shrinks back, her throat bobbing as her face warms. Nodding slowly, she steps back and bunches her fists around the fabric of Samira’s throw instead, pulling it more securely around her as she lowers her head and trails behind you. You make your way back to the palace interior and deposit Farah at her bedroom door, giving her a nudge inside. "Go on." She takes a step inside, then turns around to face you. "Will you stay? Just until I fall asleep? Mother used to, but now…" she trails off. "...I don’t like being alone." "Alright," you say. [[Continue|Chp1-2.5FarahRoom]]

<<set $talkedtofarah to "garden">>\ You steer her into her bedroom, slipping in behind her while Aurynn slides the door shut behind you, waiting outside with Samira. For a child’s bedroom, it is surprisingly sparse and uncluttered, looking hardly lived in. The sandstone floor, bedecked in sprawling embroidered rugs, is otherwise pristine, unbothered by stray clothes or games. The toy chest at the foot of her bed remains firmly shut. Her unmade bed, positioned just beneath a large gilded window, is the only evidence to suggest she spends any time here at all. Ushering her across the room, you nudge her behind the dressing screen and move to rummage through her wardrobe, pulling a loose indigo nightgown from its hanger and draping it over the top of the folding screen. You should insist she draw a bath first, but you hardly think she’d be able to stay awake long enough to clean herself up. You decide it won’t hurt to leave it till the morning. Instead, you wet a washcloth and drape that over the folding screen as well, telling her to wipe up before changing into her nightclothes. She doesn’t reply, but you see the washcloth disappear over the side of the screen. On the small stool beside her wardrobe, you set Ember's and Castor's lockets down, your fingers ghosting over the cool metal as you pull back. After a long moment, you drag your gaze away. You make your way over to her bed while you wait, drawing back the thick blankets and sitting down on the edge of the mattress. As you fluff the pillows, a stack of parchment tumbles off the side of the bed, scattering in a pile at your feet, and your hands chase them to the floor as you crouch down to pick them up. They are, you realize, all letters addressed to Farah. Letters from you. From Nour. From Castor and Ember, from Aurora and Parim. They span years—all written in the quiet, cold hours of the night by the dim flickering light of a candle, by weary hands gripping a quivering quill, beneath a canvas war tent somewhere far, far from home. Wrinkled and well worn, the edges feathery and torn, as if they have been read many, many times over. You open one of the letters—it is from Parim. Your fingers ghost over the fine paper, the long swooping curves of his handwriting, his signature. Sifting through the stack, you find letters from your other siblings, prying them open delicately just to see where their hands had touched paper, to trace your fingertips over Aurora’s thick and rigid writing, over Castor’s elegant prose, over Ember’s messy meandering scrawl he’d had the gall to call legible. Farah approaches quietly, her feet coming to a stop beside you, her eyes on the parchment in your hands. <<cycle "$readletters" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__You hadn’t realized you were crying until a tear slips from your cheek to the letter clutched between your fingers, staining the paper. Sniffling, you hurriedly swipe at your eyes and lean forward to gather up the rest of the letters from the floor, sliding them back beneath her pillow.__''" "cry">> <<option "''__Biting back any reaction, you swallow thickly, and hurriedly lean forward, ducking your face out of view as you gather up the rest of the letters from the floor, sliding them back beneath her pillow.__''" "stoic">> <<option "''__Swallowing thickly, you force a tight smile to your face for Farah’s sake and pat her side, urging her towards the bed. Leaning forward to duck your face from view, you hurriedly finish gathering up the rest of the letters from the floor, sliding them back beneath her pillow.__''" "smile">> <</cycle>> You pull the blankets over her as she slips into bed and lays down facing away from you, curling up with her fists beside her head and biting down on the side of her thumb. She is quiet for a long time, so long you think she must have fallen asleep. You begin to stand when she pipes up. "Did they think I hated them?" she whispers. You sink back down, the woven papyrus reeds of the bed frame dipping beneath your weight. You glance at the weathered parchment sticking out from beneath her pillow. "No," you say. "I didn’t hate any of you," she says, and it sounds almost like a plea. "I was just angry." "I know." She rolls over to look at you. "Will you still be here? When I wake up?" she asks. "You aren’t leaving too?" "I’ll be here." She nods slowly after a moment, then rolls back over. Her hand slips beneath her pillow, seeking the stack of paper beneath, a movement so natural you’d think she must have done it a thousand times. You hear her begin to murmur a prayer under her breath, her voice just the ghost of a whisper. It is a prayer for forgiveness; you know because it is one you have uttered many times before—a plea to your goddess to carry your voice through Her Hallowed Hall of Souls in the hopes that your pleas for absolution and your promises of atonement might reach the ears of those who no longer tread the same halls you do. A brother, a sister, a friend. //Forgive me.// It is not long until Farah’s breathing evens out, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. You ease off the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb her and make your way to the other side of the room, slipping into the hallway and closing the door quietly behind you. [[Continue|Chp1-3Cont]]

Your attendants perk up as you step out of Farah’s room, Samira’s head swiveling toward you as Aurynn pushes away from the wall he had been leaning against. You say nothing, but bid them to follow with a small, beckoning gesture. It isn’t until you’ve put a small distance between yourself and Farah’s room that you explain to Samira and Aurynn—who had fallen quietly into step behind you—your intention to call on your mother in her study. At this hour, you are unlikely to secure an audience with your father. Your mother, on the other hand, usually takes her evenings in solitude. And whether what Farah had told you she’d heard is true—if your mother truly was involved in your father’s decision to renounce Nour as his heir and marry $them off to the Lunar $kTitle—you plan to find out yourself. <<if $dunkedbyaurynn is true>>\ Your mother, meticulous as she is when it comes to fashion, would throw a fit if she caught you walking about the palace as you are, so you stop briefly by your room first to clean up and change out of your $clothes, still slightly damp and dusted with a persistent layer of sand from your impromptu tumble into the fountain with Aurynn. It is in your best interest to avoid any unnecessary distractions—your mother can be so flighty with her attention when she wants to be. You’d rather not take up so much of it with an overly unruly appearance. <<endif>>\ You’ve avoided calling upon your mother in her study since your return, and thus far, you’ve managed to evade her numerous attempts to summon you there. You had explained it away as being simply too busy to sit and visit with her—which was not entirely untrue. You really //haven’t// had the time for leisure. In truth, though, the reason for your evasiveness was only that you had wanted to avoid the very corridor you find yourself in now. There is no other way around it to your mother’s study, this hall. It isn’t as though you haven’t once set foot in this corridor since your return. See, there are times when you forget—when you find yourself poring over correspondence while you walk, and, unsure how to deal with a particularly plucky noble’s requests, you find your feet have lead you here, your fist poised to knock at Parim’s bedroom door to ask his advice, only to freeze before your knuckles rap sharply against acacia. Forgetting is what comes easiest—it’s remembering what stings like a barb through your chest. [[Continue|Chp1-3.1RememberParimAurora]]

<<set $chp1aurynnsaidcantsing to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-2secret") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 2>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Hmm." You tilt your head to one side, tapping a finger to your chin thoughtfully. Eyeing Aurynn in askance, you shoot him a playful grin. "Then as for my favor, why don’t you tell me a secret about yourself. Something you’ve never told anyone." He quirks an eyebrow, a slow, amused smile spreading across his face. "A secret, hm? Nosy, are we?" Leaning back on your arms, you nod. "And before you think of trying to wriggle out of this by telling me something super mundane like //’I can’t whistle’//, let me add the condition that it has to be a //good// one." He breaks into a grin, eyes twinkling. "Alright, deal," he says. Bringing a long, slender finger to his lips, he makes a big show of mulling it over. "Now, let’s see…" After a long drawn out pause, he finally lifts a finger triumphantly. "Ah! How’s this? I’m a //terrible// singer. Completely tone-deaf." You deflate. "Hm. I said a //good// one." "Oh, I’m sorry, that wasn’t juicy enough for you?" You scrunch up your face, holding out your hand as you make a //’so-so’// gesture. "What? That was hard for me to admit," he says with a pout, though it is quickly replaced with a cocksure grin as he flips his hair. "It’s the only thing I’m bad at, really." "I’m pretty sure you’re terrible at at least a few other things, if your little mishap in Renarys is anything to go off of. You remember the one? Involving a farm girl and a crocodile? Really, I’ve never seen someone mess up a pick-up line that badly—" Aurynn claps a hand over your mouth. "You promised you’d never bring that up again!" You duck out from beneath his hand. "No one’s around; what’s the harm? It’s not like anyone’s going to hear about the time you—" He hisses out a //’shhhhh’// through gritted teeth, his hands flailing for a moment as if he is resisting the urge to strangle you. When you only begin to talk louder, he yanks off one of his gloves and slaps you across the face with it. "//Shut up!//" he whispers. You blink. You’re less taken aback by his dainty slap than you are by the fact that he ripped off one of his gloves. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him without a pair. You glance down at his hand, expecting to find it bare, but to your surprise, it is still gloved. Both are. You raise an eyebrow. "Wha—? How many pairs of gloves are you //wearing?//" "A perfectly reasonable and respectable amount," he says, fixing you with an angry pout as he stuffs his hand back into the glove, yanking it over his wrist with more force than necessary. Leaning forward, incredulous, you point a finger at his hands. "Don’t your hands get super hot and sweaty in those? I mean—" "//Thank you// for your concern, but what my hands do and don’t get up to is none of your business and at this rate it never will be." He huffily crosses his arms, folding his legs primly one over the other. "Now, if you are quite finished, I believe you had a little interrogation you wanted to conduct, yes? Let’s get on with it, shall we? Some of us don’t have all day." "Got somewhere better to be? It’s literally your job to follow me around all day." "It’s //literally// my job to keep your pretentious ass from getting //killed//. And who knows? Maybe today’s the day we’ll find out singing isn’t the only thing I’m //quite. Bad. At.//" "//Ooh.// Threatening a $title is tantamount to treason, you know?" He offers you a warning smile, brows twitching. "//Just-ask-your-stupid-fucking-questions.// Or I’ll kill myself." [[Continue|Chp1-2.3Interrogate]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2delivery") <= 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative + 2>>\ <<notify>>+ Manipulative<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You pause for a moment, thinking, then fish two envelopes out of your $clothes. Clutching them between your middle and index fingers, you extend them out to Aurynn. "Then, as for my favor," you say. "I need you to make a delivery for me. Give //this one// to Lord Oleander—" you gesture at one of the envelopes. "And give //this one// to Lady Savannah. It’s very important that you don’t mix them up. Look, they’re clearly color-coded—purple is for Lord Oleander and green is for Lady Savannah. Even you shouldn’t be able to mess this up." He narrows his eyes. "I feel like that part wasn’t necessary." You continue as if you had not heard him. "Now this is important—find them when they aren’t busy with something or anywhere in the vicinity of each other. I want them to read the letters separately //right// after you hand it to each of them. So don’t go too far after you deliver the letter—they should flag you down and tell you there’s been a mistake. Apologize profusely—tell them you must have gotten the letter mixed up with another, or some other excuse. That part doesn’t matter as much." He regards the letters with suspicion, tentatively taking them from your outstretched fingers. "This is all sounding increasingly convoluted. Is this another one of your schemes? What am I getting roped into?" "Unimportant. Just make sure you don’t mess it up. Remember, purple for Lord Oleander, green for Lady Savannah." "You know, I said a //small// favor. Like something I could do right here and now? Not…whatever this is." "Shall I tell the librarian to keep an extra watchful eye on you in the vaults, then? Just to be sure you don’t damage anything?" He sighs. "//Fine.// What exactly is all this for?" You tap a fingernail against one of the envelopes. "Each of them is addressed to the wrong person, thanking Lord Oleander and Lady Savannah for their donations to my father’s rebuilding funds for those villages most affected by Celestyl’s razing and pillaging, and thanking them for the highest contribution," you explain. "The two have quite the rivalry—if possible, glance over the letter after they hand it back to you. Confide in them the other’s pride would be //sorely// wounded if they did not have the highest donation. They’ll both come flocking with their coffers wide open. I’ll handle the rest." Quirking an eyebrow, he stares at the envelopes for a long moment. "Devious," he says. "I like it. Alright, sure, whatever. I’ll make sure they get delivered." "Just remember—" "Yeah, yeah, green for Oleander, purple for Savannah." "What? No. It’s—" He fixes you with a dry look. "//Kidding.//" He pockets the letters without breaking eye contact, and you lift your chin, nodding slowly. Shifting to cross his legs primly one over the other, he flips a hand through his hair. "Now, I believe you had a little interrogation you wanted to conduct, yeah? Well, let’s get on with it, then." [[Continue|Chp1-2.3Interrogate]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2teaset") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle, + Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Then, as for my favor," you say, voice unsure. You turn to look at him. "Do you think you could see if anything can be done about Parim’s tea set? The one Farah broke earlier?" You’re unsure if there’s any salvaging it, but you thought you’d ask anyway. "Ah," he says. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "Sam would know more about that kind of thing than I would. I’ll ask her." You turn away and nod. "Thank you," you say, quietly. "Sure," he replies. You sit in silence for a while, until Aurynn clears his throat softly, crossing his legs primly one over the other. "I believe you had a little interrogation you wanted to conduct, yeah? Ready?" Swallowing, you nod, and shift to face him. [[Continue|Chp1-2.3Interrogate]]

<<if visited("Chp1-2scoot") <= 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You inch away, disentangling yourself from his arm. He lets you pull away, looking unbothered as he props an elbow on his knee and rests his chin against his fist. <div class="choice">[[“Then, as for my favor, tell me a secret.”|Chp1-2secret]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Then, as for my favor, I have something I need you to do for me.”|Chp1-2delivery]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Then, as for my favor…could you look into getting Parim’s tea set fixed?”|Chp1-2teaset]]</div>

You bend down, clutching at the shards as you gather up the closest few in your hands. Your hands shake as you ghost your fingers over the jagged, broken edges, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes. You glance up at Farah, who looks almost as bewildered as you, her brow drawn tight over her eyes. Standing slowly, your fingers close around the shards in your fist, pressing them to your chest. You swallow thickly and point to the door. "I think you need to leave," you say. "We can talk about...whatever //this// is later." You gesture vaguely at Farah standing among the shards of porcelain. She shakes her head. "No," she says. "I...I want to come with you and Nour." "Just—//get out!//" your voice rises to a pained shout and you jab a finger at the door. She stays rooted to the spot. Her face flushes furiously, her fists trembling at her sides. Now more than ever, she looks just like her older brother, Ember, whose fiery temper was rivaled only by Farah’s, and your heart pangs at the thought. Castor had always been best at cooling the two down, his ice cold enough to put out their flames. But with him gone now, you find yourself wishing Nour was here to help you. $They <<were>> always more patient at dealing with Farah’s temper than you. "I want to come with you and Nour," she says. "I already told you," you yell. "No!" [[Continue|Chp1-1.14]]

It does not take long to find her, her voice reaching you first—and by the sound of it, she is not alone. You round a corner, passing a row of palms that had been blocking her from view and see her speaking with another woman draped in the same lavender priestess robes as Samira, her fiery red hair bursting in twisting, tangled coils from beneath her hood. Samira stands tall and rigid, her hands clasped primly in front of her even as the shorter priestess jabs an ivory finger at Samira’s chest. "It’s a defilement on the priesthood. You will cease this at once." Samira tilts her head, regarding the smaller woman coolly. "Cease //what//, exactly?" "Don’t play coy with me; you know precisely what I’m talking about. I’m sure you must have worked some kind of charm on the Head Priestess," she says, flicking a hand as she gestures vaguely. "Some kind of…//twisted// magic. The same kind you used to worm your way in here in the first place, wrapping that poor nobleman around your little finger like that. Why else Lord Dunedelver would so glowingly refer a snake like you to the priesthood is beyond me." "I suppose the concept of //gratitude// is lost on you, then?" Samira says. "For what? Bringing him back from the brink of death?" The smaller woman scoffs. "I suppose that's what you'd like everyone to think, isn't it? I hate to think what sick whispers you filled his lordship with beneath that medical tent that left him so...//enthralled.//" She looks Samira up and down with obvious distaste. "And now you have the //nerve// to befoul Lady Safina's ears with such wicked magic?" "You should know as well as I, Sister Raya, that I am incapable of performing magic without blood patronage from my $Liege, $Their Highness $Title $mcname. Neither you nor I are of noble blood. Exactly what //’twisted magic’// would I weave upon the Head Priestess or Lord Dunedelver without the ichor to show for it? And I hope, for your sake, you are not insinuating I would make a mockery of my blood oath to $Their Highness by using //$their// ichor for such a feat. I advise you: do not sully $their good name with such baseless accusations." "I wouldn’t //dare// accuse $Their Highness of such blasphemy," Sister Raya spits, scrunching her freckled nose and squaring her shoulders. "And my claims are far from baseless. I don’t claim to know how your wicked borrowed magic works—I just know it does. For all I know, you worked your foul magic on $Their Highness, as well. I don’t see why else $they would take //you// on as $their acolyte, not when $they could have had $their pick of the priesthood." She steps closer, jabbing an accusatory finger at Samira's chest. "You may think you can snake your way into the heads of everyone here with your serpentine tongue, but you can’t fool me. No amount of posturing can wipe clean the stains from your hands; don't think your unholy bargain will so soon be forgotten. You and your whole family are tainted. It’s //disgraceful.//" <div class="choice">[[You’ve heard enough. You won’t stand for such disrespect directed at your acolyte. You step in.|Chp1-2stepinimposing]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You’ve heard enough. This display makes a mockery of decorum, and surely Samira is undeserving of such ire. You step in.|Chp1-2stepindignified]]</div> <div class="choice">[[How dare she? You step in.|Chp1-2stepinconfront]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You’ve never been fond of confrontation, but you steel yourself regardless and step in.|Chp1-2stepingentle]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You’ve heard enough. You paste on a disarming smile and step in, though your eyes glint with warning.|Chp1-2stepincharismatic]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Samira can handle herself. You hang back.|Chp1-2hangback]]</div>

A sharp metallic scent fills the air, the edges of your vision tinged a sanguine red. Your skin tingles and crawls, your body shuddering involuntarily, as if rebelling against the will of one that isn’t your own, and you must remind yourself not to immediately sever the connection. You bite down on your lip. This initial feeling is, as always, short lived, and after a moment, it subsides completely, a pleasant fluttering sensation replacing the crawl of your flesh, your blood almost seeming to purr beneath your skin. Stranger still is the way your senses seem to shift while you are connected to Samira. Beside you, she smells so strongly of earth and lavender. And when you draw in a breath, it is as though you can taste the air—the scent of brittlebush and jewelflowers sit like ambrosia on your tongue, sweet as nectar. Still, it is a…compromising feeling, to feel another presence other than your own wriggle like roots beneath your skin, to feel that you are not alone in your own body. The sensation is wholly…vulnerable. //Intimate.// <div class="choice">[[It isn’t a feeling you particularly enjoy.|Chp1-2dislike]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It is reassuring in a way—a test of trust.|Chp1-2reassuring]]</div> <div class="choice">[[And you wonder, for the thousandth time, if she can feel your pulse, the rapid thump of your heart, the shiver of your skin. ♥|Chp1-2embarrassed]]</div>

<<if $holdsamshands is true>>\ Samira releases your hands. It is always so strange when she severs the connection. <<else>>\ When she severs the connection, it is a strange and unsettling feeling. <<endif>>\ So foreign it feels when she first seeps under your skin, winding through your veins like wriggling roots. And as she lingers, her presence is as if it has always been there, like you are two inosculated trees, connected by a shared branch. So it is such that when she breaks away, it is like you have lost a limb. Stretching out your arm in front of you feels...odd. Wrong. Your fingers end too soon. There is nothing pressing back against them. No flicker of a pulse at your fingertips, no flesh beginning where yours ends. Your fingers grasp uselessly at something that was there, once, but is no longer. You must remind yourself, even, how to breathe on your own. How to move in a body that feels suddenly empty. Uninhabited. You have to reacquaint yourself with your limbs. Every uncertain breath you draw in fills your body with more of yourself again and again until you are full. No longer empty. No longer a stranger in your own body. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4SamTalkFam]]

Content Warnings: //Stygian Sun: Total Eclipse// contains many upsetting themes, such as arranged marriage, child abuse, child neglect, child death, death, murder, violence, sexually suggestive scenes, optional sexual content, suicidal themes and ideations, and more. //Stygian Sun: Total Eclipse// is intended for mature audiences 18+. Viewer discretion is advised.

And, as you stride through this corridor now, awash in ambient amber light as the setting sun bleeds in through open columned windows, staining the rough sandstone walls in shades of saffron and tangelo, it is all too easy to let yourself forget again. Though you’ve long since learned to muffle your tread—to walk soft, and silent—for half a moment you are tempted to trample the vermillion carpet running the length of the hallway with clumsy, heavy feet, if only to rouse Aurora from her evening reading spot—curled up on the divan beside her bedroom window—and have her throw open her door to scold you: //’Have you// hooves //for feet, dear $sibling? You are no wildebeest, so why do you walk like one? You move with the grace befitting a herd of //cattle,// not a $title. Come now, it isn’t difficult—quick and quiet, barely a pitter patter, like a serval over sand. If I can hear you, you’re doing it wrong.’// But she will not open her door to fix you in place with a chastising look, one umber hand—painted prettily with splashes of vitiligo—perched over her hip and one eyebrow arched; her room is empty, as is Parim’s next to it. You pause briefly beside their bedroom doors, footsteps stuttering, and you’ve half a mind to open them, to peek inside and see their rooms exactly as they had been when Parim and Aurora had left them, but you do not think you could bear it if their things have been removed, if their rooms are bare and vacant now, devoid of every one of those bird-feeders overhanging Parim’s balcony—always full to bursting with seeds and nuts, with bright slices of citrus fruits and plump, ripe berries, with halved pink pomegranates and aromatic, tart yellow quince—attracting all manner of tittering thrushes and orioles, warbling larks and doves, and singing passerines and partridges; or those beaded curtains hanging over Aurora’s floor-length windows—the ones she’d strung by hand with her mother from opalescent beads in all manner of shades of amber and coral and plum, the ones that would scatter the sunset across her room every evening and would clack and clatter in the breeze. All those things that marked these two rooms as having once belonged to your eldest brother and sister. Swallowing thickly, you peel away. Remembrance pricks painfully at your chest, but you ignore any concerned looks your attendants throw your way, quickening your pace. [[Continue|Chp1-3.1BumpLadySafina]]

<<audio ":playing" stop>>\ <<audio "desertstorm" loop play>>\ <<set $safina to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-3.1BumpLadySafina") <= 1>>\ <<notify>>Lady Safina Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ In your haste, you take the next corner swiftly—a mistake you very narrowly come to regret as you nearly run straight into Lady Safina, but Aurynn reaches out and grabs the back of your $clothes, yanking you backwards before you can collide with her. Silently cursing yourself for not paying attention, you hastily step back and incline your head low in greeting. Aurynn and Samira both dip into low bows behind you. Lady Safina spares them not even a glance, her focus fixed solely on you. "Lady Safina," you say. "Forgive me. I was lost in thought and was not watching where I was going. You have my sincerest apologies." <<if not ($height is "very tall")>>\ Carrying herself at an impressive height, she stares down her nose at you, her stony, sharp-featured face and dark-eyed glare cold and cutting. Her onyx hair, braided closely to her scalp, streams from the crown of her head in dozens of thin, sleek braids following the contours of her curving throat. The splash of her turquoise Head Priestess robes stands out dramatically against her cool umber skin, like the frosty, crashing tide of the Celestian Sea against the stygian shores of the Obsidian Coast—frigid, harsh, and uninviting. <<else>>\ Carving an impressive figure, she still manages to stare down her nose at you despite your own height, her stony, sharp-featured face and dark-eyed glare cold and cutting. Her onyx hair, braided closely to her scalp, streams from the crown of her head in dozens of thin, sleek braids following the contours of her curving throat. The splash of her turquoise Head Priestess robes stands out dramatically against her cool umber skin, like the frosty, crashing tide of the Celestian Sea against the stygian shores of the Obsidian Coast—frigid, harsh, and uninviting. <<endif>>\ <div class="choice">[[You shrink back slightly beneath her withering glare.|Chp1-3.1shrink]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Despite your discomfort, you hold your ground, lifting your chin as you hold her penetrating stare.|Chp1-3.1raisechin]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You hold your ground, lifting your chin as you hold her penetrating stare, your eyes just as cold and icy as hers.|Chp1-3.1icy]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You refuse to wither beneath her glare, fixing her with an equally challenging glare, as if both daring the other to back down.|Chp1-3.1glare]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You offer her a disarming smile, knowing it won’t thaw the ice in her glare but hoping to diffuse some of the tension in the air, anyhow.|Chp1-3.1smile]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.1shrink") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You cannot quite help it—the intrusiveness of her glare proves overwhelming and you glance away, shrinking into yourself. Her eyes narrow, lip curling in the barest hint of displeasure. She is silent for so long you begin to think she will not even deign to speak to you—which would be just as well. She never was very fond of you or the rest of your siblings, save for her own children, Parim and Aurora, for whom you think must have been the only people to ever see her smile—save for, perhaps, your father. <<if $manners is "impeccable">>\ As much as you would like to be on your way, now that you have run into Lady Safina—being a lady of considerable rank and many years your senior—it would be incredibly rude to leave without her dismissal, so you find yourself rooted in place. Furthermore, you think it would be wise not to upset her. <<elseif $manners is "mediocre">>\ It is your first inclination to simply continue on your way, as incredibly rude as it would be seeing as Lady Safina, a lady of considerable rank and many years your senior, has not offered you her dismissal, but—perhaps unfortunately for you—your remembered etiquette lessons kick in and you find yourself reluctantly rooted to the spot. Besides, you think it would be wise not to upset her. <<else>>\ As incredibly rude as it would be to leave without Lady Safina’s dismissal now that you’ve run into her, you’ve never much had the patience for games of etiquette, and you’ve half a mind to simply continue on your way. It is, perhaps, only a sense of self-preservation that stays your restless feet—you think it would be wise not to upset her. <<endif>>\ When she does finally speak, her deep, rich voice is detached and imperious. "$Title $mcname," she says. "I was sorry to hear about $Title Nour." You blink. You are, admittedly, taken aback and cannot help but raise a skeptical eyebrow at her. She clucks her tongue, waving a dismissive hand. "I will not feign fondness for you or any of your other siblings—nor your //mothers,//" she says, mouth twisting with distaste, as if the word sits sour on her tongue. She pauses then, her voice taking on a softer cadence, though with an undertone no less steely. "But I understand well the pain borne of the loss of a child. Or—in your case—a sibling." You frown. "You speak as though $they <<are>> already dead, my lady. It is a marriage match—however infelicitous. Not a funeral pyre." She arches an elegant eyebrow at you, the inquisitive tilt to her head a mirror of Parim’s, the soft tinkling clink of metal beads in her braids an echo of Aurora’s. "Mm. Perhaps it would be better if it was. Is there much difference this time, anyway?" Your brow knits further, a muscle in your jaw feathering, but you say nothing. Letting out a low hum, she clasps her ringed fingers primly over the small of her stomach. "If it is any small consolation," she says. "I did advocate //against// selecting $Title Nour for the match." You aren’t quite sure how much comfort she expects you to take in that, considering it would then be your //funeral pyre//, as she would liken it. <div class="choice">[[“What care have you in who stays and who goes?”|Chp1-3.1whycare]]</div> <div class="choice">[[”I don’t suppose you did that out of the goodness of your heart?”|Chp1-3.1goodheart]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link '"Better my pyre than $theirs?"' 'Chp1-3.1mypyre'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice">[[”I’d no idea the matter was so worthy of debate.”|Chp1-3.1debate]]</div> <div class="choice">[[”Why are you telling me this?”|Chp1-3.1whytellme]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.1raisechin") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You hold your head high as she looks you up and down, her glacial features betraying no hint of emotion as she regards you coolly with dark, glassy eyes. She is silent for so long you begin to think she will not even deign to speak to you—which would be just as well. She never was very fond of you or the rest of your siblings, save for her own children, Parim and Aurora, for whom you think must have been the only people to ever see her smile—save for, perhaps, your father. <<if $manners is "impeccable">>\ As much as you would like to be on your way, now that you have run into Lady Safina—being a lady of considerable rank and many years your senior—it would be incredibly rude to leave without her dismissal, so you find yourself rooted in place. Furthermore, you think it would be wise not to upset her. <<elseif $manners is "mediocre">>\ It is your first inclination to simply continue on your way, as incredibly rude as it would be seeing as Lady Safina, a lady of considerable rank and many years your senior, has not offered you her dismissal, but—perhaps unfortunately for you—your remembered etiquette lessons kick in and you find yourself reluctantly rooted to the spot. Besides, you think it would be wise not to upset her. <<else>>\ As incredibly rude as it would be to leave without Lady Safina’s dismissal now that you’ve run into her, you’ve never much had the patience for games of etiquette, and you’ve half a mind to simply continue on your way. It is, perhaps, only a sense of self-preservation that stays your restless feet—you think it would be wise not to upset her. <<endif>>\ When she does finally speak, her deep, rich voice is detached and imperious. "$Title $mcname," she says. "I was sorry to hear about $Title Nour." You blink. You are, admittedly, taken aback and cannot help but raise a skeptical eyebrow at her. She clucks her tongue, waving a dismissive hand. "I will not feign fondness for you or any of your other siblings—nor your //mothers,//" she says, mouth twisting with distaste, as if the word sits sour on her tongue. She pauses then, her voice taking on a softer cadence, though with an undertone no less steely. "But I understand well the pain borne of the loss of a child. Or—in your case—a sibling." You frown. "You speak as though $they <<are>> already dead, my lady. It is a marriage match—however infelicitous. Not a funeral pyre." She arches an elegant eyebrow at you, the inquisitive tilt to her head a mirror of Parim’s, the soft tinkling clink of metal beads in her braids an echo of Aurora’s. "Mm. Perhaps it would be better if it was. Is there much difference this time, anyway?" Your brow knits further, a muscle in your jaw feathering, but you say nothing. Letting out a low hum, she clasps her ringed fingers primly over the small of her stomach. "If it is any small consolation," she says. "I did advocate //against// selecting $Title Nour for the match." You aren’t quite sure how much comfort she expects you to take in that, considering it would then be your //funeral pyre//, as she would liken it. <div class="choice">[[“What care have you in who stays and who goes?”|Chp1-3.1whycare]]</div> <div class="choice">[[”I don’t suppose you did that out of the goodness of your heart?”|Chp1-3.1goodheart]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link '"Better my pyre than $theirs?"' 'Chp1-3.1mypyre'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice">[[”I’d no idea the matter was so worthy of debate.”|Chp1-3.1debate]]</div> <div class="choice">[[”Why are you telling me this?”|Chp1-3.1whytellme]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.1icy") <= 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Imposing<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You hold your head high as she looks you up and down, her glacial features betraying no hint of emotion as she regards you coolly with dark, glassy eyes. She is silent for so long you begin to think she will not even deign to speak to you—which would be just as well. She never was very fond of you or the rest of your siblings, save for her own children, Parim and Aurora, for whom you think must have been the only people to ever see her smile—save for, perhaps, your father. <<if $manners is "impeccable">>\ As much as you would like to be on your way, now that you have run into Lady Safina—being a lady of considerable rank and many years your senior—it would be incredibly rude to leave without her dismissal, so you find yourself rooted in place. Furthermore, you think it would be wise not to upset her. <<elseif $manners is "mediocre">>\ It is your first inclination to simply continue on your way, as incredibly rude as it would be seeing as Lady Safina, a lady of considerable rank and many years your senior, has not offered you her dismissal, but—perhaps unfortunately for you—your remembered etiquette lessons kick in and you find yourself reluctantly rooted to the spot. Besides, you think it would be wise not to upset her. <<else>>\ As incredibly rude as it would be to leave without Lady Safina’s dismissal now that you’ve run into her, you’ve never much had the patience for games of etiquette, and you’ve half a mind to simply continue on your way. It is, perhaps, only a sense of self-preservation that stays your restless feet—you think it would be wise not to upset her. <<endif>>\ When she does finally speak, her deep, rich voice is detached and imperious. "$Title $mcname," she says. "I was sorry to hear about $Title Nour." You blink. You are, admittedly, taken aback and cannot help but raise a skeptical eyebrow at her. She clucks her tongue, waving a dismissive hand. "I will not feign fondness for you or any of your other siblings—nor your //mothers,//" she says, mouth twisting with distaste, as if the word sits sour on her tongue. She pauses then, her voice taking on a softer cadence, though with an undertone no less steely. "But I understand well the pain borne of the loss of a child. Or—in your case—a sibling." You frown. "You speak as though $they <<are>> already dead, my lady. It is a marriage match—however infelicitous. Not a funeral pyre." She arches an elegant eyebrow at you, the inquisitive tilt to her head a mirror of Parim’s, the soft tinkling clink of metal beads in her braids an echo of Aurora’s. "Mm. Perhaps it would be better if it was. Is there much difference this time, anyway?" Your brow knits further, a muscle in your jaw feathering, but you say nothing. Letting out a low hum, she clasps her ringed fingers primly over the small of her stomach. "If it is any small consolation," she says. "I did advocate //against// selecting $Title Nour for the match." You aren’t quite sure how much comfort she expects you to take in that, considering it would then be your //funeral pyre//, as she would liken it. <div class="choice">[[“What care have you in who stays and who goes?”|Chp1-3.1whycare]]</div> <div class="choice">[[”I don’t suppose you did that out of the goodness of your heart?”|Chp1-3.1goodheart]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link '"Better my pyre than $theirs?"' 'Chp1-3.1mypyre'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice">[[”I’d no idea the matter was so worthy of debate.”|Chp1-3.1debate]]</div> <div class="choice">[[”Why are you telling me this?”|Chp1-3.1whytellme]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.1glare") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Arching one elegant eyebrow, she regards you coolly, a flicker of morbid amusement dancing across her dark, glassy eyes. She is silent for so long you begin to think she will not even deign to speak to you—which would be just as well. She never was very fond of you or the rest of your siblings, save for her own children, Parim and Aurora, for whom you think must have been the only people to ever see her smile—save for, perhaps, your father. <<if $manners is "impeccable">>\ As much as you would like to be on your way, now that you have run into Lady Safina—being a lady of considerable rank and many years your senior—it would be incredibly rude to leave without her dismissal, so you find yourself rooted in place. Furthermore, you think it would be wise not to upset her. <<elseif $manners is "mediocre">>\ It is your first inclination to simply continue on your way, as incredibly rude as it would be seeing as Lady Safina, a lady of considerable rank and many years your senior, has not offered you her dismissal, but—perhaps unfortunately for you—your remembered etiquette lessons kick in and you find yourself reluctantly rooted to the spot. Besides, you think it would be wise not to upset her. <<else>>\ As incredibly rude as it would be to leave without Lady Safina’s dismissal now that you’ve run into her, you’ve never much had the patience for games of etiquette, and you’ve half a mind to simply continue on your way. It is, perhaps, only a sense of self-preservation that stays your restless feet—you think it would be wise not to upset her. <<endif>>\ When she does finally speak, her deep, rich voice is detached and imperious. "$Title $mcname," she says. "I was sorry to hear about $Title Nour." You blink. You are, admittedly, taken aback and cannot help but raise a skeptical eyebrow at her. She clucks her tongue, waving a dismissive hand. "I will not feign fondness for you or any of your other siblings—nor your //mothers,//" she says, mouth twisting with distaste, as if the word sits sour on her tongue. She pauses then, her voice taking on a softer cadence, though with an undertone no less steely. "But I understand well the pain borne of the loss of a child. Or—in your case—a sibling." You frown. "You speak as though $they <<are>> already dead, my lady. It is a marriage match—however infelicitous. Not a funeral pyre." She arches an elegant eyebrow at you, the inquisitive tilt to her head a mirror of Parim’s, the soft tinkling clink of metal beads in her braids an echo of Aurora’s. "Mm. Perhaps it would be better if it was. Is there much difference this time, anyway?" Your brow knits further, a muscle in your jaw feathering, but you say nothing. Letting out a low hum, she clasps her ringed fingers primly over the small of her stomach. "If it is any small consolation," she says. "I did advocate //against// selecting $Title Nour for the match." You aren’t quite sure how much comfort she expects you to take in that, considering it would then be your //funeral pyre//, as she would liken it. <div class="choice">[[“What care have you in who stays and who goes?”|Chp1-3.1whycare]]</div> <div class="choice">[[”I don’t suppose you did that out of the goodness of your heart?”|Chp1-3.1goodheart]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link '"Better my pyre than $theirs?"' 'Chp1-3.1mypyre'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice">[[”I’d no idea the matter was so worthy of debate.”|Chp1-3.1debate]]</div> <div class="choice">[[”Why are you telling me this?”|Chp1-3.1whytellme]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.1smile") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Your attempt at a smile seems to do little to soften her glacial features, and she simply continues to regard you coolly with dark, glassy eyes. She is silent for so long you begin to think she will not even deign to speak to you—which would be just as well. She never was very fond of you or the rest of your siblings, save for her own children, Parim and Aurora, for whom you think must have been the only people to ever see her smile—save for, perhaps, your father. <<if $manners is "impeccable">>\ As much as you would like to be on your way, now that you have run into Lady Safina—being a lady of considerable rank and many years your senior—it would be incredibly rude to leave without her dismissal, so you find yourself rooted in place. Furthermore, you think it would be wise not to upset her. <<elseif $manners is "mediocre">>\ It is your first inclination to simply continue on your way, as incredibly rude as it would be seeing as Lady Safina, a lady of considerable rank and many years your senior, has not offered you her dismissal, but—perhaps unfortunately for you—your remembered etiquette lessons kick in and you find yourself reluctantly rooted to the spot. Besides, you think it would be wise not to upset her. <<else>>\ As incredibly rude as it would be to leave without Lady Safina’s dismissal now that you’ve run into her, you’ve never much had the patience for games of etiquette, and you’ve half a mind to simply continue on your way. It is, perhaps, only a sense of self-preservation that stays your restless feet—you think it would be wise not to upset her. <<endif>>\ When she does finally speak, her deep, rich voice is detached and imperious. "$Title $mcname," she says. "I was sorry to hear about $Title Nour." You blink. You are, admittedly, taken aback and cannot help but raise a skeptical eyebrow at her. She clucks her tongue, waving a dismissive hand. "I will not feign fondness for you or any of your other siblings—nor your //mothers,//" she says, mouth twisting with distaste, as if the word sits sour on her tongue. She pauses then, her voice taking on a softer cadence, though with an undertone no less steely. "But I understand well the pain borne of the loss of a child. Or—in your case—a sibling." You frown. "You speak as though $they <<are>> already dead, my lady. It is a marriage match—however infelicitous. Not a funeral pyre." She arches an elegant eyebrow at you, the inquisitive tilt to her head a mirror of Parim’s, the soft tinkling clink of metal beads in her braids an echo of Aurora’s. "Mm. Perhaps it would be better if it was. Is there much difference this time, anyway?" Your brow knits further, a muscle in your jaw feathering, but you say nothing. Letting out a low hum, she clasps her ringed fingers primly over the small of her stomach. "If it is any small consolation," she says. "I did advocate //against// selecting $Title Nour for the match." You aren’t quite sure how much comfort she expects you to take in that, considering it would then be your //funeral pyre//, as she would liken it. <div class="choice">[[“What care have you in who stays and who goes?”|Chp1-3.1whycare]]</div> <div class="choice">[[”I don’t suppose you did that out of the goodness of your heart?”|Chp1-3.1goodheart]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link '"Better my pyre than $theirs?"' 'Chp1-3.1mypyre'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice">[[”I’d no idea the matter was so worthy of debate.”|Chp1-3.1debate]]</div> <div class="choice">[[”Why are you telling me this?”|Chp1-3.1whytellme]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.1whycare") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Imposing, + Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Stare hardening, you lift your chin at her, not bothering to mask your suspicion. "Consolations and false platitudes are of little use to me," you say. "But, if I may be so bold, my lady, I’ve never known you to be a woman who takes much interest in my or my siblings’ affairs. What care have you in which of us, my $sibling or I, goes to Celestyl?" "An excellent question, though you pose it to the wrong person," she says absently, as if musing aloud. "Besides, your affairs are mine when they concern politics." She falls quiet then, disregarding your puzzled silence as she studies you as one would a pebble in their shoe, her fingers twisting at her rings. "It isn’t any personal matter. I only believe your $sibling to be…ill-fated for this particular match," she says, finally. "And what, pray tell, do you base this opinion on, my lady?" A pause. "Perhaps nothing," she says. She looks you over, lips thinning into a grim line. "But the circumstances of //your// birth were far less…//inauspicious.//" [[Continue|Chp1-3.1ExitLadySafina]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.1goodheart") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative +1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic. + Manipulative<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "I don’t suppose you went to such lengths out of the goodness of your heart, my lady? We must be in quite the sorry state, my $sibling and I, for you to be offering me your consolations and my $sibling your support," you say with a polite sneer. You are suspicious as to her intentions with this interaction—it is far more to her liking to ignore you. "Why, I’d no idea $they needed it so. $They <<have>> already been coronated, after all. Seems like such a waste to go through with a formal renunciation after all the effort put into Nour’s coronation ceremony." Not when your father could have and should have chosen you for the match, though you do not say this part aloud. "Indeed," she agrees, but does not elaborate further. "But it seems the decision is entirely out of my hands." "//’Entirely?’//" you repeat, tasting her choice of words. "It seems my father left no room for your opinion at all, then." She arches an eyebrow. She does not outwardly react to your prod at her strained relationship with your father, but some flicker of morbid amusement sparks at her eyes, and after pause, she cocks her head to the side. "It is only my suspicion that your $sibling is, perhaps…ill-fated for this particular match." "And you believe me to be…better favored for it?" She is quiet for a long moment, studying you as one would a pebble in their shoe, her fingers twisting at her rings. "Perhaps, perhaps not," she says, finally, her lips thinning into a grim line. "But the circumstances of //your// birth were far less…//inauspicious.//" [[Continue|Chp1-3.1ExitLadySafina]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.1debate") <= 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative +1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified, + Manipulative<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "I’d no idea the matter was so worthy of such debate; my $sibling //has// already been coronated, after all." It should, by precedent, be you who is to be married off to the Lunar $kTitle, and you know she knows this. You leave what’s unsaid to hang in the air, in hopes it might entice her to elaborate on what Nour either could or would not. "And now the title shall pass to you," she says, a cold and unkind weight to her voice. "Your mother must be thrilled." "As I’m sure she must be," you agree. "Though I cannot say I mirror her presumed excitement. It was never my expectation to inherit." She softens somewhat at the edges at that. "No," she agrees after a moment, then spreads her hands. "In any case, the decision is out of my hands." Her gaze lingers on you for but a moment, before she begins to turn her head away, disinterested, and you jump to speak—a small provocation, accusing in nature and a bit too forward for your tastes, but it is, in your experience, the quickest way to loosen lips. You doubt Lady Safina would speak much further on the matter unless she wanted to—so it is your hope that she wants to. Things left unsaid do have a way of haunting the mind. "But, were it not out of your hands?" you ask, taking a small step forward. "You’d rather it were my throat at the tip of Celestyl’s sword?" She turns back to you, studying you as one would a pebble in their shoe, her fingers twisting at her rings. "If it is to be between the two of you…" she says, then acquiesces a small nod. "Then yes. It is my belief…my //hope//…that you would, perhaps, be better suited for this particular match. The circumstances of //your// birth were far less…//inauspicious.//" [[Continue|Chp1-3.1ExitLadySafina]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.1whytellme") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle, + Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Well," you say, trailing off as you shift uncomfortably in place. It is far more to Lady Safina’s liking to simply ignore you, and you admit you are uncertain as to her intentions with this interaction. It is unlike her to be so…generous with words. Generous for //her,// at least. You clear your throat and try again. "Thank you, but I do not need consoling. Though, forgive me for my forwardness in inquiring, my lady, but…//why// are you telling me this?" She purses her lips ever so slightly, pausing as if considering your words. "It’s not for //you,//" she says, glancing toward the corridor you had come from. "But, if it helps my son and daughter rest a little easier in Theia’s Hall, then…I shall endeavor to abide by a request they made of me." "Request…?" She fixes you with a hard look. "They were fond of you," she says matter-of-factly. You glance away, a little ashamed. You had not thought to ever suspect her of ulterior motives quite so…sincere. "In any case," she continues. "I suppose it hardly matters now. The decision is out of my hands." "If I may ask—why //did// you advocate against selecting Nour for the match?" She is quiet for a long moment, studying you as one would a pebble in their shoe, her fingers twisting at her rings. "I only believe your $sibling to be…ill-fated for this particular match," she says, finally. "And you believe me to be…better favored for it?" "Perhaps, perhaps not," she says, lips thinning into a grim line. "But the circumstances of //your// birth were far less…//inauspicious.//" [[Continue|Chp1-3.1ExitLadySafina]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.1mypyre") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational, + Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "I see. Better my pyre than $theirs?" you ask, voice flat, your stare unflinching. You aren’t sure if she meant it as a threat, but it sounded almost like one to you, and you can’t help but bristle. She holds your stare, unmoved. "I grow weary of pyres," she says. "The smell of smoke lingers in everything, now." She glances toward the corridor you had come from, face inscrutable. Her stare finds yours again, and she looks you over, lips thinning into a grim line. "It is only my opinion you would, perhaps, be better suited for this match than your $sibling." Your eyes narrow slightly. "What is that supposed to mean?" She is quiet for a long moment, studying you as one would a pebble in their shoe, her fingers twisting at her rings. "Call it a hunch," she says at last. "I did not think you to be the type to operate on mere //hunches.//" "I am not," she agrees. "But they are not to be completely discredited. Our gods work in mysterious ways. And the circumstances of //your// birth were far less…//inauspicious.//" [[Continue|Chp1-3.1ExitLadySafina]]

She hums a low sound to herself, but says nothing more, fixing you in place with an inscrutable stare. There is something else about her stance—some tenseness, some odd sense of hesitance, perhaps, or maybe anxiousness, though the look would be so foreign on her you think you must only be imagining it. But just like that it is gone, all interest in you lost, her stare flicking impersonally behind you to Samira. "Sister Samira," she says. Samira straightens, dipping into another bow, head lowered. "Milady?" "You have finished with your duties at the temple for the night?" "Yes, Head Priestess." "Then I must apologize to call you back again. There is a matter I could use your perspective on. Come." She does not wait for an answer and turns away with a single beckoning gesture, gliding down the opposite end of the corridor, her glassy blue-green robes rippling around her long legs like the shimmering, dappled surface of a swirling sea. Samira opens her mouth, thinks better of it, then shuts it. She glances helplessly at you, silently requesting your permission to leave. You nod and she dips into a low bow before hurrying after Lady Safina. You watch their retreating forms disappear down the hallway before letting out the breath you had been holding. Despite yourself, a trickle of unease still pricks at your skin. Beside you, Aurynn lets out a low whistle, shifting his weight to lean against his glaive. Pressing his cheek against the staff, he glances sidelong at you. "Well. She was more…//ominous// than usual today. Like, worse-than-you-on-a-bad-day ominous," he says. "I’m not //’ominous.’//" His brows lift as he rolls his eyes and lets out a tiny scoff, turning away. "Pshyeah, okay." He pauses, tapping a finger absently against his staff. He makes a vague gesture in the direction Lady Safina had left. "She kinda freaks me out. Y’know?" "In the good way or the bad way?" "Bad. Definitely bad." You glance at him. <div class="choice">[["Yeah,” you say. "Me too.”|Chp1-3.1metoo]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Indeed.”|Chp1-3.1indeed]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Do I scare you?”|Chp1-3.1doiscareyou]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“There, there.”|Chp1-3.1therethere]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link '"//Pussy,//" you mutter under your breath.' 'Chp1-3.1pussy'>><</link>></div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.1metoo") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You nod after a moment. "Yeah," you say. "Me, too." Lady Safina’s attention and choice of words had unsettled you far more than her usual imposing silence ever had. You think you prefer that she regard you as she usually does—with the same casual disdain as one would an insect. "Sometimes I can’t believe she’s Head Priestess," you murmur, mostly to yourself. Kindly and compassionate don’t quite seem to fit her. "Nah, I can see it," Aurynn replies, shaking his head. You arch an eyebrow at him and he jabs a thumb in the direction Samira and Lady Safina had left. "Have you ever //met// any of the priesthood?" he says. You open your mouth, then immediately close it. Aurynn nods. "That’s what I thought," he says, and after a moment, he falls quiet, his stare still fixed on that hallway the two women had disappeared down, his face growing serious. "What do you think she meant? Lady Safina. About your birth being less…//’inauspicious’// than Nour’s?" He spits out the word as if it cuts like gravel on his tongue. A frown tugs at your lips, and you pause. "I…I don’t know," you say finally. "Hm." He remains quiet for a while longer before he seems to notice your stare on him. He shrugs then, the tense set of his shoulders giving way to his usual relaxed, lazy posture. "Ah, well. Like I said. Ominous, that one. She is all about cultivating a certain air of mystique, no?" He claps you on the shoulder as he passes you by, starting back down the path to your mother’s study. He takes a few steps, then turns and beckons you forward. "Well? C’mon, we’re losing daylight. Some of us would like to get to bed at a reasonable hour," he calls. After a moment’s hesitation, you resume your pace. He waits for you to pass him before falling quietly into step behind you. He does not speak much the rest of the way there. [[Continue|Chp1-3.2ArriveMotherStudy]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.1indeed") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Indeed," you say with a small nod. He arches a brow. "Really? Go figure." "No, I meant, indeed she scares //you.//" "Ah. Of course." "As she should. Keep you from getting any ideas." "//Ideas?//" "About any certain //inadvisable pursuits,//" you reply. He shoots you a dry, unimpressed look. "Seriously? What do you take me for?" You shrug. "You used to look so put out when she would ignore you." He blinks, then frowns. "What? I wasn’t…That’s only because—" he sighs, then shakes his head. "You know what? Never mind. I’m going to agree with you just so I don’t have to continue this conversation." "If you say so." He purses his lips, then falls quiet, his stare fixed on that hallway Samira and Lady Safina had disappeared down, his face growing serious. "What do you think she meant?" he asks. "Lady Safina. About your birth being less…//’inauspicious’// than Nour’s?" He spits out the word as if it cuts like gravel on his tongue. A frown tugs at your lips, and you pause. "I…I don’t know," you say finally. "Hm." He remains quiet for a while longer before he seems to notice your stare on him. He shrugs then, the tense set of his shoulders giving way to his usual relaxed, lazy posture. "Ah. Well. Like I said. Ominous, that one. She is all about cultivating a certain air of mystique, no?" He claps you on the shoulder as he passes you by, starting back down the path to your mother’s study. He takes a few steps, then turns and beckons you forward. "Well? C’mon, we’re losing daylight. Some of us would like to get to bed at a reasonable hour," he calls. After a moment’s hesitation, you resume your pace. He waits for you to pass him before falling quietly into step behind you. He does not speak much the rest of the way there. [[Continue|Chp1-3.2ArriveMotherStudy]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.1doiscareyou") <= 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Imposing<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Mm," you hum absently. Then, you angle your head toward him. "Do //I// scare you?" You had only meant it in jest, but perhaps it is the way you said it that seems to take him somewhat aback, because he blinks, stiffening slightly. "What?" he asks. "You…" you start, suddenly somewhat self-conscious. "You called me ominous, as well." "Oh. Right," he says, his stance relaxing somewhat, though his casual posture seems a bit forced now. "Sure. Sometimes. Mostly when you’re hangry." You frown, brow knitting. "I don’t get…//’hangry.’//" "Really? ‘Cause I distinctly remember just the other day, after reminding you of an appointment you had to keep with Lord Oleander after you insisted on sparring—despite my attempts to dissuade you, might I add—and that, //no//, we did not have time to stop by the kitchens, and that //yes//, I did try to warn you of that fact beforehand, you //very graphically// threatened me with, and I //quote//—" "Ahem. Let’s talk about something else now," you interrupt. He shrugs. "Sure." You both fall silent for a long moment, and eventually Aurynn’s stare settles on that hallway Samira and Lady Safina had disappeared down, his face growing serious. "What do you think she meant?" he asks. "Lady Safina. About your birth being less…//’inauspicious’// than Nour’s?" He spits out the word as if it cuts like gravel on his tongue. A frown tugs at your lips, and you pause. "I…I don’t know," you say finally. "Hm." He remains quiet for a while longer before he seems to notice your stare on him. He shrugs then, the tense set of his shoulders giving way to his usual relaxed, lazy posture. "Ah. Well. Like I said. Ominous, that one. She is all about cultivating a certain air of mystique, no?" He claps you on the shoulder as he passes you by, starting back down the path to your mother’s study. He takes a few steps, then turns and beckons you forward. "Well? C’mon, we’re losing daylight. Some of us would like to get to bed at a reasonable hour," he calls. After a moment’s hesitation, you resume your pace. He waits for you to pass him before falling quietly into step behind you. He does not speak much the rest of the way there. [[Continue|Chp1-3.2ArriveMotherStudy]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.1therethere") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You affect a sympathetic smile, condescension dripping from your voice as you pat his back. "There, there." You pat him gently a few more times as he shoots you a suspicious look, then slap him hard enough to make him stumble. "//Ow.// The hell?" He rubs at his shoulder, bewildered, his elbow held out between the two of you to ward off any further attacks. "That was for calling me creepy." "I didn’t call you creepy?" "Ominous." You wave a dismissive hand. "Same thing." He doesn’t protest, simply looking you up and down as he lifts one hand and hunches into a shrug, as if it were painfully obvious and undeniable. You smack him again. "Ow! //Why?//" "You know why." "Didn’t you take an ungodly amount of etiquette lessons? Wanton slapping hardly seems the picture of civility, does it?" "//’Wanton’?// I daresay that slap was not without provocation. If you want to be civil, why don't you apologize?" "Why would I want to do that?" You raise your hand and he balks. "I’m being oppressed," he mutters, ignoring you as you wrinkle your nose at him. "//Fine.// I'm sorry I called you a harrowing tyrant reprobate creep." You go to smack him hard over the head but he ducks and smacks your wrist away when you try again, which only serves to send the two of you into a petty slap fight. This goes back and forth for longer than you willing to admit before you both call a truce. Aurynn then falls quiet, his stare fixed on that hallway Samira and Lady Safina had disappeared down, his face growing serious. "So, what do you think she meant?" he asks. "Lady Safina. About your birth being less…//’inauspicious’// than Nour’s?" He spits out the word as if it cuts like gravel on his tongue. A frown tugs at your lips, and you pause. "I…I don’t know," you say finally. "Hm." He remains quiet for a while longer before he seems to notice your stare on him. He shrugs then, the tense set of his shoulders giving way to his usual relaxed, lazy posture. "Ah. Well. Like I said. Creepy, that one. Ominous, I mean. She is all about cultivating a certain air of mystique, no?" He claps you on the shoulder as he passes you by, starting back down the path to your mother’s study. He takes a few steps, then turns and beckons you forward. "Well? C’mon, we’re losing daylight. Some of us would like to get to bed at a reasonable hour," he calls. After a moment’s hesitation, you resume your pace. He waits for you to pass him before falling quietly into step behind you. He does not speak much the rest of the way there. [[Continue|Chp1-3.2ArriveMotherStudy]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.1pussy") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You stare hard at him from the corners of your eyes, an unimpressed arch to your brow. Turning away, you mutter under your breath as you start back down the hallway. "//Pussy.//" "Wha—?" Aurynn splutters, then hurries after you. "Excuse you—it isn’t //cowardice.// I’d call it more a matter of //self-preservation,//" he argues. "You have, by far, the //worst// sense of self-preservation of anyone I’ve ever met," you retort. "You are consistent only in the fact that you are impulsively reckless in battle, and you threaten to kill yourself constantly. Speaking of which, you really should stop making such empty threats." "No. I love making empty threats. You can't take that away from me, and if you try, I'll fucking kill myself." You sigh and roll your eyes. "It is, quite honestly, a wonder you are even still alive." "Raw skill," he counters, twirling his glaive and smacking himself in the head with it with a loud //thunk.// He brings a hand to his head, rubbing at his temple. "Ow. Fuck." You turn to give him a pointed look, expecting him to make a joke of it or some other poorly timed self-aggrandizing statement, but instead you find him staring after the corridor Samira and Lady Safina had disappeared down, his expression turned serious. "What do you think she meant?" he says. "Lady Safina. About your birth being less…//’inauspicious’// than Nour’s?" He spits out the word as if it cuts like gravel on his tongue. A frown tugs at your lips, and you stutter to a halt. "I…I don’t know," you say finally. "Hm." He remains quiet for a while longer before he seems to notice your stare on him. He shrugs then, the tense set of his shoulders giving way to his usual relaxed, lazy posture. "Ah. Well. Like I said. Ominous, that one. She is all about cultivating a certain air of mystique, no?" He claps you on the shoulder as he passes you by, starting back down the path to your mother’s study. He takes a few steps, then turns and beckons you forward. "Well? C’mon, we’re losing daylight. Some of us would like to get to bed at a reasonable hour," he calls. After a moment’s hesitation, you resume your pace. He waits for you to pass him before falling quietly into step behind you. He does not speak much the rest of the way there. [[Continue|Chp1-3.2ArriveMotherStudy]]

Your mother’s study is nestled in the farthest upper corner of the palace’s solar—a haven of silence and solitude, with a lofty view over the palace’s extensive gardens from her study window. You pass by only the occasional servant on your way to her study, this wing of the palace being mostly deserted at this time of evening, the sun having just nearly sunk below the horizon, leaving any last lingering traces of honey-gold glow to bleed into a rosy rouge, painting the soft, whipped edges of cream-colored clouds a delicate lilac. Your mother does not often entertain visitors this time of evening—//’Evenings are reserved for solitude and the company of my $child, of course’//, she’d say—so you are somewhat surprised to hear voices coming from your mother’s study as you approach. Your steps slow as you get closer, to the wide double door of her office—carved of warm brown acacia and nestled snugly between two sandstone pillars—and the voices grow louder and more heated; someone is arguing with your mother. <div class="choice">[[Listen in.|Chp1-3.2eavesdrop]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You want to listen in, but it would be uncouth to appear as though you are eavesdropping. You stay where you are—far away enough from the door to seem as though you are waiting for the visitor to leave but close enough to hear through the door if you strain yourself.|Chp1-3.2eavesdrop2]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Back away and wait for the visitor to leave.|Chp1-3.2wait]]</div>

<<set $mother to true>>\ <<set $najaat to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-3.2eavesdrop") <= 1>>\ <<set $manipulative += 2>>\ <<notify 3s>>+ Manipulative, Mother and Lady Najaat Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You glance sideways at Aurynn, exchanging a look with him. As if in sync, the two of you both step forward with careful, quiet steps, turning an ear toward the door. "Let’s stop beating around the bush, shall we?" you hear your mother say. "What exactly are you accusing me of this time, my lady?" "Don’t play games with me, Lady Phoebe," the other voice snaps, and you recognize it as Nour’s mother—Lady Najaat. "I //know// you had something to do with this, you scheming little //snake.// This all plays perfectly into your hands. I don’t know how you managed to convince him, but don’t think it will last. I //will// get this turned around." "This display is unbecoming of you, Lady Najaat," your mother replies smoothly. She pauses, then lets out a short, tinkling laugh. "Oh, who am I kidding? No it isn’t. But I can assure you, darling, I had nothing to do with the decision." "You lying //leech.// You expect me to believe that? This has your name written all over it. Did you rope your vile little $child into this as well?" Your mother clucks her tongue and when next she speaks, her sing-song voice carries a sharp edge to it. "//Careful.//" "Tell me—exactly how long have you been planning this, hm?" The click of heels against stone sounds through the door, as if Lady Najaat is pacing before your mother’s desk. "Was pulling the rug out from under me after my $child had been coronated part of your plan? You do so enjoy such underhanded tactics. I should almost be impressed." "Underhanded? I should think that was more //your// style, no? //I// am a lady with decorum," your mother replies. "Trust me, my dear—while I’d love to take credit for your distress, if I had something to do with it, I would be the last person you’d ever suspect. I know how to cover my tracks. //Some// of us are well-versed in the art of //subtlety.//" "//Subtlety,//" Lady Najaat repeats. She barks out a mirthless laugh. "Do us both a favor and cut the shit. You and your loathsome louse of a $child are the only ones who stand to gain from this. It should be your brat being shipped off to Celestyl—not mine. //My// $child is next-in-line for the throne." "Ah, the throne, yes—that is what you’ve been vying for, hm? A shame your poor $child never did match up with those lofty expectations of yours. Oh, but I suppose that’s where you’d come in, right? Here comes Mother Dearest, always over your $child’s shoulder, stepping in, taking over, handling everything—er, sorry, //’providing guidance,’//" your mother says, her voice condescendingly cheery. "Oh! A bit like a de facto empress, no? Am I laying it on a bit too thick?" "What an insinuation," Lady Najaat snarls. "My $child is plenty capable of ruling." "Ah—so you’d prefer the term //’advisor,’// then. Or—’regent,’ perhaps?" The click of heels comes to a stop. "Enjoy your seat on your high horse while it lasts. It’ll be //your// $child being shipped off for Celestyl come Thissys—not mine." "Mm. Better work fast then," your mother hums. "The way I hear it, you only have a week. Tick tock." Lady Najaat scoffs. You hear the sharp click of her heels resume and the grinding screech of a chair scraping over stone and you quickly stumble away from the door as it flies open, nearly hitting you square in the face. Lady Najaat storms out of the room in a thunderous flash of sapphire skirts, running straight into you. You stagger back into Aurynn’s chest, his hands catching you squarely by the shoulders as he steadies you. An ornery woman, Lady Najaat glowers at you, readjusting her ornately plaited sienna hair, as though you had mussed it up in her running into you. She would resemble her $child Nour more, if you squinted at her perhaps, with her glowing brown skin and long straight hair; but unlike your $sibling, her face carries none of the warmth or softness that Nour’s does, her tumultuous henna eyes dripping venom, lips curled into a nasty scowl. <<if not ($hairtexture is "loose coils") and not ($hairtexture is "tight coils")>>\ Your mother approaches from behind Lady Najaat, her almond-shaped amber eyes lighting up upon seeing you. She eases into a smile, running a slender $skin finger over her $haircolor hair, plaited neatly in an elegant gem-adorned braid over her shoulder. A thin gold chain circlet decorates her brow. <<else>>\ Your mother approaches from behind Lady Najaat, her almond-shaped amber eyes lighting up upon seeing you. She eases into a smile, running a slender $skin hand over her coiled $haircolor hair, which hangs loose to her shoulders in a thick spray of lively, gem-adorned curls. A thin gold chain circlet decorates her brow. <<endif>>\ "Well, if it isn’t my darling $child," she says brightly, emerald skirts swaying around her legs as she comes to a stop before you. "What a pleasant surprise." You incline your head at each of them as Aurynn releases you, stepping back into a bow. "Mother," you say. "Lady Najaat." Lady Najaat turns her nose up at you scornfully, not even dignifying your greeting with a proper response. She brushes her hands over the front of her sleeveless dress—the dark blue fabric cinched around her waist with a single gold cord—as though just by bumping into you had somehow sullied it. "I should not be surprised to see //you// here. Certainly, you had something to do with this as well," she hisses. "Being just the conniving //snake// your mother is." "I beg your pardon?" you say. "Lady Najaat," your mother says, her tone low and warning. "I would caution you against speaking to my $child like that. Leave $them out of your petty squabbles, hm?" Thin as a whip and sharp as one, too, she fixes Lady Najaat with a pointed look, stepping around her and behind you, placing a hand on either of your shoulders. Lady Najaat glances between the two of you, then sneers, affecting a mockingly pleasant tone, though her face is no less bitter. "My //sincerest congratulations,// $Title $mcname, on your impending coronation," she says to you, and then her stare finds your mother’s, holding it like a challenge. "May it prove a ceremony to remember." Sparing one last withering glare at your mother, she whirls around on her heel. Aurynn quickly sidesteps out of her way as she storms off down the corridor, the sharp clack of her heels echoing after her as she disappears down the staircase. "Well," your mother breathes, patting your shoulders. "I’m sorry you had to see that, darling. Honestly, that woman…" She trails off before shaking her head, turning you around to face her. "What were you doing out here anyway, hm? Eavesdropping, were we? You cheeky little thing." "Er, well I—" you start. Your mother waves you off with a laugh. "Oh, I’m not going to chastise you, my dear. I’d have done the same. Though you could stand to be a little more //discreet.// We’ll work on that." she says with a wink, tapping a finger to the side of her cheek. [[Continue|Chp1-3.2MomNoticeAurynn]]

<<set $mother to true>>\ <<set $najaat to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-3.2wait") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere += 2>>\ <<notify 3s>>+ Sincere, Mother and Lady Najaat Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You step away from the door, thinking it best to offer your mother and her guest some privacy. Aurynn raises an eyebrow at you and jabs a thumb at the door, a question in his eyes. You frown and shake your head and he shrugs, slumping boredly against the wall. You hardly have to wait long before the door flies open and Lady Najaat—Nour’s mother—comes storming out in a thunderous flash of sapphire skirts, her legs working in quick, sharp strides as her heeled sandals clack against the floor. She comes to a sudden halt when she notices you, fixing you with a glower as she readjusts her ornately plaited sienna hair. She would resemble her $child Nour more, if you squinted at her perhaps, with her glowing brown skin and long straight hair; but unlike your $sibling, her face carries none of the warmth or softness that Nour’s does, her tumultuous henna eyes dripping venom, lips curled into a nasty scowl. <<if not ($hairtexture is "loose coils") and not ($hairtexture is "tight coils")>>\ Your mother approaches from behind Lady Najaat, her almond-shaped amber eyes lighting up upon seeing you. She eases into a smile, running a slender $skin finger over her $haircolor hair, plaited neatly in an elegant gem-adorned braid over her shoulder. A thin gold chain circlet decorates her brow. <<else>>\ Your mother approaches from behind Lady Najaat, her almond-shaped amber eyes lighting up upon seeing you. She eases into a smile, running a slender $skin hand over her coiled $haircolor hair, which hangs loose to her shoulders in a thick spray of lively, gem-adorned curls. A thin gold chain circlet decorates her brow. <<endif>>\ "Well, if it isn’t my darling $child," she says brightly, emerald skirts swaying around her legs as she comes to a stop before you. "What a pleasant surprise." You incline your head at each of them as Aurynn bows. "Mother," you say. "Lady Najaat." Lady Najaat turns her nose up at you scornfully, not even dignifying your greeting with a proper response. She brushes her hands over the front of her sleeveless dress—the dark blue fabric cinched around her waist with a single gold cord—dusting off imaginary dirt. "I should not be surprised to see //you// here. Certainly, you had something to do with this as well," she hisses. "Being just the conniving //snake// your mother is." "I beg your pardon?" you say. "Lady Najaat," your mother says, her tone low and warning. "I would caution you against speaking to my $child like that. Leave $them out of your petty squabbles, hm?" Thin as a whip and sharp as one, too, she fixes Lady Najaat with a pointed look, stepping around her and behind you, placing a hand on either of your shoulders. Lady Najaat glances between the two of you, then sneers, affecting a mockingly pleasant tone, though her face is no less bitter. "My //sincerest congratulations,// $Title $mcname, on your impending coronation," she says to you, and then her stare finds your mother’s, holding it like a challenge. "May it prove a ceremony to remember." Sparing one last withering glare at your mother, she whirls around on her heel. Aurynn quickly steps out of her way as she storms off down the corridor, the sharp clack of her heels echoing after her as she disappears down the staircase. "Well," your mother breathes, patting your shoulders. "I’m sorry you had to see that, darling. Honestly, that woman…" She trails off before shaking her head, turning you around to face her. "What were you doing out here anyway, hm? Don’t tell me you came all this way to visit your dear old mother? Why, I’d have put on some tea if I’d known." "Ah, well I—" "Oh, lovely! Come in, come in." She begins ushering you towards the study only to pause when your retainer discreetly clears his throat. [[Continue|Chp1-3.2MomNoticeAurynn]]

<<audio ":playing" stop>>\ <<audio "traditionalindian" loop play>>\ Behind you, Aurynn leans against the wall, idly twirling his glaive. As if just noticing him for the first time, your mother glances up, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Lord Aurynn. A pleasure," she says, though her tone suggests it is anything but. He smiles demurely and gives her a little salute. "Lady Phoebe. Always lovely to see you." "Mm. I’m sure." Her hands tighten on your shoulders. "Still keeping your hands to yourself, I trust?" "//Mother!//" you hiss through gritted teeth. She squeezes your shoulders reassuringly. "//Relax//, love. Just making sure." <<if ($flirtedAurynn >= 3) and ($kissedaurynn is false)>>\ Aurynn places a hand on his chest, offering her a polite bow. "My hands have been nowhere my $liege has not asked for them, milady," he says. You stiffen, the insinuation //quite// clear from his tone—and you would have to be blind to miss the suggestive look he offers you as he straightens. He pointedly ignores the glare you send his way, instead blinking innocently at your mother, on whom his implications are clearly not lost upon, either. <<elseif $kissedaurynn is true>>\ Aurynn places a hand on his chest, offering her a polite bow. "My //hands,// milady?" he says. "Well, certainly." You stiffen, the insinuation //quite// clear from his tone—and you would have to be blind to miss the suggestive look he offers you as he straightens. He pointedly ignores the glare you send his way, instead blinking innocently at your mother, on whom his implications are clearly not lost upon, either. <<else>>\ Aurynn places a hand on his chest, offering her a polite bow. "My hands and I are well acquainted, yes," he says. He, of course, avoids answering your mother’s actual question, if only to antagonize her. You quirk an eyebrow at him, giving him a dry, exasperated look, which he pointedly ignores. Straightening from his bow, he blinks innocently at your mother, who only narrows her eyes. <<endif>>\ "Hm." She flashes him a tight smile, though you don’t miss the warning glare she sends his way. "If you’ll excuse us," she says, not even waiting for Aurynn to answer as she steers you by the shoulders into her study and shuts the doors soundly behind her. [[Continue|Chp1-3.2EnterStudy]]

Your mother’s study is—perhaps uncharacteristically—inviting, cast in a warm amber glow from the crackling hearth nestled behind her desk, which is carved from a rich burgundy-colored wood and polished buttery smooth with orange-scented oils. Stacks of papers and leather-bound books lie atop her workspace, and the spiced scent of cinnamon and sandalwood hang in the air. <<if ($appearance is "apatheticmin")>>\ <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairstyle is "headscarf")>>\ She ushers you farther inside, then turns you around by the shoulders to face her. Her smile twists into vague disapproval and she clucks her tongue as she takes in your appearance, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair back in place, but it stubbornly resists her efforts to smooth it down. "Honestly, love," she says with a sigh. "You haven’t been walking around like this, have you? Your stole isn’t even tied correctly. Tsk, and your sandals are dirty. Appearances are everything, you know? You really would do well to put a little more effort into maintaining yours." You shrug. "I put in enough. Isn’t that fine?" She frowns. "Not for someone of your standing," she chides. "One’s appearance is a reflection of one’s station. //You// are a $title." "I’m well aware. Only I really don’t see the fuss in stressing over every loose strand of hair. What use have I the opinions of those who care to notice and judge me incapable for something so inconsequential as a wrinkle in my clothes?" Your mother looks horrified, her gaze dropping to study your $clothes. "//Wrinkles?//" she says, baffled. "In //your// clothes?" You roll your eyes. She fixes you with a reproachful look, her tone stern. "//Pride,// darling, have a little pride. The first night of Thissys is only next week! You had better dress appropriately regal for the festivities, lest you want me to take charge of making sure you are properly attired, hm?" <<elseif $hairstyle is "headscarf">>\ She ushers you farther inside, then turns you around by the shoulders to face her. Her smile twists into vague disapproval and she clucks her tongue as she takes in your appearance, reaching out to readjust your headscarf, which has gone askew. "Honestly, love," she says with a sigh. "You haven’t been walking around like this, have you? Your stole isn’t even tied correctly. Tsk, and your sandals are dirty. Appearances are everything, you know? You really would do well to put a little more effort into maintaining yours." You shrug. "I put in enough. Isn’t that fine?" She frowns. "Not for someone of your standing," she chides. "One’s appearance is a reflection of one’s station. //You// are a $title." "I’m well aware. Only I really don’t see the fuss in stressing over every minor detail. What use have I the opinions of those who care to notice and judge me incapable for something so inconsequential as a wrinkle in my clothes?" Your mother looks horrified, her gaze dropping to study your $clothes. "//Wrinkles?//" she says, baffled. "In //your// clothes?" You roll your eyes. She fixes you with a reproachful look, her tone stern. "//Pride,// darling, have a little pride. The first night of Thissys is only next week! You had better dress appropriately regal for the festivities, lest you want me to take charge of making sure you are properly attired, hm?" <<else>>\ She ushers you farther inside, then turns you around by the shoulders to face her. Her smile twists into vague disapproval and she clucks her tongue as she takes in your appearance, reaching out to take you by the chin, turning your head to either side as she studies you. "Honestly, love," she says with a sigh. "You haven’t been walking around like this, have you? Your stole isn’t even tied correctly. Tsk, and your sandals are dirty. Appearances are everything, you know? You really would do well to put a little more effort into maintaining yours." You shrug. "I put in enough. Isn’t that fine?" She frowns. "Not for someone of your standing," she chides. "One’s appearance is a reflection of one’s station. //You// are a $title." "I’m well aware. Only I really don’t see the fuss in stressing over every minor detail. What use have I the opinions of those who care to notice and judge me incapable for something so inconsequential as a wrinkle in my clothes?" Your mother looks horrified, her gaze dropping to study your $clothes. "//Wrinkles?//" she says, baffled. "In //your// clothes?" You roll your eyes. She fixes you with a reproachful look, her tone stern. "//Pride,// darling, have a little pride. The first night of Thissys is only next week! You had better dress appropriately regal for the festivities, lest you want me to take charge of making sure you are properly attired, hm?" <<endif>>\ <<elseif $appearance is "selfconsciousmin">>\ <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairstyle is "headscarf")>>\ She ushers you farther inside, then turns you around by the shoulders to face her. Her smile twists into vague disapproval and she clucks her tongue as she takes in your appearance, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair back in place, but it stubbornly resists her efforts to smooth it down. "Honestly, love," she says with a sigh. "You haven’t been walking around like this, have you? Your stole isn’t even tied correctly. Tsk, and your sandals are dirty. Appearances are everything—you really would do well to put a little more effort into maintaining yours. You are a //$title,// after all—the very face of royalty. Show your station some sense of esteem, hm? Oh, and chin up, shoulders straight, don’t slouch. You’ll strain your neck walking about with your head lowered. Have some confidence." You say nothing and avert your eyes. She always does manage to find something wrong. It is your own fault, you suppose. You know she has high standards for your appearance and yet you simply hadn’t the energy today to meet them. Shaking her head, she cups your chin with one hand and licks the thumb of her other hand, smoothing it over your hair, but when it refuses to stay, she frowns and releases you with a defeated sigh. "All I ask is you have a little //pride,// darling, have a little pride. The first night of Thissys is only next week! You had better dress appropriately regal for the festivities, lest you want me to take charge of making sure you are properly attired, hm?" <<elseif $hairstyle is "headscarf">>\ She ushers you farther inside, then turns you around by the shoulders to face her. Her smile twists into vague disapproval and she clucks her tongue as she takes in your appearance, reaching out to readjust your headscarf, which has gone askew. "Honestly, love," she says with a sigh. "You haven’t been walking around like this, have you? Your stole isn’t even tied correctly. Tsk, and your sandals are dirty. Appearances are everything—you really would do well to put a little more effort into maintaining yours. You are a //$title,// after all—the very face of royalty. Show your station some sense of esteem, hm? Oh, and chin up, shoulders straight, don’t slouch. You’ll strain your neck walking about with your head lowered. Have some confidence." You say nothing and avert your eyes. She always does manage to find something wrong. It is your own fault, you suppose. You know she has high standards for your appearance and yet you simply hadn’t the energy today to meet them. Shaking her head, she cups your chin with one hand, holding you in place as she fixes your headscarf and smoothes out the minor wrinkles in the fabric. "All I ask is you have a little //pride,// darling, have a little pride. The first night of Thissys is only next week! You had better dress appropriately regal for the festivities, lest you want me to take charge of making sure you are properly attired, hm?" <<else>>\ She ushers you farther inside, then turns you around by the shoulders to face her. Her smile twists into vague disapproval and she clucks her tongue as she takes in your appearance, reaching out to take you by the chin, turning your head to either side as she studies you. "Honestly, love," she says with a sigh. "You haven’t been walking around like this, have you? Your stole isn’t even tied correctly. Tsk, and your sandals are dirty. Appearances are everything—you really would do well to put a little more effort into maintaining yours. You are a //$title,// after all—the very face of royalty. Show your station some sense of esteem, hm? Oh, and chin up, shoulders straight, don’t slouch. You’ll strain your neck walking about with your head lowered. Have some confidence." You say nothing and avert your eyes. She always does manage to find something wrong. It is your own fault, you suppose. You know she has high standards for your appearance and yet you simply hadn’t the energy today to meet them. Shaking her head, she instead redirects her attention to your $clothes, smoothing out the minor wrinkles in the fabric. "All I ask is you have a little //pride,// darling, have a little pride. The first night of Thissys is only next week! You had better dress appropriately regal for the festivities, lest you want me to take charge of making sure you are properly attired, hm?" <<endif>>\ <<elseif $appearance is "confidentmin">>\ She ushers you farther inside, then turns you around by the shoulders to face her, taking in your appearance. Her head tilts to the side as she reaches out to take your chin in her hand, turning your head to either side as she examines you. "Hm," she hums. "You dress so plainly, love. You haven’t been walking around like this, have you? Your stole isn’t even tied correctly. You could stand to put a little more effort in, no? Though I //suppose// your confidence makes up for it. Somewhat. I’ll allow it. This time." You smile sardonically and offer her a mock little bow. "How gracious." She attempts to scowl at you for your attitude, but the amused twinkle in her eyes gives her away. Lifting her chin, she smoothes out a small wrinkle in your $clothes. "But you had better dress appropriately regal for Thissys," she says, doing her best to sound scolding. "Don’t make me take charge of ensuring you are properly attired. Save us both the hassle, hm?" <<elseif $appearance is "apatheticmax">>\ She ushers you farther inside, then turns you around by the shoulders to face her, taking in your appearance. Her head tilts to the side as she reaches out to take your chin in her hand, turning your head to either side as she examines you. You take her intense studying stare in silence. You had wanted to avoid any such overdramatic lecturing over your appearance and so you’re fairly certain you’ve dressed appropriately regal for her tastes, though you suppose it is like her to always find at least //something//—however small—to chastise you over. She hums discontentedly. "You’ve a wrinkle in your $clothes, love." There it is. "Oh, well, if that’s all," you say and move toward the seat across from her desk but she stops you with a reproachful look. "Now, now, no need to be so flippant. It’s my job to fuss over you—I’m your //mother,//" she says. She reaches out to smooth out your $clothes, then taps a finger to her lips thoughtfully. "Have you already settled on your attire for Thissys? It’s only next week, you know. You’d look perfectly dashing in that ensemble I bought you from Sirenan. You recall the one? Or—! No, no, the one from Paradisus would be equally $pretty. Consider it?" <<elseif $appearance is "selfconsciousmax">>\ She ushers you farther inside, then turns you around by the shoulders to face her, taking in your appearance. Her head tilts to the side as she reaches out to take your chin in her hand, turning your head to either side as she examines you. You take her intense studying stare in silence, your head bowed. You’re fairly certain you’ve dressed appropriately regal for her tastes, though you suppose it is like her to always find at least //something//—however small—to chastise you over. She hums discontentedly. "You’ve a wrinkle in your $clothes, love." There it is. You frown, head dipping lower, and run a hand over your $clothes, trying to smooth out the fabric. Your mother clucks a tongue and reaches out to fix it for you, then taps a finger under your chin. "Come now, love, have a little confidence. Chin up, shoulders straight, don’t slouch. You’ll strain your neck walking about with your head lowered." Her head cocks to the side and she taps a finger to her lips thoughtfully. "Have you already settled on your attire for Thissys? It’s only next week, you know. You’d look perfectly dashing in that ensemble I bought you from Sirenan. You recall the one? Or—! No, no, the one from Paradisus would be equally $pretty. Consider it?" <<else>>\ She ushers you farther inside, then turns you around by the shoulders to face her, taking in your appearance. Her head tilts to the side as she reaches out to take your chin in her hand, turning your head to either side as she examines you. You hold your head high and take her intense studying stare in bored silence. You’re fairly certain you’ve dressed appropriately regal for her tastes, though you suppose it is like her to always find at least //something//—however small—to chastise you over. Regardless, you’re satisfied with how you’ve dressed and you’re quite accustomed to your mother’s fussing—unaffected by it, really—so you allow her the brief examination. She releases you with only a small hum, so you suppose that means you passed her inspection. She taps a finger to her lips thoughtfully. "Have you already settled on your attire for Thissys, love? It’s only next week, you know. You’d look perfectly dashing in that ensemble I bought you from Sirenan. You recall the one? Or—! No, no, the one from Paradisus would be equally $pretty. Consider it?" <<endif>>\ The mention of Thissys, of what will pair as your $sibling’s send-off ceremony, sobers you instantly, and you step back to regard her… <div class="choice">[[...suspiciously.|Chp1-3.2distant]]</div> <div class="choice">[[...tentatively.|Chp1-3.2mend]]</div> <div class="choice">[[...seriously.|Chp1-3.2close]]</div>

<<set $momrelationship to "distant">>\ <<set $momrelationshipchosen to true>>\ Even if Farah had not mentioned hearing of your mother’s possible involvement in your father’s decision to select Nour for the match, your suspicions would have turned to her eventually. It would hardly be the first time she has meddled in your siblings’ affairs—however discreetly—and it is in large part why your relationship is now so distant. That, and you suppose it is difficult sometimes to reconcile the mother who once sang and played with you as a child, and read stories to you by the hearth, with the harsh and uncompromising tutor who had shaped you into a warrior. You had made clear your position on her needless meddling, and you will be sorely cross with her if she has indeed sabotaged Nour’s coronation. Your mother’s brow furrows slightly. "What is it?" "I needed to speak with you," you say, and gesture to the desk. She takes your meaning and after a moment, she nods, moving around her desk to lounge in the cushioned chair. "Of course, darling. Anything. You have my undivided attention," she says, even as her attention is captured by a small set of crudely shaped animal figurines—pearly white and carved from water buffalo bone, with small colored beads for eyes—lined up atop her desk. Rearranging them in a neat little row, she coos, plucking one up and holding it out to show you. You think it is supposed to be a wild dog, maybe, but it is so misshapen, you cannot quite be sure. "So cute, no?" she says, giving it a little waggle. "Do you remember making these? Why, you could barely hold the carving knife just right on your own, then—I had to hold your hand in mine to teach you the strokes. Look, I kept them all—a little serval, this one is. Isn’t it so cute?" "Is //that// what it’s supposed to be?" "The resemblance is //uncanny.//" "I should certainly hope not." A small bemused smile lifts the corners of her lips. "Mmm. I believe you were going for Saraah’s likeness," she says. Saraah—your mother’s serval. You reach out and take the figurine from her, turning it over in your fingers as you study it, running your fingertips over wide flat ridges and blockish chunks of rough hewn bone—all clumsy cuts you had made with your carving blade clutched tight between your small fists. <div class="choice">[[You’ve kept up the habit of carving, however sporadically, over the years.|Chp1-3.2carving]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It has been a long time since you’ve carved anything. You dropped the habit as a child. You had no time for frivolity or anything that did not relate to your training. You mostly just spar in the little free time you have.|Chp1-3.2sparring]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It has been a long time since you’ve carved anything. You dropped the habit as a child, as you did many of your old childhood hobbies and pursuits. You did, however, keep up dancing, however sporadically.|Chp1-3.2dancing]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It has been a long time since you’ve carved anything. You dropped the habit as a child, as you did many of your old childhood hobbies and pursuits. You did, however, keep up drawing, however sporadically.|Chp1-3.2drawing]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It has been a long time since you’ve carved anything. You dropped the habit as a child, as you did many of your old childhood hobbies and pursuits. You did, however, keep up singing and music, however sporadically.|Chp1-3.2music]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It has been a long time since you’ve carved anything. You dropped the habit as a child, as you did many of your old childhood hobbies and pursuits. You did, however, keep up reading, just not so often for pleasure.|Chp1-3.2reading]]</div>

<<set $momrelationship to "mend">>\ <<set $momrelationshipchosen to true>>\ It is your sincere hope that your mother was not involved in your father’s decision to select Nour for the match, though you cannot help but suspect her. It would hardly be the first time she has meddled in your siblings’ affairs—however discreetly—and it was in large part why your relationship had suffered. That, and you suppose sometimes it is difficult to reconcile the mother who once sang and played with you as a child, and read stories to you by the hearth, with the harsh and uncompromising tutor who had shaped you into a warrior. Despite that, you wanted to mend the breaks in your relationship. You had lost enough family that you did not want to lose your mother as well. It was one of the stipulations you had made upon returning home—that if the two of you were to mend things, she wasn’t to interfere with your siblings or involve them in any of her machinations. You’ll be sorely disappointed in her if she has broken her promise to you. Your mother’s brow furrows slightly. "What is it?" "I needed to speak with you," you say, and gesture to the desk. She takes your meaning and after a moment, she nods, moving around her desk to lounge in the cushioned chair. "Of course, darling. Anything. You have my undivided attention," she says, even as her attention is captured by a small set of crudely shaped animal figurines—pearly white and carved from water buffalo bone, with small colored beads for eyes—lined up atop her desk. Rearranging them in a neat little row, she coos, plucking one up and holding it out to show you. You think it is supposed to be a wild dog, maybe, but it is so misshapen, you cannot quite be sure. "So cute, no?" she says, giving it a little waggle. "Do you remember making these? Why, you could barely hold the carving knife just right on your own, then—I had to hold your hand in mine to teach you the strokes. Look, I kept them all—a little serval, this one is. Isn’t it so cute?" "Is //that// what it’s supposed to be?" "The resemblance is //uncanny.//" "I should certainly hope not." A small bemused smile lifts the corners of her lips. "Mmm. I believe you were going for Saraah’s likeness," she says. Saraah—your mother’s serval. You reach out and take the figurine from her, turning it over in your fingers as you study it, running your fingertips over wide flat ridges and blockish chunks of rough hewn bone—all clumsy cuts you had made with your carving blade clutched tight between your small fists. <div class="choice">[[You’ve kept up the habit of carving, however sporadically, over the years.|Chp1-3.2carving]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It has been a long time since you’ve carved anything. You dropped the habit as a child. You had no time for frivolity or anything that did not relate to your training. You mostly just spar in the little free time you have.|Chp1-3.2sparring]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It has been a long time since you’ve carved anything. You dropped the habit as a child, as you did many of your old childhood hobbies and pursuits. You did, however, keep up dancing, however sporadically.|Chp1-3.2dancing]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It has been a long time since you’ve carved anything. You dropped the habit as a child, as you did many of your old childhood hobbies and pursuits. You did, however, keep up drawing, however sporadically.|Chp1-3.2drawing]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It has been a long time since you’ve carved anything. You dropped the habit as a child, as you did many of your old childhood hobbies and pursuits. You did, however, keep up singing and music, however sporadically.|Chp1-3.2music]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It has been a long time since you’ve carved anything. You dropped the habit as a child, as you did many of your old childhood hobbies and pursuits. You did, however, keep up reading, just not so often for pleasure.|Chp1-3.2reading]]</div>

<<set $momrelationship to "close">>\ <<set $momrelationshipchosen to true>>\ Though you know better than to avoid suspecting her entirely, it is your sincere hope that your mother was not involved in your father’s decision to select Nour for the match. It would hardly be the first time she has meddled in your siblings’ affairs—however discreetly—and you are certain it won’t be the last, despite your disapproval. Still, you cannot find it in yourself to resent her for it. She is family, and she is your mother—that smiling, playful woman who would read to you, who would sing and play with you as a child. And, despite her methods, she’s only ever endeavored to better both your positions at court; you know she only does so out of adoration for you. You’ve always been close ever since you were young, and you’ve stayed as such since. You will, however, be sorely disappointed in her if she has indeed sabotaged Nour’s coronation. Your mother’s brow furrows slightly. "What is it?" "I needed to speak with you," you say, and gesture to the desk. She takes your meaning and after a moment, she nods, moving around her desk to lounge in the cushioned chair. "Of course, darling. Anything. You have my undivided attention," she says, even as her attention is captured by a small set of crudely shaped animal figurines—pearly white and carved from water buffalo bone, with small colored beads for eyes—lined up atop her desk. Rearranging them in a neat little row, she coos, plucking one up and holding it out to show you. You think it is supposed to be a wild dog, maybe, but it is so misshapen, you cannot quite be sure. "So cute, no?" she says, giving it a little waggle. "Do you remember making these? Why, you could barely hold the carving knife just right on your own, then—I had to hold your hand in mine to teach you the strokes. Look, I kept them all—a little serval, this one is. Isn’t it so cute?" "Is //that// what it’s supposed to be?" "The resemblance is //uncanny.//" "I should certainly hope not." A small bemused smile lifts the corners of her lips. "Mmm. I believe you were going for Saraah’s likeness," she says. Saraah—your mother’s serval. You reach out and take the figurine from her, turning it over in your fingers as you study it, running your fingertips over wide flat ridges and blockish chunks of rough hewn bone—all clumsy cuts you had made with your carving blade clutched tight between your small fists. <div class="choice">[[You’ve kept up the habit of carving, however sporadically, over the years.|Chp1-3.2carving]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It has been a long time since you’ve carved anything. You dropped the habit as a child. You had no time for frivolity or anything that did not relate to your training. You mostly just spar in the little free time you have.|Chp1-3.2sparring]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It has been a long time since you’ve carved anything. You dropped the habit as a child, as you did many of your old childhood hobbies and pursuits. You did, however, keep up dancing, however sporadically.|Chp1-3.2dancing]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It has been a long time since you’ve carved anything. You dropped the habit as a child, as you did many of your old childhood hobbies and pursuits. You did, however, keep up drawing, however sporadically.|Chp1-3.2drawing]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It has been a long time since you’ve carved anything. You dropped the habit as a child, as you did many of your old childhood hobbies and pursuits. You did, however, keep up singing and music, however sporadically.|Chp1-3.2music]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It has been a long time since you’ve carved anything. You dropped the habit as a child, as you did many of your old childhood hobbies and pursuits. You did, however, keep up reading, just not so often for pleasure.|Chp1-3.2reading]]</div>

<<set $hobbychosen to true>>\ You’d fallen out of the habit at around eleven years old, when your mother had begun your training in earnest in her efforts to prepare you for when you would take up arms at sixteen—her schedule for you had been too packed for you to entertain any hobbies. But, at some point in between the endless war councils and the weary marches under a blazing sun and the restless nights in your tent, you’d picked the habit back up, carving small pieces of bone and wood here and there, however sporadically. It gave you something to do with your hands. And it seemed to please Castor, anyhow. It was, afterall, only in watching his nimble fingers take blade to bone that had sparked you to plead with your mother to let you learn. <<if $momrelationship is "close">>\ You set the figurine back on her desk with a soft //clink.// "I’ll make you another one," you say. "One that actually looks like Saraah, this time." "I like this one," she says defensively. "I’ll make you a better one," you insist. "I’ve improved since I was a child." "Well, now you have me curious." You smile softly. "You’ll have to wait and see." She returns your smile, readjusting the little serval figurine. "I look forward to it." Subtly clearing your throat, you shift forward in your seat. <<elseif $momrelationship is "mend">>\ You set the figurine back on her desk with a soft //clink.// "Perhaps…I could make you another one, if you like," you say. "One that actually looks like Saraah, this time." "I like this one," she says defensively. "I can make you a better one," you insist. "I’ve improved since I was a child." "Well, now you have me curious." You acquiesce a small smile. "You’ll have to wait and see." Her eyes flit to yours, and after a moment of hesitation—as if uncertain as to your sincerity, given the strain between you—she returns your smile. "Alright," she says, readjusting the little serval figurine. "I’ll look forward to it." Subtly clearing your throat, you shift forward in your seat. <<else>>\ Tossing the figurine in the air, you catch it in your hands and hold it up for your mother to see, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "You’re sure it’s a serval?" you ask. "Not a jackal? Or a wild dog, perhaps?" "//Quite// sure," she replies. "Hm." You flip the figurine back around to squint at it. "Saraah must be uglier than I remember her." "How rude!" she retorts playfully, placing her hand over her chest in mock offense, as if it was //her// you had insulted. "Farwah did not get his handsome looks from nowhere, I assure you. You can thank Saraah for half of that. And she has only gotten lovelier still in her old age. You really should visit more. She’d enjoy your company." She pauses, as if uncertain, looking you over with some careful hesitance. "I would, too," she adds after a moment. "Hm." You set the figurine back on her desk with a soft //clink,// continuing as if you had not heard her. <<endif>>\ [[Continue|Chp1-3.2AskAboutNour]]

<<set $hobby to "sparring">>\ <<set $hobbychosen to true>>\ You’d fallen out of the habit at around eleven years old, when your mother had begun your training in earnest in her efforts to prepare you for when you would take up arms at sixteen—her schedule for you had been too packed for you to entertain any hobbies. She did not see fit to make room for frivolous things. They were a waste of time, and time was precious. Perhaps, if you’d really wanted to, you could have picked up the habit again in between the endless war councils and the weary marches under a blazing sun and the restless nights in your tents, if only to give your hands something to do. But such things were frivolous, and you had no room for frivolous things. Any scarce free time you had was spent training and sparring. And, after Castor’s death, the notion of ever returning to your childhood hobby felt lost to you. Pointless. Unthinkable, even. It was, afterall, only in watching his nimble fingers take blade to bone that had sparked you to plead with your mother to let you learn. You think you still have the set of dice he’d carved for you many years ago. Somewhere. You used to use them often in games with Luca. You haven’t taken them out of their velvet pouch since. Games were frivolous. You set the figurine back on her desk with a soft //clink.// [[Continue|Chp1-3.2AskAboutNour]]

"I needed to speak with you," you say. "Yes?" "It’s about something important," you continue. She glances up upon hearing the serious edge to your tone, slowly withdrawing her hands from the parade of pearly figurines. She props her elbows on the edges of her desk, steepling her fingers together. "I’m listening," she says. You swallow, searching for the right words. "It’s…about Nour," you say. She nods, as if she expected this. "Yes, I heard about $their…forthcoming nuptials." She reaches for a jeweled pendant fastened around her neck, turning it over between her fingers. Glancing at you, she adds, "You must be…upset. I know it’s such ill timing, love, but don’t fret. We’ll all be there to visit for the wedding. It isn’t as though you’ll never see each other again." "That’s not exactly what I…never mind," you say, shaking your head. "When is the wedding?" She laughs, a high tittering trill, as if you’d said something funny, then seems to correct herself, pressing a long, manicured nail to her lips. "Ah. Well. Seems they’ve scheduled it for the upcoming total eclipse—just a few months from now. An inauspicious choice, no?" She laughs again. "Oh, the timing is just delicious, really. On the day most emblematic of our ancestral division, we’ll all come together to join our kingdoms in matrimony." She throws out her arms dramatically. "A poetic happy ending, hm?" she says, then scoffs. "As if this farce of a union could overwrite millenia of rivalry." Absently, she drums her nails against the desk, mumbling to herself. "Mmm. We’ll have to get you fitted for something appropriate for the nuptials. I hear it can get chilly in Celestyl, even in the summer." "Precedent dictates I should have been selected for the match," you insist, tilting your head to the side as you try to recapture her attention. "Nour is set to inherit the throne, being the eldest." "//Was//," your mother corrects. "And now, the title will be passed to you. Oh—! We’ll have to discuss preparations for your coronation. There’s much to go over. When are you free, hm?" She begins rummaging through a drawer in her desk. "Where did I put my calendar…?" <<if ($momrelationship is "close") or ($momrelationship is "mend")>>\ "Mother," you say, snapping your fingers in front of her face until her eyes refocus on you. "Why didn’t Father select me for the match?" you ask, brow furrowing. "It should have been me." <<else>>\ A spike of annoyance flares up in your chest. "Mother," you say sternly, snapping your fingers in front of her face until her eyes refocus on you. "Why didn’t Father select me for the match?" you ask, brow furrowing. "It should have been me." <<endif>>\ "But he didn’t, and we must count ourselves grateful, hm?" she hums, reaching across the desk to pat your hand. "And so should your father," she adds, amber eyes glinting. "Can you //imagine?// Ripping you from me at just sixteen and then shipping you off to Celestyl right when I just got you back? Oh, he should be so //lucky// he didn’t have to deliver that news to me." You frown and she sobers instantly, pulling back. "But you must be upset about your $sibling, of course," she says. She looks you over for a long moment, chewing her lip, concern finally knotting at her flighty features—and something else; some strange look on her face you can’t quite place. "I know you two have always been close." "Mm," you hum absently, your gaze dropping to your lap as your fingers pluck at a loose thread in the embroidery along the seat cushion of your chair. When you look up again, she is still watching you closely. You lean forward, holding her stare. "Mother," you implore her. "Did you have anything to do with the decision?" [[Continue|Chp1-3.2AskAboutNour2]]

Clucking her tongue, she purses her lips into a pout. "Oh, not you as well," she laments. She gestures with a hand towards the door. "Lady Najaat was just in here a moment ago—" <<if ($momrelationship is "close") or ($momrelationship is "mend")>>\ "Mother. //Please,//" you urge her, and though your tone is firm, you cannot mask the slight tremble to your voice. <<else>>\ "//Mother,//" you urge her, voice firm and eyes narrowed. <<endif>>\ She falls quiet, features still as stone. After what feels like an eternity, she heaves a sigh and straightens up in her chair, scooting in closer to the desk. Her voice is quiet yet earnest when she speaks again. "I promise you, love, I had nothing to do with the decision," she says. You search her face for any sign she might be lying. She must see it because she frowns, and reiterates, "I swear it." <<if ($momrelationship is "close") or ($momrelationship is "mend")>>\ With a sigh, you sink back into your chair. "I’m sorry," you say. "I just thought perhaps…" You trail off, shaking your head. "It just doesn’t make any sense to me." Your mother looks out the window, tapping a fingernail to her cheek. "From what I understand," she says, each word sounding hesitant and drawn out, as if she can’t quite figure out if she wants to speak them or not. "Celestyl’s king requested $Title Nour by name." <<else>>\ Despite the sincerity percolating her tone and the worry creasing the corners of her eyes, your mother has always had a flair for theatrics, and you cannot bite back the lingering skepticism that she may be lying to you. You fix her with a hard stare and after a moment, she takes a small breath in, leaning back and turning away. She looks out the window, tapping a fingernail to her cheek. "From what I understand," she says, each word sounding hesitant and drawn out, as if she can’t quite figure out if she wants to speak them or not. "Celestyl’s king requested $Title Nour by name." <<endif>>\ You freeze. "What?" "Odd, isn’t it?" she hums, then turns to look at you, waggling her eyebrows, though her smile does not reach her eyes. "Quite the reputation your $sibling must have built up, hm?" You shoot her a look and she sighs, expression falling. "Why would Celestyl’s king want Nour specifically?" you ask. "Why should it matter which of us goes?" "It //shouldn’t//," she agrees, a musing finger pressed to the downward quirk of her lips. She is—you realize, with an uneasy twist of your stomach—uncertain; it is a look you are wholly unfamiliar with on your mother. "What right do they have to make such demands?" you ask, bewildered, an indignant waver to your voice. "Why is father just agreeing to this?" Realistically, you understand your father must have been backed into a corner, as much as you loathe the idea. With Celestyl’s grip over the River Thiss, your father would have little choice but to agree to Celestyl’s reparation demands lest he doom his people to another year of drought and risk famine. And with resources stretched thin after two consecutive wars, first with Starfell and then with Celestyl, Theia simply hasn’t the means to resist right now. But surely such a demand is overly ridiculous? If all the Lunar King wants is a political hostage, it should hardly matter which royal he receives. Is it simply a taunt? A flaunting of power—to make such demands when King Novan knows well your father would be unable to refuse? Regardless, it spits on the very notion of statesmanship and propriety. "The fangs of the wolf give him the right to make such demands of the lamb he has snared within his maw," she says, voice low in her throat, her frown as sharp as a dagger’s edge. Lit from behind by the glow of the hearth, firelight glinting over the jewels nestled in her hair, her face—cast in shadow—seems frigid and harsh; those pointed sylph-like features of hers, usually so warm and floaty, are sharper now. Colder. It is a glimpse not of your adoring mother, but of your tutor—refinedly ruthless, quick and cunning in nature. It is not a face she wears so openly very often. At least, not before or since you were expected to one day join your siblings at war. "The decision is set," she says. "There is no changing it now." "That’s…" You stew in silence for a moment, grip clenching and unclenching at the armrests of your chair, then you shake your head, abruptly rising to your feet. "I should speak to Father. He must see this is—" Your mother stops you with a raised hand. "So quick you are to try to take fate into your own hands, as if you alone can decide it," your mother says. She motions for you to sit—it is not a question, but an order, and you sink slowly back into your seat. She pauses, features softening. Turning her head slightly, the firelight casts her face in a warm, rosy glow. "Do you remember when you were little, $mcname? You used to beg me to read you the stories of our gods, of demibloods of yore, of the Beginning—every night, by the light of the hearth, you’d plead with me to read to you. Why, I almost grew sick of telling those stories." <div class="choice">[[“I remember.”|Chp1-3.2rememberstory]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“How is this relevant?”|Chp1-3.2relevance]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Make your point, Mother.”|Chp1-3.2makepoint]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.2rememberstory") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic, + Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You nod hesitantly, confusion pinching your brow. "Yes," you say. "I remember. What of it?" She straightens in her chair, raising a pointed finger. "Allow me to regale you again. You wouldn’t begrudge your mother something as small as that, would you? Allow me a moment’s sentimentality." With a tired sigh, you purse your lips. "Er—what for? Just for old time’s sake? Mother, I really don’t have time for stories…" "I’ve a point to make, if that will satisfy you. So?" <<if $momrelationship is "distant">>\ You regard her skeptically for a long minute before you sink defeatedly into your seat—you will not win this one. Your mother was always one for theatrics. "Very well," you relent. "Regale me again." <<else>>\ "Very well," you relent with a small wave of your hand, sinking defeatedly into your seat. "Regale me again." <<endif>>\ <<fadestart>><<link "Continue">><<passagefade "Chp1-3.3Flashback" 3000>><</link>>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.2relevance") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified, + Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You raise an eyebrow. "I…How is this relevant…?" She clucks a tongue. "So business-oriented, you’ve become," she says. "I’m your //mother.// Indulge me in a little nostalgia, won’t you? Besides, I have a point, if that will satisfy your more //pragmatic// side." You purse your lips. "Alright. I remember. What of it?" She straightens in her chair, raising a pointed finger. "Allow me to tell them again. You wouldn’t begrudge your mother something as small as that, would you? Allow me a moment’s sentimentality." You regard her skeptically for a long minute before you sink defeatedly into your seat—you will not win this one. Your mother was always one for theatrics. "Very well," you say. "Tell me again." <<fadestart>><<link "Continue">><<passagefade "Chp1-3.3Flashback" 3000>><</link>>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.2makepoint") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational, + Imposing, + Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You raise an eyebrow, unimpresssed. "//Please,// Mother," you say. "I haven’t the time for stories. Just make your point already." She clucks a tongue. "Hmph. So dreadfully unsentimental, you’ve become," she says. "I’m your //mother.// Indulge me in a little nostalgia, won’t you? Besides, I have a point, if that will satisfy your more //pragmatic// side." You purse your lips, unconvinced. "I still don’t see why we cannot just skip straight to the point." She straightens in her chair, raising a pointed finger. "So obstinate. Diplomacy is a virtue, you know. I haven’t had you to myself since you’ve returned. You can’t avoid me forever. Allow me to tell the story of the Beginning again. You wouldn’t begrudge your mother something as small as that, would you? Allow me a moment’s sentimentality." You regard her skeptically for a long minute before you sink defeatedly into your seat—you will not win this one. Your mother was always one for theatrics. "Very well," you say. "Tell me again." <<fadestart>><<link "Continue">><<passagefade "Chp1-3.3Flashback" 3000>><</link>>

<<audio ":playing" stop>>\ <<audio "indianharp" loop play>>\ <<audio "fireplace" volume 0.7 loop play>>\ It is the eve of your seventh summer, and this evening—like most—is best spent curled up on soft embroidered rugs, buried beneath a thick blanket to chase away the chilling bite of Celestyl’s breath; nights are cold in the desert. Last night, it was Lord Sandstrider—Luca’s father—who read you to sleep. Tonight, it is your mother. "Another one!" you say, tugging at your mother’s skirts from your spot on the floor. Your mother chuckles, her smile as warm as the crackling fire in the hearth, amber eyes twinkling. "It is getting late, my little nightjar," she says."Perhaps another night." "Just one more?" Luca chimes in, sitting up on $lucatheir knees. $lucaThey has long since wriggled $lucathemself out from beneath your shared blanket, having scooted to the edge of the rug farthest away from the fireplace, but now $lucathey shuffles closer to join you in your pleading. Despite $lucatheir earlier complaints about this storybook being for babies, $lucathey had listened, enraptured, the entire time—no doubt due to your mother’s flair for theatrics and her talent in weaving illusions. <div class="choice">[[Plead with your mother.|Chp1-3.3plead]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Reason with your mother.|Chp1-3.3reason]]</div>

"Pleeeease?" you try, giving another insistent pull on your mother’s dress. When she cocks her head at you, you prop your chin on her knee, doing your best impression of puppy dog eyes. They always seemed to work on your older siblings—most of them, anyway—and you know for a fact your mother is not immune either. "Honestly, do you two never tire?" Your mother asks in mock exasperation. She makes a big show of considering it, but you can tell from the amused crinkle at the corners of her eyes that she has already caved in. After several moments of quiet deliberation, a manicured nail pressed firmly to her lips, she heaves a dramatic sigh. "Well, alright," she relents. "Just //one// more. And then it’s off to bed with the both of you." You both nod emphatically, Luca letting $lucathemself fall backwards onto the currant-red rug—which still smells of sandalwood and citrus oils from when the two of you had accidentally spilled a bottle of your mother’s perfume—before flipping around and rolling onto $lucatheir stomach. $lucaThey sprawls out with $lucatheir chin in $lucatheir hands and $lucatheir knees bent, feet kicking lazily through the air. <div class="choice">[[You sprawl out next to Luca.|Chp1-3.3sprawl]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You collapse backwards and sprawl out on top of Luca.|Chp1-3.3ontop]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You sit down next to Luca, folding your legs neatly beneath you, your spine straight and eyes attentive.|Chp1-3.3sitproper]]</div>

"But I’m not tired yet," you insist. Luca glances at you and then shuffles a bit closer, nodding. "Me neither." "I won’t be able to sleep //at all// if you don’t tell another story," you say. "I’ll be up //all night// thinking about it." "Me too," Luca says. "Just one more? I’ll be sleepy after that, I promise." You hold up your pinky for emphasis. "Me too," Luca says. "Honestly, do you two never tire?" Your mother asks in mock exasperation. She makes a big show of considering it, but you can tell from the amused crinkle at the corners of her eyes that she has already caved in. After several moments of quiet deliberation, a manicured nail pressed firmly to her lips, she heaves a dramatic sigh. "Well, alright," she relents. "Just //one// more. And then it’s off to bed with the both of you." You both nod emphatically, Luca letting $lucathemself fall backwards onto the currant-red rug—which still smells of sandalwood and citrus oils from when the two of you had accidentally spilled a bottle of your mother’s perfume—before flipping around and rolling onto $lucatheir stomach. $lucaThey sprawls out with $lucatheir chin in $lucatheir hands and $lucatheir knees bent, feet kicking lazily through the air. <div class="choice">[[You sprawl out next to Luca.|Chp1-3.3sprawl]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You collapse backwards and sprawl out on top of Luca.|Chp1-3.3ontop]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You sit down next to Luca, folding your legs neatly beneath you, your spine straight and eyes attentive.|Chp1-3.3sitproper]]</div>

You sprawl out on your stomach, peeking at Luca from the corners of your eyes so you can mirror $lucatheir pose, your chin propped against your fists and your feet swinging idly behind you. Leaning back in her chair, your mother shakes her head good naturedly, pursing her lips as she pries your favorite weathered storybook open and flips through the pages. "Mmm, let’s see…" she mumbles to herself. "Any requests?" You mull over it for a moment, craning your neck to get a peek at the book’s pages—impossible from your spot on the floor. "Are there any you haven’t told yet?" you ask. "You want a new story?" your mother asks. "Are there any?" "What about the Beginning?" Luca suggests. Catching your puzzled look, $lucathey adds, "My father tells it sometimes." "He’s never told it to me." "That’s because he only entertains //civil// company." "That’s strange, then," you say, narrowing your eyes at $lucathem in a glare. "Why does he entertain //you?//" $lucaThey shrugs. "I know how to be civil." "You hardly show it." "Yes, well. Your boorishness must be somewhat contagious, then." You lift your chin and turn away, quashing the smile that threatens to lift your cheeks with a pout as Luca cracks a small teasing grin. "Hmph," you say. "I should let Ember dunk you in the fountains the next time he tries." "Alright, alright, you two," your mother chides, nudging you apart with the toe of her shoe. She hesitates for a moment, glancing between you and Luca, before she snaps the book shut and nods. "The Beginning it is, then," she says. She stands and replaces your storybook on the bookshelf beside the fireplace, then pulls out another book, returning to her chair and settling down, flipping through the pages until she comes to a stop. "In the Beginning," she starts, and with a wicked gleam in her eye, she snaps a finger, and when next you blink, you open your eyes to find the room as pitch black as it was when your eyes were closed. "There was Nothing. Just the dark and the empty." <div class="choice">[[You grow nervous in the dark, and search for the sound of Luca’s breathing and the glow of your mother’s veins to ground yourself.|Chp1-3.3scaredlisten]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You grow nervous in the dark, and reach for Luca.|Chp1-3.3scaredreach]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You do not mind the dark, and are not unnerved by it.|Chp1-3.3notscared]]</div>

"//Oof//," Luca grunts as you throw your weight over $lucathem with a grin. A small whine escapes $lucatheir throat as $lucathey tries to wriggle away. "Ugh, get off, $mcnickname. It’s too hot in here." $lucaThey squirms beneath you, worming around to shoot you an annoyed glare. You simply smile wider and $lucathey shoves your face away. Being two years your senior and larger than you, $lucathey could easily throw you off if $lucathey wanted to, but with a defeated sigh and no small amount of grumbling, $lucathey seems to resign $lucathemself to $lucatheir fate, slumping into the rug, $lucatheir fist propped against $lucatheir cheek. Leaning back in her chair, your mother shakes her head good naturedly, pursing her lips as she pries your favorite weathered storybook open and flips through the pages. "Mmm, let’s see…" she mumbles to herself. "Any requests?" You mull over it for a moment, craning your neck to get a peek at the book’s pages—impossible from your spot on the floor. "Are there any you haven’t told yet?" you ask. "You want a new story?" your mother asks. "Are there any?" "What about the Beginning?" Luca suggests. Catching your puzzled look, $lucathey adds, "My father tells it sometimes." "He’s never told it to me." "That’s because he only entertains //civil// company." You grab a throw pillow and wallop Luca over the head with it. "My point stands," $lucathey says, holding up an arm to shield $lucatheir face as you smack $lucathem again, harder this time. "Ack—!" "Alright, alright, you two," your mother chides, nudging you apart with the toe of her shoe. She hesitates for a moment, glancing between you and Luca, before she snaps the book shut and nods. "The Beginning it is, then," she says. She stands and replaces your storybook on the bookshelf beside the fireplace, then pulls out another book, returning to her chair and settling down, flipping through the pages until she comes to a stop. "In the Beginning," she starts, and with a wicked gleam in her eye, she snaps a finger, and when next you blink, you open your eyes to find the room as pitch black as it was when your eyes were closed. "There was Nothing. Just the dark and the empty." <div class="choice">[[You grow nervous in the dark, and search for the sound of Luca’s breathing and the glow of your mother’s veins to ground yourself.|Chp1-3.3scaredlisten]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You grow nervous in the dark, and reach for Luca.|Chp1-3.3scaredreach]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You do not mind the dark, and are not unnerved by it.|Chp1-3.3notscared]]</div>

Your mother regards you appreciatively while Luca rolls $lucatheir eyes. Leaning back in her chair, your mother shakes her head good naturedly, pursing her lips as she pries your favorite weathered storybook open and flips through the pages. "Mmm, let’s see…" she mumbles to herself. "Any requests?" You mull over it for a moment, craning your neck to get a peek at the book’s pages—impossible from your spot on the floor. "Are there any you haven’t told yet?" you ask. "You want a new story?" your mother asks. "Are there any?" "What about the Beginning?" Luca suggests. Catching your puzzled look, $lucathey adds, "My father tells it sometimes." "He’s never told it to me." "That’s because he only entertains //civil// company." You frown, lifting your chin. "I’m plenty civil." "Oh," Luca says. "Then it must be because he doesn’t like you." There is a brief moment of you settling for an unimpressed glare, opting to take the high-road, but it is Luca’s poorly smothered grin twitching at the corners of $lucatheir mouth that has you thinking better of it. You grab a throw pillow and wallop Luca over the head with it. "Ack—!" "Alright, alright, you two," your mother chides, nudging you apart with the toe of her shoe. She hesitates for a moment, glancing between you and Luca, before she snaps the book shut and nods. "The Beginning it is, then," she says. She stands and replaces your storybook on the bookshelf beside the fireplace, then pulls out another book, returning to her chair and settling down, flipping through the pages until she comes to a stop. "In the Beginning," she starts, and with a wicked gleam in her eye, she snaps a finger, and when next you blink, you open your eyes to find the room as pitch black as it was when your eyes were closed. "There was Nothing. Just the dark and the empty." <div class="choice">[[You grow nervous in the dark, and search for the sound of Luca’s breathing and the glow of your mother’s veins to ground yourself.|Chp1-3.3scaredlisten]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You grow nervous in the dark, and reach for Luca.|Chp1-3.3scaredreach]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You do not mind the dark, and are not unnerved by it.|Chp1-3.3notscared]]</div>

Though you know by the soft glow of the ichor in your mother’s veins spiderwebbing across her skin it is merely the work of her illusory magic that obscures the glow of the crackling fireplace from your eyes, you cannot help but feel nervous. You’ve never liked the dark. You sink your fingers into the fibers of the rug beneath you and listen for the quiet sound of Luca breathing to remind yourself it is all still there. "And then," comes your mother’s voice, low and feathery. "Then, there was //Maia.//" She stretches out a hand, her fingers unfurling with a wisp of curling green light. "The earth, the Mother, the World Goddess. Tender to the World Garden." Illuminated by the soft glow of her magic, she looks over the both of you, eyes shining. "But the Beginning was a lonely time," she says. "Black and gelid; an endless night. And Maia’s surface was just as barren and as desolate as the Nothing around Her—naught but cold, hard rock and stone. //Life// was a name She had yet to earn." "As was Death," you pipe up, voice faint and uncertain. You’ve known Maia by many names—some of them as lovely and as spirited as Mother and Life; a vibrant spring of lush green and thick mud; the warmth of your brother’s hand atop your head; the first cry of your serval kitten Farwah, his fur still wet from his mother’s womb. Those were Her first names you learned. The ones that were most easy to become acquainted with in the gaiety of youth. It is Her other names which took you time to learn, those careful and cautious sounds spoken over reticent lips, hushed and whispered. Something distant and unfamiliar to you at first—a concept, merely. Less so now. Her name is a slap to your wrist as your mother ushers you away from that orphan girl who had approached you in the plaza—//Bloodless,// your mother had called her. A spirit wanting for a body. Her name is a whisper that follows after your grandmother’s name—another sun-bleached skull crushed beneath her heel, earth watered by blood, a sinister contract, a forbidden pact. Her name is whispered softly to you by Luca as you stand round-eyed and bewildered, uncertain as to why this newborn kitten cradled within your palms is so still and cold and quiet when the rest of her siblings mew and squirm at the belly of your mother’s serval, Saraah. Your mother’s eyes flit to you and after a moment, she tilts her head, acquiescing a small nod. "As was Death," she agrees. She pauses before she drops her gaze to the book and continues. [[Continue|Chp1-3.3ContStory]]

Though you know by the soft glow of the ichor in your mother’s veins spiderwebbing across her skin it is merely the work of her illusory magic that obscures the glow of the crackling fireplace from your eyes, you cannot help but feel nervous. You’ve never liked the dark. You find yourself reaching for Luca before you realize it, if only to reassure yourself that $lucathey is still there, finding $lucatheir hand and clinging to it. $lucaThey does not protest or pull away, though you know $lucathey must find it uncomfortably hot, the way your palm burns against $lucatheirs. "And then," comes your mother’s voice, low and feathery. "Then, there was //Maia.//" She stretches out a hand, her fingers unfurling with a wisp of curling green light. "The earth, the Mother, the World Goddess. Tender to the World Garden." Illuminated by the soft glow of her magic, she looks over the both of you, eyes shining. "But the Beginning was a lonely time," she says. "Black and gelid; an endless night. And Maia’s surface was just as barren and as desolate as the Nothing around Her—naught but cold, hard rock and stone. //Life// was a name She had yet to earn." "As was Death," you pipe up, voice faint and uncertain. You’ve known Maia by many names—some of them as lovely and as spirited as Mother and Life; a vibrant spring of lush green and thick mud; the warmth of your brother’s hand atop your head; the first cry of your serval kitten Farwah, his fur still wet from his mother’s womb. Those were Her first names you learned. The ones that were most easy to become acquainted with in the gaiety of youth. It is Her other names which took you time to learn, those careful and cautious sounds spoken over reticent lips, hushed and whispered. Something distant and unfamiliar to you at first—a concept, merely. Less so now. Her name is a slap to your wrist as your mother ushers you away from that orphan girl who had approached you in the plaza—//Bloodless,// your mother had called her. A spirit wanting for a body. Her name is a whisper that follows after your grandmother’s name—another sun-bleached skull crushed beneath her heel, earth watered by blood, a sinister contract, a forbidden pact. Her name is whispered softly to you by Luca as you stand round-eyed and bewildered, uncertain as to why this newborn kitten cradled within your palms is so still and cold and quiet when the rest of her siblings mew and squirm at the belly of your mother’s serval, Saraah. Your mother’s eyes flit to you and after a moment, she tilts her head, acquiescing a small nod. "As was Death," she agrees. She pauses before she drops her gaze to the book and continues. [[Continue|Chp1-3.3ContStory]]

You know by the soft glow of the ichor in your mother’s veins spiderwebbing across her skin it is merely the work of her illusory magic that obscures the glow of the crackling fireplace from your eyes, so you do not grow nervous, as you might have once, when you were smaller. You do not mind the dark, anyhow. "And then," comes your mother’s voice, low and feathery. "Then, there was //Maia.//" She stretches out a hand, her fingers unfurling with a wisp of curling green light. "The earth, the Mother, the World Goddess. Tender to the World Garden." Illuminated by the soft glow of her magic, she looks over the both of you, eyes shining. "But the Beginning was a lonely time," she says. "Black and gelid; an endless night. And Maia’s surface was just as barren and as desolate as the Nothing around Her—naught but cold, hard rock and stone. //Life// was a name She had yet to earn." "As was Death," you pipe up, voice faint and uncertain. You’ve known Maia by many names—some of them as lovely and as spirited as Mother and Life; a vibrant spring of lush green and thick mud; the warmth of your brother’s hand atop your head; the first cry of your serval kitten Farwah, his fur still wet from his mother’s womb. Those were Her first names you learned. The ones that were most easy to become acquainted with in the gaiety of youth. It is Her other names which took you time to learn, those careful and cautious sounds spoken over reticent lips, hushed and whispered. Something distant and unfamiliar to you at first—a concept, merely. Less so now. Her name is a slap to your wrist as your mother ushers you away from that orphan girl who had approached you in the plaza—//Bloodless,// your mother had called her. A spirit wanting for a body. Her name is a whisper that follows after your grandmother’s name—another sun-bleached skull crushed beneath her heel, earth watered by blood, a sinister contract, a forbidden pact. Her name is whispered softly to you by Luca as you stand round-eyed and bewildered, uncertain as to why this newborn kitten cradled within your palms is so still and cold and quiet when the rest of her siblings mew and squirm at the belly of your mother’s serval, Saraah. Your mother’s eyes flit to you and after a moment, she tilts her head, acquiescing a small nod. "As was Death," she agrees. She pauses before she drops her gaze to the book and continues. [[Continue|Chp1-3.3ContStory]]

"Maia was alone in the Beginning, with not even the company of sprightly seedlings wriggling their roots in Her soil—for there was no light to warm them, no water to feed them. No day, no night. No turn of the sky to pass the time, to grow them," she says, and she closes her palm, snuffing out those faint tendrils of viridian light dancing along her fingertips. "And so, Maia drifted in and out of a somber slumber, the world just as dark as it was when She slept as it was when She opened Her eyes." She absently flips the page of the storybook with her free hand, but she is no longer reading from it, having long since memorized this tale. "But little did She know, as She slept, something stirred deep within Her belly. And when She awoke with a shiver, a great wide fissure split open across Her surface, and with a brilliant shower of radiant light—" your mother flicks her wrist and with a spray of sparks, three glowing orbs alight upon her open palm. "—three little gods spilled forth from Her chasm, and She was no longer alone." You shift on the carpet. "Were you lonely before you had me?" you ask quietly. Your mother smiles, her warm gaze glowing with affection. "Every day," she says. Had it not been so dark, you might have noticed the somber shadow that passed over Luca’s face then as $lucathey glanced between you and your mother; one that often hung there, like a persistent cloud, one that Luca refused to acknowledge even around you, with whom $lucathey was most open—but you do not see it and it is gone almost as soon as it had come, the only reminder it had ever been there at all in the ever-present solemn sag beneath $lucatheir eyes. Luca shifts and points at the largest and brightest glowing orb in your mother’s palm. "That one was Starfell," $lucathey says, $lucatheir voice uncharacteristically faint, almost reverent. "The Sky, the Stars." You pop up and point to the second orb, glowing a fierce, fiery gold. "And that one was Theia," you say. "The Sun. Our goddess." "Mm," your mother agrees. "And this one," she says, pointing to the last orb—a drop of shimmering silver, "was Celestyl. The Moon." She waves a hand and the darkness ebbs away, seeping back into the corners of the room untouched by the amber glow of the hearth. [[Continue|Chp1-3.3ContStory2]]

"Her children grew quickly, as gods do, and as They found Their footing, stretching slender sylph-like limbs, the Triplets set about mapping Maia’s surface on airy feet. Starfell breathed glistening snow over Her surface, sculpting great, jagged mountains out of cerulean ice; Theia dusted Her surface in cascading dunes of glittering golden sands; and from Celestyl’s touch, silver rivers and sapphire seas sprang forth." She closes her fist, and when she opens it again, her fingers carding through the air, ribbons of light follow and twist into the shapes of yawning trees, wandering wildcats, and prancing people, their limbs curving gracefully like the stamens of flowers, poised in the teasing beginnings of a dance. "Their fluttering footfalls coaxed forth from the earth vines bursting with leaves and great, sturdy trees, and They began to compete amongst Themselves with Their creations. From wood, They carved birds and fish and animals," she says. "And from clay, They sculpted people. "But when these people and animals could not command the elements the way the gods could, They tried again, and this time They spilled a drop of Their ichor into the wood and clay, each sculpting Their own races of demibloods and magical beasts and spirits, for whom magic burned through their very veins." With a flick of her wrist, the illusion dissipates into a fountain of tiny motes of light, spiraling over her lap and fizzing out against the carpet. Luca reaches out to catch one, staring after it as it disappears on the tip of $lucatheir finger. Your mother turns her hand over, stretching her fingers and letting you watch the way her veins glow faintly with ichor. You stretch your own fingers out, tracing your veins with your eyes. Your mother had said it was only a matter of time before you’d begin to grow into your own powers. Luca and your older brothers, Castor and Ember, were already beginning to bud into their magic; it was something both Luca and Ember smugly teased you over relentlessly. You stare at your hands. <div class="choice">[[You are growing impatient.|Chp1-3.3impatient]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You are content with waiting.|Chp1-3.3patient]]</div>

You are beginning to grow rather restless in your waiting. It is wearisome being the youngest and the smallest, always lagging behind Luca and your other siblings. It’s not fair. You wish your magic would hurry it up already. Pulling her hand back, your mother crosses one leg over the other, readjusting her skirts. "They lived in a beautiful world with no end, a life without death, and Maia was delighted by all of Her children’s creations," she says. "But it was not meant to last; gods are jealous and fickle creatures, and the Triplets, being young and ambitious, looked upon each others’ creations with envy. They continued to quarrel, each vying to outdo one another. "In a fit of jealousy, They threw Themselves upon one another, eclipsing the very sky, and it was then that Theia and Celestyl tore Starfell, the biggest and brightest among Them, into a million pieces, scattering the shards across the sky, and forming the stars." She cups her hand and blows into it and a spray of twinkling specks of light fall over you, hanging suspended and sparkling in the air. Luca lets out a small, low hum, but when you glance sideways at $lucathem, $lucathey angles $lucatheir head away, $lucatheir dark feathered hair falling over $lucatheir eyes. You pass a hand through the glittering lights, marveling at the way they flicker and fizzle against your skin. Despite yourself, a frown tugs at your lips. "They…tore Their own sibling apart?" you ask, looking at your mother. "Have you never wanted to do the same when one of your siblings was being annoying?" Luca asks, propping $lucathemself up on the carpet with $lucatheir elbows as $lucathey turns to face you. $lucaThey squeezes $lucatheir index fingers to either side of $lucatheir temples. "Or, at the very least, explode them with your mind?" $lucathey says. <div class="choice">[[“What? No. Never,” you say. You couldn’t imagine even thinking of hurting one of your siblings.|Chp1-3.3NoNever]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Well, obviously,” you say. “But I’d never actually do it.”|Chp1-3.3YesObvs]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link '"My siblings aren\’t nearly as annoying as //you// are."' 'Chp1-3.3annoying'>><</link>></div>

Your mother urged patience, so you will abide by her advice. She’d told you your magic would speak to you when you were ready, and Nour had told you the same. Afterall, $they <<are>> two years your senior and <<have>> not yet begun to bud into $their magic, either. So you suppose you can be patient with $them. Pulling her hand back, your mother crosses one leg over the other, readjusting her skirts. "They lived in a beautiful world with no end, a life without death, and Maia was delighted by all of Her children’s creations," she says. "But it was not meant to last; gods are jealous and fickle creatures, and the Triplets, being young and ambitious, looked upon each others’ creations with envy. They continued to quarrel, each vying to outdo one another. "In a fit of jealousy, They threw Themselves upon one another, eclipsing the very sky, and it was then that Theia and Celestyl tore Starfell, the biggest and brightest among Them, into a million pieces, scattering the shards across the sky, and forming the stars." She cups her hand and blows into it and a spray of twinkling specks of light fall over you, hanging suspended and sparkling in the air. Luca lets out a small, low hum, but when you glance sideways at $lucathem, $lucathey angles $lucatheir head away, $lucatheir dark feathered hair falling over $lucatheir eyes. You pass a hand through the glittering lights, marveling at the way they flicker and fizzle against your skin. Despite yourself, a frown tugs at your lips. "They…tore Their own sibling apart?" you ask, looking at your mother. "Have you never wanted to do the same when one of your siblings was being annoying?" Luca asks, propping $lucathemself up on the carpet with $lucatheir elbows as $lucathey turns to face you. $lucaThey squeezes $lucatheir index fingers to either side of $lucatheir temples. "Or, at the very least, explode them with your mind?" $lucathey says. <div class="choice">[[“What? No. Never,” you say. You couldn’t imagine even thinking of hurting one of your siblings.|Chp1-3.3NoNever]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Well, obviously,” you say. “But I’d never actually do it.”|Chp1-3.3YesObvs]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link '"My siblings aren\’t nearly as annoying as //you// are."' 'Chp1-3.3annoying'>><</link>></div>

Luca shrugs. "I could do without Ember, personally." "Should I tell him you said that?" "Er—" Luca blanches but squares $lucatheir shoulders, affecting a resolute expression, though with $lucatheir lower lip stuck out as it is, it comes across more like a pout. "Whatever. I could take him." "Is that what you call that? Didn't he hurl you into the river the other day?" "Lies and slander. You'll shut your face if you know what's good for you." Clearing her throat, your mother taps the tip of her shoe against the floor, recapturing your attention. She leans back, rocking lightly in her chair. "Anyhow, yes, They tore Their sibling to shreds. As I said, gods are envious and powerful creatures," your mother supplies. "Envy and power are a dangerous mix. In any case, hush now. Stop interrupting." She flips another page. [[Continue|Chp1-3.3ContStory3]]

Luca shrugs. "I could do without Ember, personally." You club $lucathem over the head. "Ow," $lucathey says, rubbing at $lucatheir new lump. "I was just kidding. Sort of." Clearing her throat, your mother taps the tip of her shoe against the floor, recapturing your attention. She leans back, rocking lightly in her chair. "Anyhow, yes, They tore Their sibling to shreds. As I said, gods are envious and powerful creatures," your mother supplies. "Envy and power are a dangerous mix. In any case, hush now. Stop interrupting." She flips another page. [[Continue|Chp1-3.3ContStory3]]

Luca cracks a goofy grin at that—a glimpse of sunshine through the clouds that is $lucatheir usual solemness—and you’re quite certain $lucathey must have taken it as a compliment. "It’s too bad you don’t have mind explosion powers, then," $lucathey says. "We’ll just see about that," you reply. Clearing her throat, your mother taps the tip of her shoe against the floor, recapturing your attention. She leans back, rocking lightly in her chair. "Anyhow, yes, They tore Their sibling to shreds. As I said, gods are envious and powerful creatures," your mother supplies. "Envy and power are a dangerous mix. In any case, hush now. Stop interrupting." She flips another page. [[Continue|Chp1-3.3ContStory3]]

"Maia tried in vain to put the pieces of Her child back together again, but the pieces were many and every time She managed to gather them up, the wind would scatter them again," she says. "So She wept, and Her tears carved rivers through the earth like a knife, swallowing forests whole, and Her wails shook the ground, toppling the tallest of mountains. "Eventually, when Theia and Celestyl could bear Their mother’s wails no longer, They desperately tried to pacify Her, but Their pleas fell upon deaf ears; She would not hear Them. "It was Her want for life which brought Her three babes into fruition, and it was Her want for death which birthed the World Serpent: Fate, wrought from Her mother’s anguish and fury; a great, writhing snake, born to strangle the very babes Maia had once nursed at Her bosom. The World Devourer—an End to the Beginning," your mother says, and she holds out an arm. You watch, entranced, as a coiling, skittering wisp of glittering, stygian scales framed in gold snakes out from beneath her flaring sleeve, winding slow and terrible around the length of her forearm until the serpent’s head arcs up, sleek and slender, its onyx eyes just as dark and void-like as the inside of its gaping, glistering jaws. You shrink back somewhat, curling in on yourself. Your mind is ripped back to that black cobra you had run into with Nour not even a season ago, along the bank of the Thiss. Parim had warned you both not to wander off too far, but you suppose you had been too busy chasing desert larks and sunbirds to pay him much mind. The serpent’s black bead-like eyes had held you in place then, too, rooted to the spot in fear even as its hooded head had risen mesmerizingly from the ground, slow and swaying, softly hissing, dark tongue flickering. You hadn't meant to wander off so far—really. It was your and Nour's names cried out in alarm that had shaken you from your trance, though it was not soon enough. Sometimes, when you sleep, you still hear the sink of gleaming white fangs into flesh and the shriek of your $sibling, still see the whites of Nour's eyes lolling back in $their head as $they twitched helplessly in Parim's arms as he and Aurora scooped you both up and ran home. Ember had told you Nour had stopped breathing at some point—kept alive only by the palace's healers. Cobra venom could do that to you. Your mother seems to sense your discomfort, and she smiles reassuringly, passing a hand through the serpent coiled around her wrist and letting you watch as it flickers and dissolves into mist only to reform as her fingers retreat. "It’s only an illusion, love," she says. You swallow and nod, carefully recomposing your expression as Luca glances at you from the corners of $lucatheir eyes. "I know," you say. Nodding, your mother continues. [[Continue|Chp1-3.3ContStoryEnd]]

"Waters continued to rise, fed by the unrelenting flow of Maia’s tears, threatening to wash away everything the Triplets had created," she says. "And Fate, newborn though She may have been, grew larger everyday, feasting ravenously upon birds and fish and people, who fell easily to Her—death was new to them. "Theia and Celestyl could no longer sit still, lest the world They had built be swept away in the Great Flood and Themselves be swallowed whole," she says, and holds up a finger. "And thus They hatched a plan." She straightens and sits forward in her chair, the firelight dancing beneath her chin and flickering like flames across her eyes. "They could not hope to oppose Fate directly; She was far larger and stronger now than either Her brother or Her sister—cunning and quick-witted, too. But Theia and Celestyl were older and wiser where Their newborn sister was not. "Those people whom Fate had devoured had been promised an eternity of life and it had been robbed from them," your mother makes a sharp grasping gesture, her fingers curling into a fist. "Their bodies were gone but their souls remained, trapped to wander the earth endlessly, condemned to some other ethereal plane where their loved ones could no longer see or hear them. "So Theia and Celestyl offered them a deal—help Them pacify Fate and Their mother, and They would shelter these souls in the heavens, where they would spend eternity in opulence, a paradise in the sky, but forever bound by their oath to defend against the Great Flood and the End of All Things," she says. "//Refuse,// and they would be left to wander the earth forever, unseen and unheard, trapped in limbo—the first of the Bloodless." Your mother throws out a hand then, and a spray of color erupts from the tips of her fingers, swirling into streaking, fire-gold feathers and quick, fluttering, white mouse feet. "So, Theia, taking the form of a bird, and Celestyl that of a mouse, descended from the sky to walk upon the earth," she says in a sonorous voice, the bird and mouse—painted to life by your mother’s magic—alighting upon the carpet. She reaches up to put a hand over either of her eyes. "They each tied a sash around Their eyes and called out to Their sister." The stygian serpent slithers from your mother’s wrist, its long, lustrous body slipping from the armrest of her chair to the carpet before you, black tongue flickering. It glides forward—slow and soundless and undulating. The little golden bird beats her feathers as the silver mouse hops back and forth on sleek, slender feet. And then the serpent streaks forward in a ribbon of black. You recoil backwards, bumping into Luca, who, despite $lucatheir attempts to appear otherwise, looks almost nearly as skittish as you feel, $lucatheir brow furrowed heavy over narrowed citrine eyes, fingers itching at the hems of $lucatheir shirt sleeves as $lucathey scoots into a sitting position, $lucatheir knees pulled close to $lucatheir chest. Your mother gives you a small, reassuring smile, and you relax somewhat. "It was not long before She found Them, and once Fate began to give chase, Theia and Celestyl led Her in circles, darting between mountains and weaving through canyons, blind but guided by the shouts and the clang of hammers against shields from those souls who had sworn an oath to Theia and Celestyl," your mother says as the bird, the mouse, and the serpent wind in circles around you. It makes you dizzy just watching them. "Round and round, Fate coiled and twisted, writhing in hypnotic circles as Maia watched on, until She lulled both Herself and Maia into a deep, //deep// slumber." Your mother’s voice comes slower and soporific now, low and resonant, and your eyes begin to grow heavy as those streaks of fire-gold, of silver and black, dance before your eyes, round and round and round; a steady rhythm that pulls you slow and listless into the abyss of sleep. <<fadestart>><<link "Continue">><<passagefade "Chp1-3.2ContMotherStudy" 3000>><</link>>

<<audio ":all" stop>>\ <<audio "desertstorm" loop play>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "gentle">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $gentle>>\ <<if $confrontational > $mainpersonalitynum>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "confrontational">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $confrontational>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $dignified > $mainpersonalitynum>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "dignified">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $dignified>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $imposing > $mainpersonalitynum>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "imposing">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $imposing>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $charismatic > $mainpersonalitynum>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "charismatic">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $charismatic>>\ <<endif>>\ You roll your head to the side, letting out an involuntary sigh as you sit forward, shifting in the seat across from your mother’s desk, your voice a bored drawl as you finish her story: “And so Fate and Her vengeful mother, Maia, lie asleep, and those souls in the embrace of Theia’s and Celestyl’s Halls, bound by an eternal oath, lie in wait, ready to defend against the End, when Fate and Maia wake again and the Great Flood begins anew,” you recite the words as you remember them from your storybook days. “I know.” “Well, I’m glad to see you’ve not outgrown your impatience, even if you have lost some sense of sentimentality,” your mother chides, clucking her tongue as she steeples her fingers together. “Permit me to make my point, my dear. //Without// interruptions.” <<if $momrelationship is "distant">>\ <<if ($mainpersonality is "gentle") or ($mainpersonality is "dignified") or ($mainpersonality is "charismatic")>>\ You fix her with a skeptical stare before puffing out a breath. “Very well,” you say. “Please do try to make it quick. I am in no mood for your word games tonight.” <<else>>\ You fix her with a hard stare before puffing out a breath. “Fine,” you say, tersely. “But do make it quick. I haven’t the forbearance for much more of your story-weaving tonight.” <<endif>>\ Lips puckering into an almost petulant pout for but half a moment, she sighs and, regaining her composure, sits forward in her seat, smoothing a hand over the side of her throat. <<elseif $momrelationship is "mend">>\ You fix her with a hard stare before puffing out a breath. You spread your hands in a silent gesture of surrender. “Alright,” is all you say. Your mother nods, satisfied, and sits forward in her seat, smoothing a hand over the side of her throat. <<else>>\ “I…very well, Mother,” you relent with a small, tired sigh. “Forgive my impoliteness. Weariness begets my terseness. Take my apology.” You spread your hands in a gesture of surrender. Your mother nods, satisfied, and sits forward in her seat, smoothing a hand over the side of her throat. <<endif>>\ “Yes, Fate was born as the World’s Devourer, and though She slumbers still, Her pull is unrelenting. And, just as a beginning is to its end, we are all drawn inexorably to the End of All Things. We move according to //Her// design,” your mother says. She runs a finger along her desk in slow circles, and your eyes follow the movement, tracing her manicured nail over the polished wood, which smells of citrus oils, just as the carpet did in her room by the hearth all those years ago. You wonder if it still smells that way. “And so it is such that history should be cyclic in nature, revolving as does a serpent chasing its tail, forever a cycle of repetition,” she says. “//This// is the curse that Fate bestowed upon Her siblings as They lured Her to sleep—that, until Fate awakens and harkens the End at last, They should be doomed to spin with Her, to forever repeat Their jealous folly, always at each other’s throats in Their efforts to tip the scales in Their own favor.” She lifts a hand to study the veins tracing over the ridges of her knuckles and trailing down her wrist. “And such is the curse of inheritance,” she says, splaying out her fingers. “That we should inherit our gods’ feud from the ichor They shared with us—that we, too, should be doomed to ever repeat Their eternal rivalry.” Almond eyes narrowing into a squint, she lifts her hand, gesturing vaguely, her flaring emerald sleeves slipping down her forearm to the crook of her elbow. “Just look how we spin with Fate still,” she says. “The kingdom of Starfell lies in ruins, its people scattered across the continent just as their god lies scattered across the night sky. And even now, Celestyl’s is not a name we Theians could forget; it lies heavy and thick on our tongues, crusted beneath our nails like blood. We could not wash it from our skin if we tried.” <<if $momrelationship is "distant">>\ You shift in your seat, cocking your head to the side as you regard your mother with no small amount of frustration. <<else>>\ You shift in your seat, cocking your head to the side as you regard your mother with some amount of uncertainty. <<endif>>\ “I am well acquainted with our kingdoms’ conflict,” you say. “And every child learns the stories of our gods at their parent’s knee. Why bring this up now?” “To serve as a reminder,” your mother replies, voice hard and heavy as she lifts a finger. “Firstly—of Fate’s influence. Hers is easy to forget. She is the subtle sort. Her influence on the ways of the world go unheard and unseen. But Fate is destiny’s scribe; She is a force as natural to the world as any element—as ancient and as powerful. And—just as //uncaring.//” She lifts a second finger. “And secondly,” she says, her stare keen enough to make you fidget. “To remind you of your place in the world. Lest Fate be tempted to do so Herself.” Your brow knits. “What do you mean?” “Tell me—why do we tell these stories to our children? They are our history, yes, but they are more than that,” she says, chin thrust forward as she regards you. She taps her finger against the desk. “This tale of our gods, of the Beginning—what does it mean to //you?//” She answers your question with one of her own, and you watch as those warm features of your floaty, adoring mother harden into your unpitying stone-faced tutor, the one who drilled you relentlessly as a child, shaping you into a warrior, her words as sharp and biting as a whip and her patience for failure just as thin. She is, you understand, assessing you, and your lips thin into a grim line as you pause to think of your answer, feeling suddenly very small in your chair, as if you were a child again, wondering what answer might best please your austere tutor. With a swallow, you straighten in your chair, and give her your answer: <div class="choice">[[“It is a story of love and of triumph.”|Chp1-3.2Opt]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“It is a cautionary tale. A warning and an admonition.”|Chp1-3.2Pess]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“It is a lesson. A righting of wrongs.”|Chp1-3.2Real]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.2Opt") <= 1>>\ <<set $optimistic to $optimistic + 20>>\ <<set $cynical to $cynical - 20>>\ <<set $outlooknum to $outlooknum + 20>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $outlook to "optimistic">>\ <<set $outlookchosen to true>>\ <<if $selfesteem is "confident">>\ Swallowing your initial hesitance, you lift your chin. “It is a tale of Theia and Her brother’s triumph, in spite of the odds,” you say, with confidence. “It was Their love for us, for Their creations, that moved Them to spare the world from being swallowed at the cost of Their folly. They sought to avoid that fate They had wrought and fought to protect that which was precious to Them.” <<elseif $selfesteem is "selfconscious">>\ “It is a tale of Theia and Her brother’s triumph, in spite of the odds,” you say, each word drawn out and hesitant. Glancing up at your mother gives no indication how she feels about your answer; her stare is critical, her silence unnerving. You swallow and duck your head, continuing. “It was Their love for us, for Their creations, that moved Them to spare the world from being swallowed at the cost of Their folly. They sought to avoid that fate They had wrought and fought to protect that which was precious to Them.” <<else>>\ “It is a tale of Theia and Her brother’s triumph, in spite of the odds,” you say, glancing at your mother, but her expression gives no indication how she feels about your answer; her stare is critical, her silence unnerving. Swallowing your initial hesitance, you continue, undeterred. “It was Their love for us, for Their creations, that moved Them to spare the world from being swallowed at the cost of Their folly. They sought to avoid that fate They had wrought and fought to protect that which was precious to Them.” <<endif>>\ No sooner than your answer leaves your mouth do your mother’s lips quirk downward in displeasure, and you know immediately that you have supplied incorrectly. You brace yourself for a verbal rebuke that never comes. Instead your mother sighs, looking suddenly incredibly tired. She smoothes a hand over her forehead, massaging her scalp as if warding off an oncoming headache. “I suppose you would see it that way,” she says. “Though, I should apologize. The fault for your ignorance lies with me. Not with you.” You look away, a puzzled frown tugging at your lips even as you shift in your seat. It does not sit well with the student in you—being incorrect. “My ignorance…?” [[Continue|Chp1-3.2MomHardOnMeToo]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.2Pess") <= 1>>\ <<set $cynical to $cynical + 20>>\ <<set $optimistic to $optimistic - 20>>\ <<set $outlooknum to $outlooknum - 20>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $outlook to "cynical">>\ <<set $outlookchosen to true>>\ <<if $selfesteem is "confident">>\ Swallowing your initial hesitance, you lift your chin. “It was by product of our gods’ folly that Their ruin and ours was birthed. Fate exists as a reminder of Their faults, the consequence to Their actions. The greater the transgression, the heavier the repercussions,” you say, with confidence. “Gods cannot die—not necessarily—but in tearing Their sibling, Starfell, apart, death originated with Theia and Celestyl’s jealousy—it was a name They gave to Their mother, a disease They unleashed upon humankind. Their own misdeeds spelled the world’s misfortune, a future wrought from Their own hands.” <<elseif $selfesteem is "selfconscious">>\ “It was by product of our gods’ folly that Their ruin and ours was birthed. Fate exists as a reminder of Their faults, the consequence to Their actions. The greater the transgression, the heavier the repercussions,” you say, each word drawn out and hesitant. Glancing up at your mother gives no indication how she feels about your answer; her stare is critical, her silence unnerving. You swallow and duck your head, continuing. “Gods cannot die—not necessarily—but in tearing Their sibling, Starfell, apart, death originated with Theia and Celestyl’s jealousy—it was a name They gave to Their mother, a disease They unleashed upon humankind. Their own misdeeds spelled the world’s misfortune, a future wrought from Their own hands.” <<else>>\ “It was by product of our gods’ folly that Their ruin and ours was birthed. Fate exists as a reminder of Their faults, the consequence to Their actions. The greater the transgression, the heavier the repercussions,” you say, glancing at your mother, but her expression gives no indication how she feels about your answer; her stare is critical, her silence unnerving. Swallowing your initial hesitance, you continue, undeterred. “Gods cannot die—not necessarily—but in tearing Their sibling, Starfell, apart, death originated with Theia and Celestyl’s jealousy—it was a name They gave to Their mother, a disease They unleashed upon humankind. Their own misdeeds spelled the world’s misfortune, a future wrought from Their own hands.” <<endif>>\ No sooner than your answer leaves your mouth do your mother’s lips quirk downward in displeasure, and you know immediately that you have supplied incorrectly. You brace yourself for a verbal rebuke that never comes. Instead your mother sighs, looking suddenly incredibly tired. She smoothes a hand over her forehead, massaging her scalp as if warding off an oncoming headache. “I suppose you would see it that way,” she says. “Though, I should apologize. The fault for your ignorance lies with me. Not with you.” You look away, a puzzled frown tugging at your lips even as you shift in your seat. It does not sit well with the student in you—being incorrect. “My ignorance…?” [[Continue|Chp1-3.2MomHardOnMeToo]]

<<set $outlook to "realistic">>\ <<set $outlookchosen to true>>\ <<if $selfesteem is "confident">>\ Swallowing your initial hesitance, you lift your chin. “It was by product of our gods’ folly that Their ruin and ours was birthed in the form of Their sister, the World Devourer,” you say, with confidence. “Their own misdeeds spelt Their damnation, yes, but it was Their love for the world and Their creations which moved Them to see Their wrongs righted, to take responsibility and spare the world from being swallowed at the cost of Their folly. Still, Fate exists as a reminder of Their faults, the consequence to Their actions. The incarnation of the very destiny They wrought with Their own hands.” <<elseif $selfesteem is "selfconscious">>\ “It was by product of our gods’ folly that Their ruin and ours was birthed in the form of Their sister, the World Devourer,” you say, each word drawn out and hesitant. Glancing up at your mother gives no indication how she feels about your answer; her stare is critical, her silence unnerving. You swallow and duck your head, continuing. “Their own misdeeds spelt Their damnation, yes, but it was Their love for the world and Their creations which moved Them to see Their wrongs righted, to take responsibility and spare the world from being swallowed at the cost of Their folly. Still, Fate exists as a reminder of Their faults, the consequence to Their actions. The incarnation of the very destiny They wrought with Their own hands.” <<else>>\ “It was by product of our gods’ folly that Their ruin and ours was birthed in the form of Their sister, the World Devourer,” you say, glancing at your mother, but her expression gives no indication how she feels about your answer; her stare is critical, her silence unnerving. Swallowing your initial hesitance, you continue, undeterred. “Their own misdeeds spelt Their damnation, yes, but it was Their love for the world and Their creations which moved Them to see Their wrongs righted, to take responsibility and spare the world from being swallowed at the cost of Their folly. Still, Fate exists as a reminder of Their faults, the consequence to Their actions. The incarnation of the very destiny They wrought with Their own hands.” <<endif>>\ No sooner than your answer leaves your mouth do your mother’s lips quirk downward in displeasure, and you know immediately that you have supplied incorrectly. You brace yourself for a verbal rebuke that never comes. Instead your mother sighs, looking suddenly incredibly tired. She smoothes a hand over her forehead, massaging her scalp as if warding off an oncoming headache. “I suppose you would see it that way,” she says. “Though, I should apologize. The fault for your ignorance lies with me. Not with you.” You look away, a puzzled frown tugging at your lips even as you shift in your seat. It does not sit well with the student in you—being incorrect. “My ignorance…?” [[Continue|Chp1-3.2MomHardOnMeToo]]

Your mother props her chin against her fist, watching you in askance. “My mother was hard on me, too, you know,” she says. “I learned these stories at her knee as a girl, just as she did at her mother’s, and so on. Although, my mother told them a bit…//differently.// And I suppose I should have told them as she did. But…well. You and Luca used to listen so enraptured. I did not want to see that childlike wonder in your eyes quashed quite so soon—the way my mother did for me. I suppose I must have hated her for it, once. But I was young and did not understand.” She shakes her head vaguely, a wrinkle forming between her brows. “It is a difficult thing, being a mother.” Her eyes find yours and she turns to face you fully, folding her arms over the top of her desk. <<if $momrelationship is "mend">>\ “Perhaps you may think me callous—cruel, even—for all the ways in which I pushed you past your limits, for the ways in which I strove to better you,” she says. “I will not deny you your opinion on the matter. And know that I will endeavor to earn your forgiveness in whatever way you see fit. I already promised you as such. I caused the break and I will mend it, if you will let me. But the fact is I prepared you, as I have always done, for the ways of the world. A mother is a nurturer, yes, but she is also a protector, a teacher—and that mandates that she must also sometimes be cruel to prepare her young to survive in a world that is both unkind and uncaring.” “‘To survive,’” you repeat, your gaze dropping to study your fingers curled in your lap. “Is that what you prepared me for?” She frowns. “What do you mean?” “Tell me—have I come home to you your lauded $title in all $their battle-hardened glory? One who fought and bled like a $title for $their country, who honored $their family’s legacy like a $title? Or do I come home to you your fool $child, dishonored and defeated, the shame of failure still heavy upon $their shoulders?” She stares at you in silence for a long moment before she speaks. “What matters is you came home.” You say nothing. <<elseif $momrelationship is "distant">>\ “Perhaps you may think me callous—cruel, even—for all the ways in which I pushed you past your limits, for the ways in which I strove to better you,” she says. “I will not deny you your opinion on the matter—should you truly hate me for it, I will endeavor to earn your forgiveness in whatever way you see fit. Just tell me what you would have me do. But the fact is I prepared you, as I have always done, for the ways of the world. A mother is a nurturer, yes, but she is also a protector, a teacher—and that mandates that she must also sometimes be cruel to prepare her young to survive in a world that is both unkind and uncaring.” “//Prepared// me, yes. Though, as your $child or as a $title?” She frowns. “What do you mean?” “It is always my title which comes first to you, Mother, is it not?” You square your jaw, glowering. “You taught me to talk like a $title, to walk like a $title, to //fight// and //bleed// like a $title. There is no one you will not step over, my siblings included, to advance my station as a $title. To advance yours.” Her face hardens like marble. “I fought to secure your position in the hornet’s nest that is Theian court. To secure //ours,//” she says, driving a hand to her chest in emphasis. “There is no one at court, your siblings’ mothers included, who would not hesitate to sting you to get ahead. One cannot be a hornet in this hive without a stinger of their own.” <<if $dynast is "dynast">>\ “And all your gambits, your schemes, your machinations—did they pay off?” you ask. “It seems I am to inherit the throne now. Why, you must be thrilled. Your pet $title, once sixth-in-line—now first. And you will be mother to a dynast.” <<else>>\ “And all your gambits, your schemes, your machinations—did they pay off?” you ask. “It seems I am to inherit the throne now. Why, you must be thrilled. Your pet $title, once sixth-in-line—now first. And you will be mother to an $dynast.” <<endif>>\ She takes your cold anger in subdued silence, holding your stare. After a moment, she stiffly lifts her chin. “I am mother to my //$child,// first and foremost. I can live with your rancor if it bought me your life.” You say nothing. <<else>>\ “Perhaps, in some manner or another, you may still think me callous—cruel, even—for all the ways in which I pushed you past your limits, for the ways in which I strove to better you,” she says. “And if so, I will not deny you your opinion on the matter—even if you have already forgiven me, I will, until I die, endeavor to be worthy of that forgiveness. But the fact is I prepared you, as I have always done, for the ways of the world. A mother is a nurturer, yes, but she is also a protector, a teacher—and that mandates that she must also sometimes be cruel to prepare her young to survive in a world that is both unkind and uncaring.” Your gaze falls to your fingers curled in your lap. “I missed you, you know.” you say quietly. Her eyes waver and her fingers twitch, as if wanting to reach for you. “As I did you,” she murmurs. You shake your head. While you did miss her while you were away, of course—you missed everything and everyone, your father, your baby sister, the song of windchimes in the garden, the smell of cinnamon and saffron and citrus trees—it isn’t what you meant. “I missed you. While I was growing up.” Your mother swallows and nods, after a pause. “If…if I could have spared you from all of…” She trails off, waving her hand vaguely. “...from all of it, I would have.” “You don’t have to apologize. It wasn’t something within your control,” you say, shaking your head in dismissal. “And I understand your reasoning for…everything. I know why you did it.” “I wanted you to come back to me.” “I know.” <<endif>>\ She inhales sharply through her nose after a pause, smoothing a hand over the front of her gown. “I have been unkind, I will admit that. But preparedness is not bought through kindness. Even a leopardess must one day drive her cubs off with snarls and bared fangs, that they might use her lessons to fend for themselves,” she says, and when she looks at you, her gaze is earnest and imploring. “I taught you to survive, that one day my $child might return home to me. //Alive.// Not cold and unbreathing. Not in pieces, unrecognizable. Not as a token or a souvenir. //Alive.//” You look away and she sighs, eyes fluttering shut. “But I must apologize,” she says. “I was short-sighted. I was so singularly focused on teaching you strength, on teaching you to survive, that I did not take the proper time to teach you deference to your place in the world. Strength without deference is hubris. Fate laid out the puzzle and then I fashioned you into sharp edges—you could not have fit into place had you tried.” “//Hubris,//” you repeat, then shake your head. “I don’t understand.” “No,” she agrees solemnly. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Foresight makes it easy to forget your place. Your affinity for divination is one I have not seen matched by any in a long time, save for your grandmother. I only hope I have not instilled in you the unflinching arrogance to match.” You glance up at her in surprise, an eyebrow raised. Your grandmother was widely renowned as a practiced prophetess during her time, her skill virtually unparalleled. For your mother to liken the two of you in that way is quite the grand comparison. <<if $selfesteem is "confident">>\ And, admittedly, the comparison feels both flattering and oleaginous at the same time. You’d like to feel commended—your skill in divination is peerless. Your mother made sure of that. However, to liken your skills to your grandmother’s, the lionized Empress Vikaria, seems almost distasteful. Disrespectful. Especially not when, despite every insight into the future you were able to offer your siblings, in the end, your abilities could not even save those you most cared for. So what good were they? <<elseif $selfesteem is "selfconscious">>\ And, admittedly, the comparison makes you rather uncomfortable. You squirm awkwardly in your seat. You would not laud your abilities as anything close to exceptional, nor would you ever dare to liken yourself to your grandmother, the lionized Empress Vikaria. Especially not when, despite every insight into the future you were able to offer your siblings, in the end, your abilities could not even save those you most cared for. So what good were they? <<else>>\ And, admittedly, the comparison feels somewhat oleaginous. You wouldn’t necessarily say your skills in divination are poor, per say, but you wouldn’t laud them as anything overly exceptional, either. And to liken your skills to your grandmother’s, the lionized Empress Vikaria, seems almost…distasteful. Especially not when, despite every insight into the future you were able to offer your siblings, in the end, your abilities could not even save those you most cared for. So what good were they? <<endif>>\ [[Continue|Chp1-3.2MomGrandmother]]

<<set $momtalkgrandmother to true>>\ Brushing a lock of $haircolor hair past her ear, your mother continues. “If there are two truths about this world I know to be certain, they are that, //one//, there can be but one end to a beginning. And, as the very harbinger of the End, it is //Fate// who writes //every// story’s conclusion.” Your mother gives you a hard, pointed stare. “And //two,// no god likes a vainglorious mortal who forgets their place. May your grandmother’s tarnished legacy serve as a reminder of that.” You set your jaw. Theians are a proud people, and while you remember very little of your grandmother, it is still insulting, as her family, to see her name and legacy vandalized by outsiders. “They call her the Mad Empress.” “And we called her our God-Empress,” your mother replies smoothly. “But, whether or not our Lady Light, Theia, truly saw fit for your grandmother to join the pantheon, that is not for me to say. She does not share with me Her insight as She does you. As She did your grandmother. Regardless, Vikaria is dead now, as any mortal. Only Fate writes the future, and as the bane of gods, She has no room for another in the pantheon, whatever Theia’s opinion on the matter.” She curls her fingers beneath her chin. Firelight dances across the gold chain circlet over her brow, and that lock of hair has fallen back over her eyes, but she does not move to pin it back in place. “Your grandmother thought herself above Fate’s designs. She thought herself an arbiter of destiny—its //sculptor//—and not merely as a vessel for those prophecies our goddess deems fit to share glimpses of. Overly-hubristic mortals get put in their place. Your proclivity towards taking responsibility for fates not yours to decide reminds me more and more of her—and it terrifies me.” “This—do you not think you are blowing things out of proportion?” you protest. “I would not dare think myself above the gods.” “No?” Your mother raises an eyebrow, leaning forward. “Then tell me, $mcnickname. What makes you think this match between $Title Nour and the Lunar $kTitle is a decision you have any say in? It has been set, and Fate has made it clear this is the path your $sibling is to walk now. What gives you the notion you have any authority over this? That it is a decision you should change? That you //can// change?” You gape at her for a moment, mouth opening and closing several times before finally finding your tongue loosened. “Because…because…” you start. You shake your head, squaring your jaw as you try again. “Well, because it’s //wrong.// Surely it makes little sense to send Nour? $They <<have>> already been coronated—as the eldest, $they <<are>> set to succeed as next-in-line. It should only be natural Father sends me.” You drive a hand to your chest in emphasis before continuing. “You go on and on about predestination. How is //this// what is predestined?” you insist. “By //precedent,// this duty falls to me, and the throne to Nour. Why shouldn’t I demand answers? The decision is ludicrous.” “Because you do more than demand //answers,//” your mother counters. “Your first instinct is to leap to change that which does not sit right with you. You think the decision is wrong because it does not align with the future //you// have in mind. And so it //must// be wrong, yes? You will see to it that things fit according to //your// vision.” “I—” She cuts you off with a stern look, one hand raised. “But that is just it—they are not //your// visions. You’ve no claim to the futures Fate writes, no authority over them. And it is another cruel trick of Fate, love, that She writes in branching paths—that when your goddess, Theia, lends you Her sight and allows you to see beyond the veil that shrouds the future from the present—you are then deluded into thinking you’ve some choice in the outcome. That—had you simply tried hard enough, had you made better decisions, you alone could have prevented those futures you sought to avoid.” She pauses then, leaning back and looking away as her voice grows soft and stilted. “Ever since your friend—” “//Don’t.//” “—ever since Luca’s death, you have taken to the notion that, had you tried hard enough, you could have steered $lucathem away from the future Fate had written for $lucathem. You could not do as much for Luca, just as you could not for your siblings,” she says, and her voice takes on a more fragile tone when she speaks again—delicate and cautious, as though afraid she might break you. “It was through no fault of your own—you are no arbiter of destiny. Divination is merely a means of seeing those possible endings Fate has yet to decide upon—no more.” <div class="choice">[[“So…what? You would have me just do nothing?”|Chp1-3.2DoNothing]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“If Fate is so uncaring, what care has She in meddling in the affairs of mortals?”|Chp1-3.2FateMeddles]]</div>

<<if $person is "woman">>\ “Do not mistake deference for complacency, and do not think I don’t understand,” your mother says. “I’d have burned the world to keep you here with me, but I am no goddess. Just as you aren’t. And just as—despite her efforts to change that—your grandmother wasn’t. It isn’t our place to meddle in Fate’s plans. So I did what I could—I prepared you for them.” <<else>>\ “Do not mistake deference for complacency, and do not think I don’t understand,” your mother says. “I’d have burned the world to keep you here with me, but I am no goddess. Just as you are no god. And just as—despite her efforts to change that—your grandmother was no goddess, either. It isn’t our place to meddle in Fate’s plans. So I did what I could—I prepared you for them.” <<endif>>\ “Why bother to prepare me at all, if it was to be left up to Fate, anyway?” you mutter through gritted teeth. “I don’t claim to understand all the ways in which Fate works, but as a goddess, She surely has little care in //personally// attending to every little ending—mortals come and go so quickly, after all. Moreso during war. If it suits Her to let you fall to some Celestylian Silver blade for your own carelessness, then so be it. It was my intention not to let that happen, if I could help you to avoid it.” “So why can’t She look the other way now, with Nour?” Your mother huffs a frustrated breath, lips pursing in displeasure. She squints at you. “Perhaps this falls into some grand plan for Her. Perhaps She took interest. Or perhaps She did not at all, and this chain of events suits Her just fine, or She simply does not care to change them. What I am warning you of is to avoid drawing attention to yourself by meddling in choices that aren’t //yours// to decide. It is within our best interests to stay ignored. To keep Fate uninterested.” "Hm." [[Continue|Chp1-3.2LeaveMom]]

Your mother huffs a frustrated breath, lips pursing in displeasure. She squints at you. “An empress has little care over the grumbling dissenter until he makes a rabble in the square and touts himself luminary of the people,” she insists, as if explaining something which should be painfully obvious to a child who simply refuses to understand. “Then he must be made an example of. Your business becomes Fate’s when you //make// it Her business.” You blink. “I am //hardly//—” “But your way of thinking alone makes you a threat to Fate’s sphere of influence. You mess with forces far larger and more powerful than you,” she snaps. After a moment, she deflates, haggard in a way you are unfamiliar with. “You are not destiny’s scribe, so why pretend to be? It has only ever brought you pain.” [[Continue|Chp1-3.2LeaveMom]]

She regards you quietly for a long time, looking older than you remember her to be, the crinkle of laugh-lines adorning the corners of her sparkling amber eyes sagging heavy and weary now—pained in a manner that doesn’t seem to suit her. You wonder if they always looked that way. If you had never noticed. “This is a heavy burden you have been carrying for eleven years, darling. The weight of everyone’s fates is not yours to shoulder,” she says softly. “I’m asking you to set it down.” Your fingernails bite into the armrest of your chair, knuckles blanching at the force of your trembling grip. Your breathing comes shallow and forced, rattling and burning through your chest. You do not speak. You only stare. It is a near impossible ask. //Insulting,// in a way. Like asking you to rip the very lungs from your ribcage. You are afraid you know no other way to breathe without them. It is an impossible request. To let go. //’This cage has always been of your own making, little bird.’// Parim had asked the same of you. A small intake of breath—your mother opens her mouth to speak, but you pull away sharply, the chair beneath you screeching backwards and you are out of the door before she can utter another word, her hand—reaching for you—left hovering alone in the space between you. [[Continue|Chp1-3.4SamiraRaya]]

You shut the door quietly behind you as you exit your mother’s study and pause to lean against the door for a moment, your thoughts racing so fast you cannot even tell them apart from one another. You scrub a hand over your face, and it is as though you can feel the incessant buzzing in your skull through your fingertips—a static tingle through your skin. You cannot even concentrate enough to clear your mind of the noise—always the //noise//—the way Luca would chidingly instruct you to. “Your Highness?” a quiet voice pulls you from the haze in your skull, and your head snaps up. You had forgotten you weren’t alone. But where you were expecting Aurynn, Samira stands instead. You glance around the hallway and she seems to understand what you are looking for. “I came here after being dismissed by Lady Safina for the evening,” she says. “Aurynn was complaining of another migraine. I offered to take over for him.” “Ah,” you offer, somewhat stupidly. Discreetly clearing your throat, you straighten, hoping she will be good enough to pretend not to have noticed your prior distress. “What did Lady Safina want with you?” <<if $heardaboutraya is true>>\ “Well,” she says, shifting on her feet. “She wanted to know if I had any suspicions regarding who has been skimming the priesthood’s coffers.” “Oh. Did you tell her…?” She closes her eyes. “I told her I did not know.” <<else>>\ “Well,” she says, shifting on her feet. “She wanted to know if I had any suspicions regarding who has been skimming the priesthood’s coffers.” You frown. “A thief? Among your ranks? Ah—she doesn’t suspect //you,// does she?” you say, taking a small step forward as you push off from the door. “If so, I shall speak to her. She shall see reason, I will make sure of it.” “Er—no, that’s alright, Your Highness, I thank you,” she says. “She does not hold me in any suspicion.” You nod, slowly. “Good, then. She does seem to hold you in high regard,” you say. “I imagine she confided in you for good reason, then—do you have any suspicions as to who the culprit is?” She tugs at one of her braids, lips pursing. “I…suppose I might.” When you do not answer, eyes still on her expectantly, she shifts uncomfortably. “It…is Sister Raya, I suspect,” she says. “Hm,” you hum, mouth twisting with displeasure. “So you told Lady Safina…?” She closes her eyes. “I told her I did not know.” <<endif>>\ You pause, puzzlement knotting at your brow. <div class="choice">[[“That was…generous of you.”|Chp1-3.4generous]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Why? You should have just told her it was Sister Raya.”|Chp1-3.4blame]]</div>

“Especially considering her treatment of you,” you say. “It is the last courtesy I will extend her,” Samira admits. “She has never been kind to me, and I owe her nothing. But…well, we came from the same village. My family grew up with hers. She has a younger brother she is taking care of, and her mother is getting on in years. She would be excommunicated from the priesthood, her family dishonored if she were caught. I only warned her to cease.” She pauses, falling silent for a stretch as she scuffs the toe of her sandal against the floor. “It is…a cruel fate. To be the root of your family’s ruin,” she murmurs, and you get the distinct feeling she isn’t talking about Sister Raya anymore. Unsure of what to say, you nod instead. [[Continue|Chp1-3.4SamiraRoom]]

“Perhaps,” she says. She glances up at you uncertainly. “I…am sorry for telling such falsehoods to the Head Priestess. If you deem it necessary to punish me, I will accept your decision, but I must also stand firm in mine.” “Why? Sister Raya has only ever been cruel to you, as far as I have seen.” “Indeed. And it is the last courtesy I will extend her,” Samira says. “She has never been kind to me, and I owe her nothing. But…well, we came from the same village. My family grew up with hers. She has a younger brother she is taking care of, and her mother is getting on in years. She would be excommunicated from the priesthood, her family dishonored if she were caught. I only warned her to cease.” She pauses, falling silent for a stretch as she scuffs the toe of her sandal against the floor. “It is…a cruel fate. To be the seed of your family’s ruin,” she murmurs, and you get the distinct feeling she isn’t talking about Sister Raya anymore. You chew your lip, considering her. “Any punishment is not mine to carry out. I shall look the other way.” You pause, then add, “...You are far more generous than I.” [[Continue|Chp1-3.4SamiraRoom]]

<<audio ":playing" stop>>\ <<audio "indiantemple" loop play>>\ Samira offers to escort you back to your chambers, and you do not begrudge her this. You have long since given up on trying to convince her to take her evenings as she pleases—she has made it quite clear it is in your best interest to simply leave her to her own devices. If she has made up her mind to attend to you, you would have an easier time moving a stuck elephant with your own two hands than you would changing her mind. You stop by the library on your way to have Master Aleksander, the Royal Librarian, register Aurynn’s name on the list of guests permitted to enter the restricted vault. Aleksander looks none too pleased by this, but he nods anyway without complaint. When you return to your room, Samira stops you outside your door. “I feel as though I should ask, Your Highness,” she says, scrutinizing you through narrowed eyes, one thick brow arched, her lips pursed. “Have you eaten dinner?” You open your mouth only to fall quiet as you try to recall the last time you ate. <<if $flirtedSam >= 3>>\ “Never mind. Your suspicious pause answers my question,” she says dryly, her mouth quirking into a thoroughly unimpressed frown. She pauses for a long moment before she clucks her tongue in annoyance, throwing one hand up in an irate gesture, and you must admit you find the gesture somewhat cute, though you sagely keep such thoughts to yourself, lest you risk angering her further. “//Honestly,//” she growls, her tone scolding. “You. Are like. A //baby.// Always needing someone to tell you when to eat, when to sleep. Can you not even dress yourself without help?” <<else>>\ “Never mind. Your suspicious pause answers my question,” she says dryly, her mouth quirking into a thoroughly unimpressed frown. She pauses for a long moment before she clucks her tongue in annoyance, throwing one hand up in an irate gesture. “//Honestly.// You. Are like. A //baby.// Always needing someone to tell you when to eat, when to sleep. Can you not even dress yourself without help?” <<endif>>\ <div class="choice">[[“Are you offering?” ♥|Chp1-3Offering]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“I cannot,” you lie. ♥|Chp1-3Cannot]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Wha—? Of course I can.” ♥|Chp1-3ICan]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“You know, as I hear it, in some places their royalty actually does need help dressing.”|Chp1-3SomePlaces]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Sorry. Eating just…slipped my mind. It was an honest mistake.”|Chp1-3Forgot]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3Offering") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<set $flirtedSam to $flirtedSam + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ “No,” she readily replies, folding her arms across her broad chest. “You miss the point completely.” “Ah, but consider—!” you say, as you lift a finger. “Perhaps I am only so helpless around //you.//” She arches a brow, unmoved. “Am I supposed to be flattered by your purposeful ineptitude?” “Moreso by the intention behind it, I should think.” “Which is? To endlessly frustrate me?” “That is a positive,” you agree, ignoring the way she wrinkles her nose at you. You grin, eyes twinkling. “But perhaps I only do it in an attempt to capture some of your attention.” “It’s completely unnecessary.” “Would you still dote on me otherwise?” Her lips quirk up in the barest hint of amusement, despite herself. “I did not think you needed to be babied so, Your Highness.” “Well, you thought wrong. We nobles are a pampered bunch, you see.” You tap a finger to your chin in mock contemplation. “But, very well. Would you prefer I captured your attention some other way? Shall I just come right out and ask for it?” Samira shifts her weight to one hip, amethyst skirts swaying. “That would be amenable over your current methods, yes.” You clasp your hands together. “In that case—I do in fact need help undressing. Would you be so kind?” “I will not,” she replies flatly. At your theatrical pout, she gives you a sly smile, then dips into a low bow, holding your gaze. “Wait in your room, Your Highness. I will fetch you something to eat.” Still maintaining your pout, you make a shooing motion, permitting her dismissal. “By your leave,” she says, her eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer before she straightens and turns to leave, strutting down the hallway and around the corner. [[Continue|Chp1-3.4RetireRoom]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3Cannot") <= 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative + 1>>\ <<set $flirtedSam to $flirtedSam + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Manipulative<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ “In fact—” you gesture helplessly at your $clothes, turning to her with your sincerest pout, fingers trailing nervously over the stretch of fabric at your chest in feigned embarrassment. “I find myself in a bit of a…predicament. Usually I’ve a servant or two waiting to receive me each evening.” You glance down either end of the corridor. “But I don’t see either of them anywhere,” you say. You glance away. “It’s—well, you see, these garments are a bit tricky to undo by oneself. They really are designed to be rather inconvenient. And, well, it’s been a long time since I had to wear such formal garb. I’m not quite sure I know how to…um…” You trail off, gaze flitting meaningfully toward Samira, your fingertips teasing at the fine edges of scarlet silk at your collar. <<set $secondarypersonality to "manipulative">>\ <<set $secondarypersonalitynum to $manipulative>>\ <<if $sincere > $secondarypersonalitynum>>\ <<set $secondarypersonality to "sincere">>\ <<set $secondarypersonalitynum to $sincere>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $aloof > $secondarypersonalitynum>>\ <<set $secondarypersonality to "aloof">>\ <<set $secondarypersonalitynum to $aloof>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $secondarypersonality is "sincere">>\ She remains rooted to the spot, eyes narrowed and shoulders tense and uncertain—you are not usually the deceptive sort, and she seems to be unsure as to whether or not you are being honest or messing with her. “You—you can’t be serious,” Samira says, nose wrinkling. <<elseif $secondarypersonality is "aloof">>\ She remains rooted to the spot, eyes narrowed and shoulders tense and uncertain—you are not usually the sort to be so forthcoming with such things, and she seems to be unsure as to whether or not you are being honest or messing with her. “You—you can’t be serious,” Samira says, nose wrinkling. <<else>>\ She remains rooted to the spot, eyes narrowed suspiciously, decidedly unsure if this is simply another one of your deceptive little games or the honest truth. “You—you can’t be serious,” Samira says, nose wrinkling. <<endif>>\ “It was only supposed to be until I got used to doing it myself. I just—I can’t seem to get the hang of all these useless clasps and complicated knots.” You glance away, as if in shame. “My armor was much simpler to unfasten…” She regards you warily for a moment before her features soften somewhat in sympathy, though the tenseness does not leave her posture. She shifts uncomfortably on her feet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to mock you. I…I suppose I can…go fetch a servant for you, Your Highness.” “As my usual attendants are not here, I can only presume they’ve retired to the servant’s quarters. I’d hate to bother them over something so small.” Samira chews her lip. “Then…” She glances down the length of the corridor, as if searching for someone else she might be able to call on. There is no one but the stationed guards. Finding your eyes again, she reaches up to twist at a braid—an anxious habit of hers you’ve picked up on. You resist the devilish smile which teases at the corners of your eyes. "It wouldn't really be appropriate for me to..." she trails off. "I guess I could go rouse the servants to come help me. They'll probably be a bit cross. It's rather late..." “Well, I suppose if it’s just this once, I can…” “Hm…?” you hum harmonically, tugging farther at the neckline of your $clothes. Her eyes are drawn, slowly, painfully—as if she were resisting the movement—to where your fingers trail over the curve of your collarbone. She stands stiffly, mouth opening wordlessly, before she suddenly blinks, spine going rigid. Her features immediately twist into a scowl. “I—you—!” She jabs an accusatory finger in your direction and makes an enraged little sound as a devious smirk lifts the corners of your lips. She lifts a hand, as if to swat you, before immediately lowering it, as if deciding it would be far too inappropriate to hit royalty. She settles instead for making a series of vague gestures, as if resisting the urge to throttle you. “Was it the tug at the collar?” you tease. “Too much? Too heavy-handed?” <<if $secondarypersonality is "manipulative">>\ “You’re an incorrigible //fiend,// is what you are. You mock me. Why, if you had //any// sense of—” <<else>>\ “I can’t believe you—using such underhanded schemes. You mock me. I did not expect such behavior from //you.// Why, if you had //any// sense of—” <<endif>>\ You wave an airy hand, grinning wider. “Why, you almost make me feel a bit guilty,” you drawl. “Were you really going to help me undress?” She tosses her braids over her shoulder, tugging the lavender hood of her robes more securely around her face. “You go poking at enough cobra nests and eventually one of them is going to //bite,// Your Highness. I should lace your dinner with a mild stomach poison. Wait here for me. You can enjoy the rest of your night in utter misery,” she huffs. "You don't have to poison me if you want to tend lovingly to me. You can just ask." She clucks her tongue sharply and dips into an abrupt bow, glaring at you expectantly. As much as you know she might like to storm off, she will not leave without your dismissal. Your eyes crinkle in sly amusement and you make a little shooing motion. She scoffs and turns on her heel, striding the other way down the hallway and rounding the corner. [[Continue|Chp1-3.4RetireRoom]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3ICan") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<set $flirtedSam to $flirtedSam + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ “Wha—? Of course I can dress myself,” you splutter indignantly, face heating. “Can you now?” she taunts, leaning forward, the bronze of her skin tinted a zaffre glow in the dimly lit corridor. “Forgive me if all the evidence seems to point to the contrary. Do you need a servant to bathe and swaddle you as well?” “You paint me out to be some helpless //whelp,//” you scoff, nose wrinkling in offense. “You need no assistance in //that//,” she counters. “That reputation you built all on your own.” She lets out an exaggerated gasp, and offers you a congratulatory smile. “Oh! You did manage something without any help.” You scowl. “You mock me.” “//Never,//” she says pleasantly, braids trailing over her shoulder as she cocks her head at you. “Now, let’s get you all ready for bed, shall we? Then I shall fetch the little $title something to eat, hm?” “No need. I can dress myself.” “Can you?” “I //can.// Do I need to prove it?” “No, no, Your Highness, I’m //sure// you can manage a task as simple as that without any assistance of any kind. Just remember! When you put on your nightclothes, seams go on the inside, not out.” “You take me for a fool. I can dress myself. I’ll do it right here, right now!” You drive a finger toward the floor in emphasis. “Fine.” “Fine!” Reaching for the edges of your $clothes, you fumble and tussle with the fabric and begin yanking them over your head. “//Snerk—//” Samira muffles a snicker behind her hand, quickly recomposing herself before she holds her arms out placatingly. “Alright, alright. I stand corrected. You’re a big $kid2. Now, let’s not strip ourselves naked in the middle of the hallway, hm?” You freeze, then slowly straighten out your $clothes, face flushing and studiously avoiding Samira’s stare. You brush yourself off and clear your throat. “Right. Well. If that’s settled.” “Certainly,” she says. “Now, why don’t you go on and wait in your room and I shall be back with something for you to eat?” You frown and wrinkle your nose, but do not protest. Samira dips into a low bow, her eyes never leaving you as she slowly straightens. You make a shooing motion to dismiss her. “By your leave, Your Highness.” Eyes twinkling with amusement, she turns and struts down the hallway and around the corner. [[Continue|Chp1-3.4RetireRoom]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3SomePlaces") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified, + Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "You act as though this isn't one of them," Samira says. <<cycle "$dressmyself" autoselect>>\ <<option "''You wave a dismissive hand and continue on as if you hadn't heard her. You haven't needed help dressing since you left the palace, but you don't tell her you used to have several servants who would help you growing up. Theian attire can be complicated. You're plenty capable of dressing yourself now, though, and you prefer it that way.''" "self">> <<option "''You wave a dismissive hand and continue on as if you hadn't heard her. You haven't needed help dressing since you left the palace, but you don't tell her you used to have several servants who would help you growing up. Or that you sometimes still enlist their help now that you've returned. Theian attire can be complicated, alright?''" "help">> <<option "''You wave a dismissive hand and continue on as if you hadn't heard her. You haven't needed help dressing since you left the palace, and though you were assigned a slew of servants to assist you in dressing when you were young—Theian attire can be complicated—you preferred to dress yourself as soon as you were old enough to do so properly.''" "selfyoung">> <</cycle>> <<if $person is "woman">>\ “They’ve got dedicated ‘ladies-in-waiting’ and ‘manservants’ and the like for that,” you say. “Can you imagine? You know, Nour said $they would be assigned a lady-in-waiting in Celestyl. Do you think she’ll expect to have to dress Nour? Do you think //$kTitle Kieran// even knows how to dress $kthemself? What a notion.” <<elseif $person is "man">>\ “They’ve got dedicated ‘ladies-in-waiting’ and ‘manservants’ and the like for that,” you say. “Can you imagine? You know, Nour said $they would be assigned a manservant in Celestyl. Do you think he’ll expect to have to dress Nour? Do you think //$kTitle Kieran// even knows how to dress $kthemself? What a notion.” <<else>>\ “They’ve got dedicated ‘ladies-in-waiting’ and ‘manservants’ and the like for that,” you say. “Can you imagine? You know, Nour said $they would be assigned a personal attendant in Celestyl. Do you think they’ll expect to have to dress Nour? Do you think //$kTitle Kieran// even knows how to dress $kthemself? What a notion.” <<endif>>\ Samira hums noncommittally. “Who knows? But I suppose when you have servants to cater to every such menial task, you wouldn’t ever learn to care for yourself. After all, how does the saying go? Give a man a fish and he eats for a day; teach him to fish and he eats for a lifetime? In which case, perhaps I should let you starve tonight, if only to teach you a lesson about skipping meals.” “Ah,” you say, somewhat guiltily. “Perhaps you should.” She looks you over for a moment, then shakes her head. “Alas, I've never quite liked that saying. I believe you can give a man a fish //and// teach him to fish. I should think one would learn better not on an empty stomach. Wait in your room, please, Your Highness. I shall fetch you something to eat.” “I should apologize for the trouble,” you admit, inclining your head. “But you have my thanks, anyhow.” She nods, satisfied, and dips into a low bow. You nod your dismissal and she turns to leave, striding down the hallway and around the corner. [[Continue|Chp1-3.4RetireRoom]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3Forgot") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ She simply stares at you, unconvinced. “You seem to forget a great deal these days, Your Highness,” she says. You cringe, glancing away sheepishly. “Something to work on, then.” “I should think you do a great deal too much work these days as well.” She looks you over in contemplation, tilting her head, her braids trailing over the curve of her shoulder. “Though, if you are truly in a repentant mood, I could use a favor. To make up for the trouble you put me through.” You nod. “It is only fair. What can I do for you?” “Wait here. In your room,” she says. “I shall fetch you something to eat. And //then//—” She shoots you a hard look, moving toward your bedroom door, her hand on the door handle. “//Then,// you will go to bed straight after eating your supper. No burning through your candles staying up late.” She then ducks into your room and returns a moment later, holding a stack of parchment in her raised hands. She flaps them towards you meaningfully. “And to ensure you do so, I will be confiscating your correspondence until tomorrow morning.” You lift a finger, reaching toward the bundle of envelopes, a protest rising on your tongue, but she holds them just out of reach, fixing you with an expectant and challenging stare. Your hand wilts and you let it drop to your side, your mouth closing. You nod. “Very well. If that is your wish, I shall abide by it.” “Good. I will be back shortly with something for you to eat. And I will return //these// to you tomorrow.” She holds up the stack of parchment. You nod again. She takes that as your dismissal, and dips into a low bow, then turns away without another word and strides down the hallway and around the corner. [[Continue|Chp1-3.4RetireRoom]]

You watch until Samira has disappeared before you open your bedroom door, slipping inside and shutting it behind you with a soft //click.// Leaning heavily against the door, you close your eyes and heave a weary, shuddering sigh. When you open your eyes, your gaze is drawn to the carpet—it’s spotless. All those pretty painted porcelain shards…//gone.// Even the stain has been cleaned, as though it had never happened in the first place. Your chest tightens and you take a tentative step forward, pushing away from the door as you sink slowly to your knees and run your fingers over the fibers of the lush, vermillion rug, searching for any remnants of your brother’s favorite tea set—some small, pearl-white tinkling shard embellished in swooping strokes of indigo paint. //Anything.// But there is nothing. You swallow. You cling to the hope that, perhaps, it was Aurynn who must have stopped by and gathered them up before retiring for the evening, and not some servant who cleared away the mess, or else the pieces are surely lost to you by now. You’ll have to ask him in the morning. You change slowly, peeling away your layers of garments with stiff, sore arms. You are too weary for a bath, so you will have a servant draw one for you in the morning. You have changed into your nightclothes and are reading on the divan by your window when there comes a quiet knock at the door, and Samira ducks in to quietly set a serving platter down on your desk before bowing and leaving with your thanks. Setting down your book, you make your way over to your desk. Samira has, you notice, brought you your favorite comfort meal: <<cycle "$favmeal" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__cumin and clove spiced stew, made with fava beans and lentils, with warm, pillowy flatbread and a side of yogurt and tahini for dipping.__''" "lentil stew">> <<option "''__thick maize porridge with pickled vegetables and smoked river fish.__''" "maize porridge and fish">> <<option "''__golden-brown baked pigeon stuffed with spiced rice, barley, and raisins, and garnished with nuts.__''" "stuffed pigeon">> <<option "''__savory steamed potato cakes with tomato chutney and spicy butter chicken spiced with cardamom.__''" "potato cakes and butter chicken">> <<option "''__tamarind-spiced vegetables and curry over steamed rice.__''" "vegetable curry">> <<option "''__peppers, squash, and aubergine stuffed with parsley- and coriander-spiced rice with a tomato lemon sauce.__''" "stuffed zucchini">> <<option "''__steamed rice, pickled vegetables, a light fluffy crepe, and an omelet.__''" "rice and omelet">> <<option "''__seasoned rice and pan-seared lemon and garlic crocodile with butter-fried hard boiled eggs.__''" "fried crocodile and eggs">> <<option "''__braised beef and carrots with red ginger yogurt gravy over steamed rice.__''" "beef over rice">> <<option "''__masala-spiced rice with raisins and carrots and buttery fava beans.__''" "masala rice and beans">> <</cycle>> You also realize, with some amount of embarrassment that she took notice, she brought you your favorite dessert, as well: <<cycle "$favdessert" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__cinnamon-spiced rice pudding.__''" "rice pudding">> <<option "''__sticky rice with fresh fruit.__''" "sticky rice with fruit">> <<option "''__honey and yogurt.__''" "honey and yogurt">> <<option "''__cardamom-spiced milk cake with candied nuts.__''" "milk cake">> <<option "''__spiced fruit preserves.__''" "fruit preserves">> <<option "''__cookies and tea.__''" "tea and cookies">> <<option "''__fried sweet bread and syrup.__''" "fried sweet bread">> <<option "''__baked sweet potato with caramelized nuts and chocolate.__''" "baked sweet potato">> <<option "''__nothing—you don't like sweets.__''" "no sweets">> <</cycle>> [[Continue|Chp1-3.4FarwahEnter]]

You sit down at your desk to eat when there comes a faint scratching at the door followed by the sound of pathetic mewling. With a sigh, you peel away from your chair and cross the room, bare feet over cool gritty sandstone. You ease the door open just a crack. No sooner than you do, does Farwah snake his paw through, blindly grabbing at your nightclothes. You open the door farther and he pops his head through, blinking up at you with wide, wildgrass-green eyes. “Mrrrp?” he chirrups. “Well? Come on, quickly now, before someone sees you,” you say, gesturing with a hand as you attempt to usher him inside. He yawns, stretching languidly before he slinks in through the crack in the door, brushing against your legs as he passes you, his paws prancing a quick pitter patter over the floor as he trots across the room. His head lifts with a //chirrup// and he makes a beeline for your desk. You shut the door and turn to follow him. "Oi! Drop that! That's not for kitties. You just ate earlier, you hog!" You scamper over to your desk and push his head away from your plate. You try to pick him up and haul him off the chair but he nosedives for the plate again, forcefully headbutting your hand out of the way as he scarfs a huge bite down. He wriggles out of your grasp and skitters beneath your bed to eat before you can stop him. You sigh, kneeling on your chair as you peer at his tail swishing under the mattres. "Brat." When you finish eating, you leave your dishes in a neat pile atop your desk and wash up before heading to bed. You are just about to crawl beneath the downy feather-filled blankets when Farwah slinks out from beneath the bed, yawning, and hops onto the bed. He paces several slow circles before flopping over onto his side, sprawling out with long, lithe limbs across the entirety of the mattress. You arch a brow at him. “Excuse you. And just where do you expect me to lay?” He pretends not to hear you. Or perhaps he just doesn’t over how loudly he is purring, his paws kneading the sheets contentedly. <div class="choice">[[You sigh and resign yourself to your fate. You’ll take the edge of the bed.|Chp1-3BedEdge]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You attempt to shove him over to make room.|Chp1-3Shove]]</div>

You hold his stare for a long moment before you finally heave a sigh, resigning yourself to your fate. “Very well. We shall have it your way.” Easing a corner of the blanket up, you squeeze in beside him, hanging precariously off the edge of the mattress, one leg dangling over the side of the bed. Farwah stretches out farther, ducking his head to nuzzle into your side while he purrs loudly, claws lightly prickling against your skin as he kneads your ribcage. You roll your eyes good naturedly. “Yeah, yeah.” Your arm snakes around his side, fingers carding through soft speckled sand-yellow fur. Your breathing comes quiet and steady as you lay there, watching the gloomy shapes cast by shadow flicker and dance across the ceiling. It is some time before you finally drift off to sleep, caught like an animal in a snare, twisting fretfully to and fro beneath the sheets as you try to quell the buzz in your mind and force rest to take you. Theia must take pity on you at some point, because you eventually succumb to your own exhaustion, pulled from your restless fidgeting and into the darkness of slumber. <<fadestart>><<link "Continue">><<passagefade "Chp1-3.5AuroraDream" 3000>><</link>>

You purse your lips, shooting him an unimpressed stare, and kneel over the edge of the bed. Planting your hands firmly on his side, you attempt to shove him out of the way. He goes limp and heavy. “Ugh, move over, you big lug,” you mutter. You scoot closer, leaning down to shoulder him to the side. His tail flicks in annoyance, and he lets out a low, short whine before rolling over and sprawling out farther. You try to push him again and he nips at your fingers. You pull back, holding out your hands in surrender. “Fine. Fine. Have it your way, then.” You hold his stare indignantly for a long moment before you finally heave a sigh, resigning yourself to your fate. You collapse backward in a heap, hanging precariously off the edge of the mattress, one leg dangling over the side of the bed. Farwah stretches out, ducking his head to nuzzle into your side while he purrs obnoxiously loudly, claws lightly prickling against your skin as he kneads your ribcage. You roll your eyes good naturedly. “Yeah, yeah.” Your arm snakes around his side, fingers carding through soft speckled sand-yellow fur. Your breathing comes quiet and steady as you lay there, watching the gloomy shapes cast by shadow flicker and dance across the ceiling. It is some time before you finally drift off to sleep, caught like an animal in a snare, twisting fretfully to and fro beneath the sheets as you try to quell the buzz in your mind and force rest to take you. Theia must take pity on you at some point, because you eventually succumb to your own exhaustion, pulled from your restless fidgeting and into the darkness of slumber. <<fadestart>><<link "Continue">><<passagefade "Chp1-3.5AuroraDream" 3000>><</link>>

<<audio ":playing" stop>>\ <<audio "desertfantasybg" loop play>>\ <<set $aurora to true>>\ <<set $ember to true>>\ <<set $castor to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-3.5AuroraDream") <= 1>>\ <<notify 3s>>Aurora, Castor, and Ember Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ It is, of course, too much to hope for a dreamless sleep. When next you open your eyes, it is to the interior of your sister’s tent, draped in lavish currant-red embroidered throws and sprawling weather-worn maps, the spiced scent of cinnamon and jasmine lingering in her folded clothes and furs. Her greataxe, polished lustrous and gleaming with rich olive oil, lies propped against the low acacia table between you. She keeps glancing towards it as if itching to pick it up. Though it never showed in her unflinching stoicism, nor in her most routine habits, it did in the restless sag that hung heavy beneath her eyes, in the ire etched permanently now into the crease of hardset brow, in the cold callousness of her voice. Her very presence seemed to carry with it an especially oppressive gravity—heavy, and stifling. Your brother’s death weighed more profoundly on her than she let on. As it did for all of you. “//Ahem.//” Your sister snaps a pair of fingers beneath your nose. You turn your head vaguely in her direction, gaze lingering on her bedroll, the corners of her thick blankets folded neatly over the papyrus reed mat. It is the only thing in her tent that looks to be completely untouched. “Are you even listening?” Aurora asks. Her very voice seems to fall heavy on your ears—commanding deference—as if driving your head into a bow. You lift your chin instead, finding her steely and uncompromising stare with your own. Her eyes glint dim and dark against the dappled umber of her vitiliginous skin, her beaded braids streaming over her powerful shoulders, draped in carmine silks and leather armor. A gorget, inlaid with interlocking gold scales, adorns her neck. A swell of paranoia-fueled frustration claws its way up your throat, the way it did when you sat in her tent that night one winter ago, when your desperate pleas and foreboding warnings had fallen on deaf ears—she would hear no one after Parim’s death. “Are //you?//” you counter. Her patience, already frayed and worn thin as stressed thread, unravels then, and her mouth twists in displeasure, brow furrowing. “We aren’t having this discussion again,” she snaps, her voice taking on a stern edge, the kind she used when she wanted to leave no room for argument. “You. Speak sense into $them.” She gestures with a dismissive hand toward Castor, who, until now, has stood quietly in the corner, bare arms folded across his chest as he leans against a wooden tent post, his color and silence so unassuming he threatened to blend into the canvas behind him. He still wears his leather armor over his red tunic—cut short over his lithe, wheat-gold thighs—and his sword hangs in its scabbard at his hip. His cool, gray eyes flick between the two of you before he angles his head toward Aurora, the subtle shift of his square chin stirring loose a cascading wave of golden hair from the leather band that ties it back. “$They raise<<s>> compelling point, Aurora,” he says, voice low and sober. “You would be remiss in discrediting it completely.” She narrows her eyes at him. “//Unbelievable.// You read the letter Artemsa intercepted. My scouts have verified its accuracy. The bulk of Celestyl’s naval forces are on the move. You would have me act on a mere //hunch.//” You frown, but Ember jumps in before another embittered protest can spill from your lips. “No need to be an obstinate ass about it, ‘Rora,” he says, hunching forward as he shifts on his seat cushion beside you, moving to sling a weedy arm over his knee. He glances towards you briefly with a small nod, his eyes an alizarin glint beneath the red-brown cut of his short, cropped hair. His face looks more angular and gaunt now, the sand-gold glow of his skin now dimmed to a sallow yellow—the rust-red of his sleeveless tunic seems to stand out more like dried blood against his sickly skin. You return his nod, grateful for the support. His stare cuts back toward Aurora. “Anger clouds your vision, sister,” he says. “You have the gall to lecture //me// over impetuousness?” Aurora balks. “You may as well have an inferno for a brain, being as hotheaded as you are.” “Which is exactly what gives me the familiarity to make such a judgement,” he retorts. “You are too hasty for a decisive victory,” Castor agrees. She swivels toward you, braids clinking, her dark eyes as keen and cutting as glass as she fixes you in place with a critical stare. “I will not sit idly twiddling my thumbs whilst Celestyl further secures their plunder and sets to ravaging the nearby aquapelagos, as you would have me do,” she says, her tone accusing. “It is bad enough I have been forced onto the offensive. And you would have me risk Celestyl’s reinforcements overrunning Nour in $their retreat. All on a hunch of yours.” <div class="choice"><<link '”It’s not a //hunch,//" you spout angrily.' 'Chp1-3.5nothunch'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice">[["Whoever said anything about sitting idle?" you say, tone low and imperious as you fix her with an equally challenging glare.|Chp1-3.5notidle]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You offer a clipped, wan smile. "Don’t presume to put words in my mouth. I never proposed you sit idle."|Chp1-3.5wansmile]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You open your mouth, your frustrations swelling in your throat, only to fall quiet after a tense moment. There is little point arguing over it now.|Chp1-3.5notargue]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You turn away, her glower too intense. "You hear but do not listen," you murmur, mostly to yourself.|Chp1-3.5notlisten]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.5notidle") <= 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Imposing<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ “Speak,” she commands. Some distant part of you recognizes it is pointless to argue with her over it now, but you find yourself caught up in the frustration of the moment—of that night—and you lean forward in your place on the seat cushion opposite her, intent on defending your point once again. “My vision was clear—the Strait of Auganite will remain unreinforced. The letter your retainer intercepted—I suspect—is little more than subterfuge. There’s little reason for Celestyl to reinforce the Strait with such a large armada. They’ll pivot to take out naval operations in the Stellar Isles. Let them. We’ve already shifted those operations to the Stellar Coast. Leave the Strait. We shall move to take back the River Thiss at her mouth, instead.” You draw your index finger in a line over the map splayed out across the table, tapping at the spot you indicate. She narrows her eyes at you. “And? If you are wrong? What of Nour?” “$They’ll be fine,” Ember cuts in. “$They’<<ve>> already retreated. Even //if// Celestyl does reinforce the Strait, they would not arrive in time to catch up to Nour. And my scouts have reported $they <<were>> not followed. $They’ll be //fine.//” “That hardly matters. If we do not retake the Strait and our fleet at Onyxia is pushed back, Nour will be effectively cornered. You would have me abandon $them?” Ember falters and glances at you in askance, as if testing your resolve. You offer him a tight nod and he turns back to Aurora. “It’s…a risk. One I think is worthwhile.” She is quiet for a moment, then shakes her head. “And one I am not willing to take. Retaking the Strait is still a priority. Without it, naval operations along the entire eastern coast are effectively rendered useless. I can’t have our armadas sailing around the entire coastline whenever they are needed,” she counters. “A compromise, then. Split the fleet,” Castor says. “Deploy a small fleet to retake the Strait. Any larger, and your great numbers would do you hindrance. The waters are cramped—amassing a force will only disorient your ships and make it difficult to maneuver. Send the rest of your fleet to retake the Thiss.” You frown. “No. Forget the Strait for now. Sail for the Thiss.” You drive your finger into the map again in emphasis. Ember’s lips quirk into a small frown. “You seem bent on ditching the Strait. Another part of your vision?” Your mouth opens, then falls shut, and you shake your head after a moment. “Not exactly, no,” you admit. “This is more of a…bad feeling.” Aurora scoffs, annoyed, but her stare on you is keen and contemplative. “And I suppose you would have me tell my anxious crew—what? ‘We shall abandon the Strait altogether. My $sibling has a //bad feeling.//’ I’m afraid they’ll need something more concrete. As will I.” “What good are my warnings if you do not heed them?” you hiss. Aurora’s eyes narrow but you continue, lowering your gaze to your lap as you mutter beneath your breath—more to yourself than anyone else. “...You should have abandoned the Strait.” [[Continue|Chp1-3.5AuroraLeaves]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.5wansmile") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ “Speak,” she commands. Some distant part of you recognizes it is pointless to argue with her over it now, but you find yourself caught up in the frustration of the moment—of that night—and you lean forward in your place on the seat cushion opposite her, intent on defending your point once again. “My vision was clear—the Strait of Auganite will remain unreinforced. The letter your retainer intercepted—I suspect—is little more than subterfuge. There’s little reason for Celestyl to reinforce the Strait with such a large armada. They’ll pivot to take out naval operations in the Stellar Isles. Let them. We’ve already shifted those operations to the Stellar Coast. Leave the Strait. We shall move to take back the River Thiss at her mouth, instead.” You draw your index finger in a line over the map splayed out across the table, tapping at the spot you indicate. She narrows her eyes at you. “And? If you are wrong? What of Nour?” “$They’ll be fine,” Ember cuts in. “$They’<<ve>> already retreated. Even //if// Celestyl does reinforce the Strait, they would not arrive in time to catch up to Nour. And my scouts have reported $they <<were>> not followed. $They’ll be //fine.//” “That hardly matters. If we do not retake the Strait and our fleet at Onyxia is pushed back, Nour will be effectively cornered. You would have me abandon $them?” Ember falters and glances at you in askance, as if testing your resolve. You offer him a tight nod and he turns back to Aurora. “It’s…a risk. One I think is worthwhile.” She is quiet for a moment, then shakes her head. “And one I am not willing to take. Retaking the Strait is still a priority. Without it, naval operations along the entire eastern coast are effectively rendered useless. I can’t have our armadas sailing around the entire coastline whenever they are needed,” she counters. “A compromise, then. Split the fleet,” Castor says. “Deploy a small fleet to retake the Strait. Any larger, and your great numbers would do you hindrance. The waters are cramped—amassing a force will only disorient your ships and make it difficult to maneuver. Send the rest of your fleet to retake the Thiss.” Your tight smile twitches at the edges. “No. Forget the Strait for now. Sail for the Thiss.” You drive your finger into the map again in emphasis. Ember’s lips quirk into a small frown. “You seem bent on ditching the Strait. Another part of your vision?” Your mouth opens, then falls shut, and you shake your head after a moment. “Not exactly, no,” you admit. “This is more of a…bad feeling.” Aurora scoffs, annoyed, but her stare on you is keen and contemplative. “And I suppose you would have me tell my anxious crew—what? ‘We shall abandon the Strait altogether. My $sibling has a //bad feeling.//’ I’m afraid they’ll need something more concrete. As will I.” “What good are my warnings if you do not heed them?” you snap, lips twisting into a grim scowl. Aurora’s eyes narrow but you continue, lowering your gaze to your lap as you mutter beneath your breath—more to yourself than anyone else. “...You should have abandoned the Strait.” [[Continue|Chp1-3.5AuroraLeaves]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.5notargue") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You swallow your protests and lift your chin, turning your head away in silence. Aurora must mistake your refusal to engage with an unwillingness—or inability—to argue your point, because she scoffs, annoyed, and turns away as well. //Any point worth making is worth defending,// as she used to tell you. You agree, of course, but you already made your case that night in her tent. What good does it do you to make it again? It changes nothing. Aurora taught you never to waste words. Ember glances at you, his jittery fingers flying to yank at the chain of his locket. Running a hand through his tousled hair, he sighs, and turns to Aurora. “Look—no one’s saying we kick back and do nothing. I’ve reason to suspect the letter your retainer intercepted is subterfuge, as $mcnickname suggests. There’s no need for Celestyl to reinforce the Strait of Auganite with such a large armada—they’ll pivot to take out naval operations in the Stellar Isles. Let them. We’ve already shifted those operations to the Stellar Coast. Leave the Strait, as $mcnickname says. I say we direct our efforts toward retaking the Thiss. Chart your course for the river’s mouth, here.” He leans forward and draws a line with his index finger over the map splayed out across the table, tapping at the spot he indicates. “If they expect us to leap to reclaiming the Strait, we shall take them by surprise at the Thiss.” Aurora’s keen stare settles back on you and does not leave you even as she answers him. “And? If you are wrong? What of Nour?” “$They’ll be fine. $They’<<ve>> already retreated. Even //if// Celestyl does reinforce the Strait, they would not arrive in time to catch up to Nour. And my scouts have reported $they <<were>> not followed. $They’ll be //fine.//” “That hardly matters. If we do not retake the Strait and our fleet at Onyxia is pushed back, Nour will be effectively cornered. You would have me abandon $them?” Ember falters and glances at you in askance, as if testing your resolve. You offer him a tight nod and he turns back to Aurora. “It’s…a risk. One I think is worthwhile.” She is quiet for a moment, then shakes her head. “And one I am not willing to take. Retaking the Strait is still a priority. Without it, naval operations along the entire eastern coast are effectively rendered useless. I can’t have our armadas sailing around the entire coastline whenever they are needed,” she counters. “Split the fleet then,” Castor says. He glances between you and Aurora, expression stolid and inscrutable. “Deploy a small fleet to retake the Strait. Any larger, and your great numbers would do you hindrance. The waters are cramped—amassing a force will only disorient your ships and make it difficult to maneuver. Send the rest of your fleet to retake the Thiss.” “What good were my warnings if you would not heed them?” you say. Aurora’s eyes narrow but you continue, lowering your gaze to your lap as you mutter beneath your breath—more to yourself than anyone else. “...You should have abandoned the Strait.” [[Continue|Chp1-3.5AuroraLeaves]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.5notlisten") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ “It is like trying to pull a cow through the mud. No matter how hard I yank on your reins, you will not budge,” you say. “Is the fault mine, then? For not finding some other way to move you? Or would you have remained stuck in place no matter what I did?” Aurora frowns, brow furrowing in confusion, but you fall quiet and turn away even as her stare hardens into a glare. Ember glances uncertainly between you, his jittery fingers flying to yank at the chain of his locket. Running a hand through his tousled hair, he sighs, and turns to Aurora. “Look—no one’s saying we kick back and do nothing. I’ve reason to suspect the letter your retainer intercepted is subterfuge, as $mcnickname suggests. There’s no need for Celestyl to reinforce the Strait of Auganite with such a large armada—they’ll pivot to take out naval operations in the Stellar Isles. Let them. We’ve already shifted those operations to the Stellar Coast. Leave the Strait, as $mcnickname says. I say we direct our efforts toward retaking the Thiss. Chart your course for the river’s mouth, here.” He leans forward and draws a line with his index finger over the map splayed out across the table, tapping at the spot he indicates. “If they expect us to leap to reclaiming the Strait, we shall take them by surprise at the Thiss.” Aurora’s keen stare does not leave you even as she answers him. “And? If you are wrong? What of Nour?” “$They’ll be fine. $They’<<ve>> already retreated. Even //if// Celestyl does reinforce the Strait, they would not arrive in time to catch up to Nour. And my scouts have reported $they <<were>> not followed. $They’ll be //fine.//” “That hardly matters. If we do not retake the Strait and our fleet at Onyxia is pushed back, Nour will be effectively cornered. You would have me abandon $them?” Ember falters and glances at you in askance, as if testing your resolve. You offer him a tight nod and he turns back to Aurora. “It’s…a risk. One I think is worthwhile.” She is quiet for a moment, then shakes her head. “And one I am not willing to take. Retaking the Strait is still a priority. Without it, naval operations along the entire eastern coast are effectively rendered useless. I can’t have our armadas sailing around the entire coastline whenever they are needed,” she counters. “Split the fleet then,” Castor says. He glances between you and Aurora, expression stolid and inscrutable. “Deploy a small fleet to retake the Strait. Any larger, and your great numbers would do you hindrance. The waters are cramped—amassing a force will only disorient your ships and make it difficult to maneuver. Send the rest of your fleet to retake the Thiss.” “What good are my warnings if you do not heed them?” you say. Aurora’s eyes narrow but you continue, lowering your gaze to your lap as you murmur a hushed apology beneath your breath—more to yourself than anyone else. “Forgive me. I…” You shake your head. “Why couldn’t you have just abandoned the Strait…?” [[Continue|Chp1-3.5AuroraLeaves]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.5nothunch") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ ”It’s not a //hunch,//" you spout angrily. “It’s a—” You cut yourself off with an irate huff and a shake of your head. You steel yourself and try again, knuckles blanching as your fingernails bite crescent moons into the flesh of your palms. “I know what I saw,” you growl through gritted teeth. “Have you so little faith in me? My word used to mean something to you.” You pause, stiffening your spine as you lift your chin. “You blame me,” you say slowly, and your eyes find hers, ire lit like flames in your irises. “Is that it?” Her frown hardens. “What do you mean?” “For Parim.” The accusation hits her like a slap to the face. She recoils slightly, blinking, a mixture of emotions warring over her imperious features—shock, confusion, hurt, guilt, shame. You wish—almost immediately—that you could take it back, but instead you set your jaw, staring expectantly at her as you wait for her answer. “You—” she starts, throat bobbing before she swallows thickly, squaring her shoulders and schooling her expression back into that grim mask, her stare ice-cold, yours fire-hot. “Is that truly what you think?” “I see you make no attempt to deny it,” you say. She opens her mouth to argue, but Ember jumps in from his spot next to you, jittery fingers flying to yank at the chain of his locket. “//Stuff it.// Both of you,” he says, the warning clear in his tone. He jerks his head toward Aurora, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Look—no one’s saying we kick back and do nothing. I’ve reason to suspect the letter your retainer intercepted is subterfuge, as $mcnickname suggests. There’s no need for Celestyl to reinforce the Strait of Auganite with such a large armada—they’ll pivot to take out naval operations in the Stellar Isles. Let them. We’ve already shifted those operations to the Stellar Coast. Leave the Strait, as $mcnickname says. I say we direct our efforts toward retaking the Thiss. Chart your course for the river’s mouth, here.” He leans forward and draws a line with his index finger over the map splayed out across the table, tapping at the spot he indicates. “If they expect us to leap to reclaiming the Strait, we shall take them by surprise at the Thiss.” Aurora’s eyes do not leave yours even as she answers him. “And? If you are wrong? What of Nour?” “$They’ll be fine. $They’<<ve>> already retreated. Even //if// Celestyl does reinforce the Strait, they would not arrive in time to catch up to Nour. And my scouts have reported $they <<were>> not followed. $They’ll be //fine.//” “That hardly matters. If we do not retake the Strait and our fleet at Onyxia is pushed back, Nour will be effectively cornered. You would have me abandon $them?” Ember falters and glances at you in askance, as if testing your resolve. You offer him a tight nod and he turns back to Aurora. “It’s…a risk. One I think is worthwhile.” She is quiet for a moment, then shakes her head. “And one I am not willing to take. Retaking the Strait is still a priority. Without it, naval operations along the entire eastern coast are effectively rendered useless. I can’t have our armadas sailing around the entire coastline whenever they are needed,” she counters. “Split the fleet then,” Castor says. He glances between you and Aurora, expression stolid and inscrutable. “Deploy a small fleet to retake the Strait. Any larger, and your great numbers would do you hindrance. The waters are cramped—amassing a force will only disorient your ships and make it difficult to maneuver. Send the rest of your fleet to retake the Thiss.” “What good are my warnings if you do not heed them?” you hiss. Aurora’s eyes narrow but you continue, lowering your gaze to your lap as you mutter beneath your breath—more to yourself than anyone else. “...You should have abandoned the Strait.” [[Continue|Chp1-3.5AuroraLeaves]]

Ember and Castor glance sideways at you, twin puzzled knots forming between their brows at your switch in tense. You do not offer them an explanation. Aurora says nothing. When you lift your head, she is gone. As is her greataxe. The opening of the tent flutters quietly, canvas flapping in the wind, the azure gloom of night looming through the split in the tent. You had not so much as heard her leave. You turn toward your brothers for an answer only to find they have both gone eerily still, their sharp eyes trained on the tent flap. Beside you, Ember tenses, his pupils blood-red pinpricks against the whites of his eyes, his hand itching toward his glaive. “Hark—what’s this…?” he says, cocking his head as if hearing something only he can. A small, demented smile splits slow and crooked across his face like a crack through stone, the corners of his manic eyes twitching, the way they only did in mostly short, fleeting glimpses in the last few months you knew him—his mind, unraveled through obsession. Your skin prickles, an unsettled feeling clawing at your gut. You never did quite understand what to do or say to him when his composure would slip like this. Neither, it seemed, did Castor—much to his discomfort—and he //always// knew how to assuage Ember. Ember would hear no one. He was unreachable. A vague tug pulls at you, somewhere deep in your abdomen. Faint and far away. “What is it…?” you ask, beginning to reach for him. His dark stare is focused but far away, his posture tense, legs crouched beneath him as if ready to spring at any moment. His lanky fingers wrench his bow from the dust. “//My quarry.//” With that, he surges forward, vaulting over the table, and throws open the flap of the tent, disappearing as the canvas snaps closed behind him. Castor follows immediately. The ruby of his tunic flashes—red against midnight blue—as he slips quietly into the night, leaving you alone. You hesitate only briefly before you follow as well. [[Continue|Chp1-3.5LeaveTent]]

<<audio ":playing" stop>>\ <<audio "cinematicsuspense" loop play>>\ <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairstyle is "headscarf") and not ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairstyle is "traditional")>>\ A violent, whipping gale batters you as soon as you shoulder past the flapping canvas of the tent, scraping and biting and nipping at your skin, whipping your hair into a wild frenzy. Your sandals find purchase against dark, ebony rock. <<elseif ($hairlength is "bald") or ($hairlength is "shaved")>>\ A violent, whipping gale batters you as soon as you shoulder past the flapping canvas of the tent, scraping and biting and nipping at your skin. Your sandals find purchase against dark, ebony rock. <<elseif ($hairstyle is "headscarf")>>\ A violent, whipping gale batters you as soon as you shoulder past the flapping canvas of the tent, scraping and biting and nipping at your skin, whipping your headscarf into a wild, fluttering frenzy. Your hands fly frantically to pull at the fabric and keep it from flying away as your sandals find purchase against dark, ebony rock. <<else>>\ A violent, whipping gale batters you as soon as you shoulder past the flapping canvas of the tent, scraping and biting and nipping at your skin, whipping your hair into a wild frenzy. Your hair comes unraveled from around one of the gold bangles nested at the base of your scalp, and it tumbles to the dark, rocky ground with a clang and clatter, rolling away before you can dive after it. <<endif>>\ You blink, stunned. “Wha—where…?” You whirl around, looking for any sign of Aurora, Castor, or Ember, but they are nowhere to be seen—and behind you, the tent is gone. Bewildered, you turn in a slow circle. Sloping, speckled, salmon-pink cliffs slant away from you on either side; steep and towering, they corral you towards a pearl-white beach. The air smells stale and salty. Though you’ve never been here in person, you recognize it from descriptions. This is the Strait of Auganite. You stumble forward, picking your way over slick sable stone toward the alabaster shore. A vicious squall stirs the sea into a frenzy, great arcing swells crashing and pounding against the shore. A thunderous boom reverberates through your very bones as the sky opens up and a cloudburst of icy rain batters you—lashing, pelting, hammering at your skin. You splutter as water streams over your face, and you almost don’t notice the dark shape of a woman brush past you as she steps into the frosted surf in quick, powerful strides, the blade of her greataxe carving a line through the sand as she drags it behind her. <<if ($clothes is "dress") or ($clothes is "tunic") or ($clothes is "shirt")>>\ “Aurora, wait!” you call out. If she hears you, she does not stop. You surge forward, scrambling after her even as your $clothes becomes drenched, pulling heavy at your shoulders as you slosh through the glacial tide with leaden legs. <<else>>\ “Aurora, wait!” you call out. If she hears you, she does not stop. You surge forward, scrambling after her even as your $clothes become drenched, pulling heavy at your shoulders as you slosh through the glacial tide with leaden legs. <<endif>>\ Your stomach climbs into your throat as she weaves farther away from you, cutting through waves unaffected—it’s as if they bend and cower away from her, held back by the force of her aura—even as they batter you back, the thrash and roll of the undertow tugging relentlessly at your ankles, threatening to drag you beneath the water’s surface. “Aurora,” you croak. “Wait, please, I can’t—!” You are cut off as a wave crashes over you, the sting of saltwater burning in your throat as you splutter and choke. Your stomach twists. You cannot swim, but you press forward anyway, determined—against reason—to catch her, to stop her. You cry your sister’s name again. She does not so much as tilt her head in your direction. Just when you think you are about to lose her, she comes to a sudden stop—frozen in place. Deathly still. You stumble forward, and the water is nearly up to your chest by the time you finally reach her. Your hand darts out, grasping for her wrist. “Aurora—” <<if ($clothes is "dress") or ($clothes is "tunic") or ($clothes is "shirt")>>\ She moves faster than you think should be possible—not when the ice-cold water has stiffened your joints and soused your $clothes until it hangs heavy and cumbersome over your limbs, the salt-soaked fabric coarse and grating against your chilled skin. <<else>>\ She moves faster than you think should be possible—not when the ice-cold water has stiffened your joints and soused your $clothes until they hang heavy and cumbersome over your limbs, the salt-soaked fabric coarse and grating against your chilled skin. <<endif>>\ Before your fingers can latch around her wrist, her hand jerks back, clamping down over your own wrist as she yanks you forward until your back is to her. Your breath catches in your throat as she seizes you firmly on either side of your face, holding you still as she presses a cold and clammy cheek to yours. “Look now, little $sibling,” she whispers. “And you may see Her still. Herald of the Final Hour, Augur of Eternal Sleep, Harbinger of the End. I swear I saw Her scales that night, glittering beneath the storm-stirred sea.” Swallowing thickly, you squirm in her grasp, but she holds you tighter still. Your eyes flicker unsteadily over dark silver-tipped waves, searching for those telltale moon-white spiked dorsal fins and that glint of sapphire scales. It wasn’t a goddess Herself that had shredded the hulls of Aurora’s ship as those Celestian sea serpents had—though it may as well have been. Your hand finds hers and you tug at her wrist. “Come back to shore with me. Please.” She shakes her head. Her breath ghosts over your cheek as she speaks, bitter cold and as biting as the wind. “How can you tell which way is which? It all looked the same to me…the sky was just as gelid and as ink-black as the sea. There was no pyre to warm me, to light the way…” she says, voice sounding far away—muffled and watery. She moves to crook her hand beneath your chin and turns you to face her. It is all you can do not to shrink back in horror. Her once glowing umber skin, now dim—underlit by none of its usual warmth but rather a cold granite undertone—bulges horribly, bloated and bluish and bulbous, portions of her cloudy flesh peeling away from the bone. Her dark hair—an array of thin, beaded braids streaming out from beneath a net of scalloped gold scales adorning her forehead—floats serenely around her face, as if she were underwater still. You involuntarily stumble backwards, your breath catching painfully in your throat, but she catches you by the arms and roots you to the spot. “Aurora—let go, //please.//” She tightens her hold. “I heard but did not listen. Can you earnestly blame me? It is like the premise of a great tragedy—to know very well your choice may spell your end and to do it anyway.” Finding her glassy eyes with your own, you swallow, your tongue feeling heavy and useless in your mouth. You have tortured yourself every night, thinking there must have been something you could have done, could have said to dissuade her. Was it you who had condemned her? Condemned the twins? Had you sealed their fates by failing to divine Parim’s? The last time you had let her go was the last time you ever saw her. You shake your head. “Why…?” You could not understand it. You had warned her. Of the danger. Your bad feeling. She stares at you in silence, her braids drifting in waves about her face. “For the love of a $sibling,” she states simply. “What else?” She reaches up to smooth her thumb over the space between your brows. And, after a pause, she draws in a sharp breath and peels a hand away from your face, one crooked finger uncurling to gesture ahead of you. “//Look.//” She draws you back against her chest and points. Squinting against the pelting rain, you follow her finger with your eyes. Your own heartbeat hammers in your eardrums until you can hear nothing else, and time seems to slow. You do not see, at first, what it is she points to—the tempestuous sea froths and crashes around you in spiraling, stygian swells. You blink. Rain pours over your face as you peer through the gloom of night, lit only by the stars and the sliver of a crescent moon. Your shallow breaths rattle like a hiss in your chest. Somewhere, //there//—a wave breaks too early. The spray from its frosted whitecap skitters strangely over blackened waters. Fleeting and flickering, a glint of glittering gold ripples against simmering obsidian. A tremor goes through the water. And you think, if you listen closely, somewhere beneath the roar of pounding rain and screaming wind, beneath the wild drum of your own stuttering heartbeat in your ears, beneath the rasp of your hollow breaths over your cracked lips, you can make out the faint rhythmic song of shifting scales—the slow scrape and rumble of something mountainous dragging along the ocean floor. Some massive, murky shape arcs among the undulating waves, coiling and curling, the sea around it darkening and swelling with a great hiss over the terrible, twisting silhouette of something colossal moving far, //deep// beneath. Your throat constricts. You cannot breathe. You are rooted in place—a $kid again, staring into those void-like eyes of that black cobra. Your mother’s voice echoes faintly at the back of your mind. //Some primordial being far larger than you. As powerful and ancient as any force of nature. And just as uncaring.// [[Continue|Chp1-3.5ContFateAurora]]

Your stomach lurches, a shock jetting through your skin and setting your muscles abuzz, every instinct screaming at you to flee—it is some primal sense of fear and foreboding that crawls its way beneath your flesh and thrashes, wild and writhing, deep within your belly. Dread claws at your throat and you gasp helplessly like those bug-eyed fish Ember would catch from the river. You twist in your sister’s iron grip, but she holds you firmly in place. “Aurora,” you croak, your fingers scrabbling at her palms. “Let go. Let go, //please.//” “Let go,” she echoes, her sharp whisper urgent against your ear. “You chase after naught but sunken ships; you will sink too if you do not let go. You hold fast to the wrong towline. Let go. The Sleeper grows restless. You have your own choice to make now, little $sibling.” She holds you still in her frigid grip even as you tremble—for what else is there to do in the face of something much, much greater and more ancient than you? You are but a boat staring down a tidal wave, a force that bends for no one—terrible and staggering in its beauty and devastating in its destructive power. And that is what you do—stare. You crane your neck back as the sea begins to swell around the shape of something massive and monstrous, the air screaming with the sonorous tinkling of shifting scales, their song so horribly reminiscent of the clink and clatter of your sister’s braids, and you think somewhere, through the gloom and the jet-black murk, through the veil of lace-like seafoam, something stares back, its eye blacker than black, abyssal and all-consuming. A dark and hungry void. Slumbering, but not unseeing. Distantly, you feel your sister’s frore fingers slip away from your face, but the chill lingers over your skin still, as if haunted by her touch. You reach up to catch her hands in yours but your searching fingers close over nothing. “Wait—don’t leave me. Not yet. You can’t go,” you breathe. “I am already gone, $mcnickname.” Before you, the sea towers over you like a mountain. The sea heaves and the tidal wave thunders toward you. Water closes in around you, bleak and black. You try to claw your way to the surface, but the roiling sea tows you farther down. Salt stings your eyes as you whirl around. Everything looks the same. You cannot tell which way is up. Your chest seizes and you gasp and choke involuntarily. A flurry of bubbles erupts from your mouth as salt stings your throat, burning and blazing all the way to your lungs as they fill with water. [[Continue|Chp1-3.6WakeUpBeach]]

<<audio ":playing" stop>>\ <<audio "egyptianflute" loop play>>\ You wake with a start, coughing up stinging saltwater, your chest heaving with a hollow, rattling gasp. You lie with your cheek pressed to cold white sand. The surf skitters soft and hissing over the shore to meet you as it bubbles around the edges of your body before retreating back over the beach. Your eyes crack open to the rosy edges of dawn just beginning to creep over the horizon, staining the teal-green sea in watery shades of tangerine and honeysuckle pink. So—you are still dreaming. A pained croak spills from your lips as you try to move. Your aching limbs will not listen; they lie heavy and leaden. Useless. Your stare settles on your fingers curled in the cool lily-white surf beside your face, your jaw tight with concentration—it is a tense moment of struggle until your stiff fingers finally twitch, and another until you find you can move your hand again. You drag it to the base of your throat, fingers fluttering over your skin; your breathing comes in strained gasps—easier than it was before—but the phantom pain remains still, as though every unbidden heave of your chest brings with it the agonizing sting of saltwater. <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairlength is "very short") and not ($hairstyle is "headscarf") and not ($hairtexture is "loose coils") and not ($hairtexture is "tight coils")>>\ You push yourself weakly to your knees, arms trembling at the elbows from the effort, and hunch over into a sitting position as you wipe the grit from your cheek. Salt sticks encrusted to your dried lips and your hair hangs in heavy, wet tangles about your face. <<elseif not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairlength is "very short") and not ($hairstyle is "headscarf") and ($hairtexture is "loose coils") or ($hairtexture is "tight coils")>>\ You push yourself weakly to your knees, arms trembling at the elbows from the effort, and hunch over into a sitting position as you wipe the grit from your cheek. Salt sticks encrusted to your dried lips and your hair sags in heavy, wet coils about your face. <<elseif $hairstyle is "headscarf">>\ You push yourself weakly to your knees, arms trembling at the elbows from the effort, and hunch over into a sitting position as you wipe the grit from your cheek. Salt sticks encrusted to your dried lips and your headscarf drapes wet and heavy over your shoulders. <<else>>\ You push yourself weakly to your knees, arms trembling at the elbows from the effort, and hunch over into a sitting position as you wipe the grit from your cheek and the salt from your dried lips. <<endif>>\ The gleam of metal catches your eye; before you, Aurora’s greataxe stands upright at an angle, the base of its hilt buried deep in the sand as the tide froths white around it, oppressive in its silence—quiet and accusing. <<set $mainpersonality to "gentle">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $gentle>>\ <<if $confrontational > $mainpersonalitynum>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "confrontational">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $confrontational>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $dignified > $mainpersonalitynum>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "dignified">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $dignified>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $imposing > $mainpersonalitynum>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "imposing">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $imposing>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $charismatic > $mainpersonalitynum>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "charismatic">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $charismatic>>\ <<endif>>\ \ <<if $mainpersonality is "gentle">>\ You duck your head and look away. <<elseif ($mainpersonality is "dignified") or ($mainpersonality is "charismatic")>>\ You stare at the blade. <<else>>\ You glare at the blade. <<endif>>\ It would be too easy. To let go, as she had urged you. And that is part of why you had been so upset, so angry, when your mother had insisted you do the same, had insisted you relinquish responsibility, relinquish the blame. Had insisted you let go. You have been carrying the burden of responsibility for Luca’s and your siblings’ fates for so long it felt like it would be cheating to just…drop it. Too easy, too simple. It would be a disservice to the dead. Would it mean you did not truly care? And if you //were// to let go—how would you carry on without it? It is all you know now, living with this crushing weight atop your shoulders. You are uncertain you even know how to walk, to breathe, without the weight. //’It is a cruel fate. To be the seed of your family’s ruin.’// Samira’s words echo in your head and you grit your teeth, your fingernails digging crescents into the flesh of your arms as you fold them around your knees, hugging them to your chest. It is too unbearable a thought. To be the one who—though you did not line the pieces up yourself—sent them crashing down into each other like a line of dominoes. You had been almost…disappointed. When you did not topple with them. It would be easier, then, wouldn’t it? To believe it was all unavoidable from the beginning. That nothing you could have done or failed to do would have mattered in the end. It was inevitable. Predestined by Fate. The blame was not yours to bear, but Hers. It wasn’t you. It was Fate. A faint pull tugs at your stomach; a quiet roll of nausea, as if the sea itself churns in your belly. The back of your neck prickles in anticipation, alerting you to the approach of quiet feet over soft sand before you hear their shuffle. You sit facing forward, your only acknowledgement a small, vague tilt of your head toward the sound. The footsteps come to a stop just behind you, and after a pause, Luca sits down next to you, pulling $lucatheir knees up to $lucatheir chest in a mirror of your pose. You sit in silence, your unfocused stare fixed upon the lapping water which licks at your heels, but you feel Luca watching you out of the corners of your eyes from beneath that dark mess of feathery bangs. “Luca,” you offer your friend in quiet greeting. “Mm.” Luca waits for you to speak again, but when you do not, $lucathey turns away, the lines of $lucatheir brow cut sharper as they draw together—and farther still as the glint of Aurora’s axe draws $lucatheir sullen stare. Glancing between you and your sister’s greataxe, $lucatheir mouth tightens meaningfully. “You know,” $lucathey says, voice soft-spoken and stilted. $lucaTheir bright eyes burn at the edges of your vision like an afterimage, seeking your eyes, but you do not offer them. You can’t. After a moment, $lucathey continues. “The only one holding absolution over your head is yourself.” Features flickering, you card your fingers through the sand, watching the grains tumble through your fingers like sand through an hourglass as you pull away. “So I have been told.” Your voice rings hollow and empty. Detached, as though it were not your own. Luca’s frown deepens. You press on before $lucathey has a chance to speak again. “You know,” you muse, “Thissys is almost here. From the expenditure sheets I’ve seen, my father intends to go all out this year. Give the people something to celebrate after everything.” Beside you, Luca shifts in place, lifting $lucatheir chin as $lucathey peers at you curiously, confusion pinching at $lucatheir brow at the sudden change in topic. $lucaThey seems to be uncertain as to whether this is something you’ve brought up for a reason, or merely an attempt at deflecting. $lucaThey remains quiet, but acquiesces a small nod after a moment, to let you know $lucathey is listening. You glance over Luca’s ratty clothes—beneath the charred edges and the soot-stains, they are as overly simplistic as ever. Unbefitting a nobleman’s adopted $lucachild, but it was never an argument Lord Sandstrider was going to win. Airy and lightweight were a must for Luca, who always burned too hot in the desert. It was much why $lucathey preferred climbing trees and splashing through fountains—or playing board games beneath a shaded pavilion—to games of hopscotch and kickball out in the sand, and why $lucathey preferred the chill of night beneath a speckled sky of stars to the heat of day beneath Theia’s brilliant stare. The ghost of a smile flickers at the corners of your mouth. “You were always such a brat during Thissys,” you say. “Gave your father premature grey hairs trying to get you into anything remotely formal. You used to pout so pathetically when he’d stuff you in a ceremonial tunic and do up your hair in braided bangles. You looked like one of Nour’s little porcelain dolls.” $lucaThey shoots you an unimpressed glare. “I dunno how anyone moves in those clothes. They’re stuffy. And hot.” $lucathey answers brusquely. $lucaThey turns away, shifting to fold $lucatheir legs criss-crossed as a butterfly. $lucaThey grabs $lucatheir ankles and tucks $lucatheir legs in closer. “Also, I resent that you would accuse //me// of being the brat,” $lucathey adds. “It is hardly an accusation if it’s true. Quite petulant about it, you were. You even had to ruin all your poor father’s hard work traipsing through the flooded sorghum fields, covered head to toe in mud like some little river monster. I feared your father might die of a heart attack on the spot. Though all you really had to do was make him laugh and he’d forget to punish you.” “Your mother as well. You always came with me.” “Only because you practically dragged me along.” <div class="choice">[[It’s not entirely true. You enjoyed kicking through the mud just as much as Luca. Stuffy palace functions were never your forte as a child and you were always happy to escape from them.|Chp1-3.6ContLucaTalk]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It’s not entirely true. While you might have been reticent to leave were it anyone else asking, you were never very hard to convince when it was Luca who was roping you into mischief.|Chp1-3.6ContLucaTalk]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It’s the truth. You always were rather reticent to leave those palace functions Luca would insistently beckon you away from. While you liked playing in the mud, you did not want to get into trouble.|Chp1-3.6ContLucaTalk]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It’s the truth. You actually quite enjoyed those ‘stuffy palace functions.’|Chp1-3.6ContLucaTalk]]</div> <div class="choice">[[It’s the truth. You always were a rather well-groomed little thing and did not much like getting dirty. You’d follow reticently behind, tip-toeing over puddles and trying your best not to fall in while whining for Luca to wait for you.|Chp1-3.6ContLucaTalk]]</div>

“Yes, well now you drag me along into all of your schemes whether I like it or not, so I suppose we can call it even, no?” You hum absently. “Don’t know if I’d call it even. See, I’ve never fished a slimy wet toad out of the fields and plopped it into //your// hair after //your// mother spent three hours fussing over it.” “Oh yeah, I did do that,” Luca says, and you try not to bristle overly much at how much fondness $lucathey seems to regard the occasion with. You recall it less fondly. Although not by much, but you’ll hardly admit to that. A stretch of silence settles over the both of you. When you speak again, your voice has, despite yourself, taken on that cold sense of detachment from before. “A shame Nour will not be there to see it all. It’s sure to be grand. $They’<<ve>> always liked Thissys.” You shrug. “Or $they used to, anyway.” “Nour won’t be joining you?” “Only for the first night. Another thing to //celebrate//—my $sibling. Married.” Luca cocks $lucatheir head to the side. “Married,” $lucathey repeats. You nod and explain it to $lucathem with a detached sense of factualism—everything exactly as it had been told to you. By Nour, by Lady Safina, by your mother. Your $sibling—demanded by name, a detail that still sits ill with you, to be handed over to Celestyl—and you, now heir apparent, with a coronation to prepare for. And your mother’s warning—to tie your hands. To accept that which is handed to you. To pay deference to your place. You shake your head. “Everything about it feels wrong. Of the two of us—the wrong $sibling.” Even Lady Safina seemed to agree in that regard. You place a hand to your stomach, where a nagging feeling pulls at you from the inside. Some low sense of warning. That prickling, niggling sensation you get just before something bad happens. “The wrong timing, the wrong betrothed,” you continue. “I suppose I…Well, I suppose I just always assumed Nour would marry no other than Zain. Whether as friends or lovers. If either of them could ever get around their sense of duty, that is. I am sure Nour has always fancied Zain since they were children. They have always been inseparable, and there is no one as dedicated to Nour as Zain is. Which I am grateful for, of course. Everything the man does revolves around $them. But…I don’t know. I suppose I just cannot picture a future in which one is ever without the other. I know he has insisted on accompanying Nour to Celestyl, but still…it all just feels //wrong.//” You scuff your heel through the thick, wet sand. “My mother tells me that is my ego talking. My idea of ‘wrong’ is irrelevant if it is Fate’s idea of ‘right.’ She tells me I am to stand aside this time. That it is not my place to interfere in my father’s decision.” Luca’s expression had only clouded further with each detail and now $lucathey sits in silence, pursing $lucatheir lips in quiet contemplation. “You have…a bad feeling,” $lucathey says. It isn’t a question; it’s an observation. $lucaThey knows you well enough to tell, so you don’t need to answer. $lucaThey takes your silence for confirmation. “So…then…what will you do?” $lucathey asks after a moment. You offer a resigned shrug and lie back against the sand, staring up at the sky, painted soft with blending pastels—teal and tangerine and powdery pink—like those sketches Nour would sometimes send you, so you could see the same sky $they’d be staring at even when you were a world away, separated by rivers and valleys, by sprawling grasslands and glittering mountains of fine gold sand. <div class="choice">[[“Does it really matter?”|Chp1-3.6Aloof]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“What exactly do you expect me to do about it?”|Chp1-3.6Manip]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“I will do as my mother has asked of me.”|Chp1-3.6Sincere]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.6Aloof") <= 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 3>>\ <<notify>>+ Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ “Does it really matter?” you ask, your tone impersonal, as if these were events that did not concern you or your own in the slightest. You fold your hands across your chest. “Fate shall have Her way whether I like it or not. Why should I bother to do anything? It would change nothing. It is like you and my mother have said: I can hardly be held responsible for my siblings’ fates, and Nour’s is no different. If this is the way things are to be, then so be it. I will prepare for my upcoming coronation, and Nour will prepare for $their upcoming nuptials.” You aren’t sure whether it is your words or your apathetic manner in delivering them, or perhaps both, which causes Luca to instantly bristle, but $lucatheir lips quirk in a mixture of what might be concern and frustration—and something else, something heavier you cannot read. “You…” Luca starts, $lucatheir fists clenching and unclenching in $lucatheir tattered cloak. “You speak like you are someone else.” [[Continue|Chp1-3.6Divine]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.6Manip") <= 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative + 3>>\ <<notify>>+ Manipulative<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ “How very presumptuous. What exactly do you expect me to do about it?” you say and Luca blinks. “You are always the one telling me not to shoulder the guilt for things beyond my control, yes? The decision isn’t mine. Why should I do anything?” Luca scowls. “Don’t pull that with me. I only ask because I know you. You’ve never been the type to sit and do nothing. Especially not when you have a bad feeling. I know the decision does not sit well with you—do not try to deny it.” “I don’t deny it. Though, what difference does it make whether I do anything? Fate shall have Her way whether I like it or not. If this is the way things are to be, then so be it. I will prepare for my upcoming coronation, and Nour will prepare for $their upcoming nuptials. And I shan’t meddle in things not mine to control and so I won’t bear the guilt for if they go wrong. Is that not what you all want of me? Quite frankly, I don’t see why you should care that I do //something.//” “You…” Luca starts, $lucatheir fists clenching and unclenching in $lucatheir tattered cloak. “I do not see why you act like you //don’t// care. You speak like you are someone else.” [[Continue|Chp1-3.6Divine]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.6Sincere") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 3>>\ <<notify>>+ Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ It sits ill with you to say so, but if it is as your mother says—if your meddling will only serve to worsen things by inviting Fate’s ire—then you will do nothing. “I will do nothing. Just as my mother asked of me,” you say, and your words ring cold and apathetic, even to you. “Fate shall have Her way whether I like it or not. If I cannot change Nour’s fate then I will not make things harder for $them by interfering. If this is the way things are to be, then so be it. I will prepare for my upcoming coronation, and Nour will prepare for $their upcoming nuptials.” You aren’t sure whether it is your words or your impassive manner in delivering them, or perhaps both, which causes Luca to instantly bristle, but $lucatheir lips quirk in a mixture of what might be concern and frustration—and something else, something heavier you cannot read. “You…” Luca starts, $lucatheir fists clenching and unclenching in $lucatheir tattered cloak. “You speak like you are someone else.” [[Continue|Chp1-3.6Divine]]

You push yourself back into a sitting position, avoiding Luca’s glare. For all your numbed resignation earlier, your wall of indifference fails you now. The tension recedes from your body with the tug of the crystalline water at your ankles, leaving your limbs heavy and sagging, your knees propped against each other for support as you hunch into yourself, as though the only thing holding you up is the delicate arrangement of your body stacked upon itself, like a house of weathered playing cards. Your breathing comes shallow and measured. An impulse tingles at the back of your mind, insistent and urgent—a traitorous temptation. You had resolved not to look, not to peek, not to care. If you did not care, you would not have to see. For if, in the end, nothing you do or don’t do would matter, then what is the point of your foresight at all? Your mother had told you it was a means to be prepared. You think, perhaps, it is better not to know at all. Trepidation curls low in your stomach despite your best efforts to ignore it. An //’inauspicious birth.’// Your $sibling, asked for by name. It feels as though Fate is taunting you—goading you to look. And Aurora’s urgings weigh heavy at your mind as well. <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairlength is "very short") and not ($hairstyle is "headscarf")>>\ You grit your teeth and swallow. Your lips taste of salt and sand. Angling your head vaguely toward Luca, your face shadowed beneath your hair, you speak, hesitation on your tongue. <<elseif $hairstyle is "headscarf">>\ You grit your teeth and swallow. Your lips taste of salt and sand. Angling your head vaguely toward Luca, your face shadowed beneath the drape of your headscarf, you speak, hesitation on your tongue. <<else>>\ You grit your teeth and swallow. Your lips taste of salt and sand. Angling your head vaguely toward Luca, your eyes shadowed beneath the set of your brow, you speak, hesitation on your tongue. <<endif>>\ “You are…upset with me. Even so—may I ask a favor of you?” It is, you suppose, unfair to ask—you know $lucathey will not refuse. $lucaThey knows it, too. $lucaThey sets $lucatheir jaw, eyes burning bright beneath the jagged cut of $lucatheir hair. After a tense moment $lucathey sighs and lets up, turning away and nodding, though $lucatheir posture remains stiff and guarded. “Alright,” $lucathey says. “I want to divine Nour’s fate,” you say. Luca glances at you skeptically from the corners of $lucatheir eyes. “I thought you did not care.” “I just…need to know. For my own peace of mind.” Luca’s glare softens at that and $lucathey nods. “Okay,” $lucathey says. “What would you have me do?” “Just stay here. I focus better when I am not alone.” “Alright.” You move to sit as $lucathey does—your legs folded beneath you as a butterfly, the way you would do it during meditation practice with your mother when you were young and learning, the only sound the gentle lap of water against the shore and your own nearly soundless breathing. Your eyes flutter shut. It is not darkness which takes your vision nor is it silence which takes your hearing. The light starts dim, like sparks in kindling—a flicker of gold in the dark, catching the light the way sand dunes do beneath a setting sun. The noise starts quiet, like the tuning before a symphony—the twang of plucked strings and the eerie whine of strummed chords. Then the light spits like catching fire—a burst of blinding white—and your skull buzzes horribly with a cacophony of humming, glittering gold threads, each one vying for attention, your attention. It is too bright to see. Too loud to think. You grimace, but Luca’s voice cuts through the noise, gentle and reassuring, and not without its edge of chiding. “Focus.” You take a deep, steadying breath. In steeling yourself, the buzzing eventually dies down to a low thrum—quiet enough for you to think—and the blur of each quivering thread sharpens enough for you to tell them apart from each other. Visions came to you relentless and unbidden, once. A blur of images, a dissonant clang of noises—chaotic and lacking harmony. They’d come in a rush. Too cluttered to understand. You’d lie bedridden for days as a child with a splitting headache. There were too many threads—too many discordant, screaming threads of fate—all bombarding you with images, with glimpses beyond the veil which shrouds the future from the present. A never-ending onslaught. You’ve since learned to sort through the chaos. To dampen the buzz long enough to pluck at a singular string like a harpist. You’ve learned to focus Theia’s sight. To use it like a guiding light. To illuminate that which sits beyond the veil. It is as Luca reminded you before: //’You must grow roots before you can begin to branch out.’// Center yourself. Be as the sturdy tree trunk to weather the storm. It is what your mother would tell you with a //tut-tut// during your meditation practice as you sat beside her as a $kid beneath the palace’s outdoor pavilion, shaded by sprightly citrus and cypress trees and set aglow by Theia’s warmth—you, cross-legged and with your nose scrunched in concentration, and Luca, bored out of $lucatheir skull after having been banished to the pavilion’s outskirts for being what your mother called a ‘cheeky and meddlesome little gosling’ for distracting you. You set your jaw and square your shoulders. Threads strum in streaking gold lines around you, like the strings of a bow harp or a lyre, images flickering through your mind’s eye as you card through them, brushing them aside as you chase one particular thread—the object of your seeking—a single string, its song softer and more mellifluous than all the rest. A swipe of your fingertips over its trilling surface tells you whose it is. Nour’s. You take hold of the thread between your fingers. It murmurs against your skin. Taking in a deep breath, you guide your thoughts across the sea, toward Celestyl, hoping to steer Theia’s sight in the right direction. You open your eyes to a dark pair staring right back. [[Continue|Chp1-3.6NourSnake]]

You are a $kid again. Frozen once more in fear and mesmerized by that black hooded cobra—all sable scales dusted red with sand, all flickering tongue and hissing songs. Your hand—small, and not yet touched by the sprout of puberty—is alight with the soft golden glow of ichor, your radiant veins cording over the ridges of your knuckles and to your fingertips, between which you pinch Nour’s taut thread, quivering anxiously as it stretches beyond the horizon, disappearing somewhere beyond the haze of sand and garnet-red dust. <<if not ($build is "fat") and not ($build is "chubby") and not ($build is "curvaceous")>>\ Beside you, Nour, a child as you remember $them—two years older and in the cusp of $their ninth year, a head taller, with limbs as thin as the reeds along the River Thiss, and $their hair, brown like rich fertile mud, done up in little looped braids at $their nape—has gone rigid and silent. You are unsure if $they even breathe<<s>>. Only $their chin quivers like clattering china, $their eyes as round and wide as saucers. $Their grip on your arm is so tight it hurts. <<else>>\ Beside you, Nour, a child as you remember $them—two years older and in the cusp of $their ninth year, a head taller, with limbs as plump as ripe oranges in the late summer months, and $their hair, brown like rich fertile mud, done up in little looped braids at $their nape—has gone rigid and silent. You are unsure if $they even breathe<<s>>. Only $their chin quivers like clattering china, $their eyes as round and wide as saucers. $Their grip on your arm is so tight it hurts. <<endif>>\ Parim had warned you to stay close and not fly too far, but you had been too busy chasing brush-footed butterflies and desert larks and giggling while Nour chased after you, a game of lion and gazelle, your $sibling pretending to be slower than $they <<were>> on longer legs. You had not meant to wander off so far and get into trouble—//really//—but you were too blinded by your $sibling’s beaming, too deafened by $their silly squeals and peals of laughter that you did not notice the snake until you had been poised to step on it and Nour had yanked you backwards by the arm, $their smile twisting into panic. And you know now, as you knew then, $they must be positively petrified; $they <<have>> always been terrified of snakes—far beyond the god-fearing apprehension instilled in every child by stories of Fate and Her mother, Maia, at their parents’ knees—ever since one managed to slip unbidden into $their room one night as a child. You could only imagine it then: a quiet whisper to wake $them in the dark—one $they must have surely dismissed as $their imagination. A shiver beneath the sheets, the shock of scales against skin. The glint of unblinking eyes. $They must have awoken half the palace with $their frightened screams. You hear distant shouting and alarm pricks at your skin, screaming at you to flee, //flee//, //’’flee’’// as the black cobra curls back, its soft song now a seething hiss. Your breath catches in your throat—a sharp gasp—and you think that must be what finally stirs Nour from $their terrified stupor because $they blink<<s>>. It matters not you cannot move because Nour does. $They react<<s>> instantly, yanking you bodily behind $them as the cobra surges forward and glistening white fangs sink deep into $their ankle. $They stumble<<s>> back—eyes growing wider if that were possible—with a piercing shriek cut horribly short by a strangled gurgle as $their eyes roll back in $their head in shock and $they tumbles limply to the sand, knocking you to the earth and pinning your leg beneath $their body. You’d thought $them dead that day. Lying there, in a heap, $their neat tunic smothered in rust-red dust. Left to burn beneath a desert sun. Like an //animal.// You’d thought $them dead. And $they nearly had been. Even after Parim and Aurora had found the two of you and Parim had knocked the serpent away with the butt of his spear while Aurora sucked what venom she could from the bleeding wound. Even after your older brother and sister had scooped you both up and ran all the way back home with both of you in their arms, Nour’s head lolling lifelessly against Parim’s shoulder as $their limbs twitched. Even after the palace’s healers had tended to Nour all that night, keeping $them breathing even after $they had stopped. You react as you did that day as a child. <div class="choice">[[You do not move, you do not breathe. You are too paralyzed to do anything more than stare. Your body remains frozen in shock.|Chp1-3.6Paralyzed]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Your breathing comes in heavy, heaving gasps and you claw your fingers through the sand as you worm your leg free from beneath Nour’s body, scrambling backwards to stare in horror.|Chp1-3.6Scoot]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Hot tears stream freely over your face and you struggle to free your leg from beneath Nour’s body.|Chp1-3.6Cry]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You cannot move but you find your voice works again and you start to wail for your older siblings.|Chp1-3.6Wail]]</div>

You glance around wildly, but though you can still hear distant shouting, you know no one will come for you this time. No one will help you, will scoop you up and tell you it will be okay, no one will hold you close and carry you home. You are alone. Your heart hammers painfully against your chest as though it is trying to punch through your ribcage and you taste bile in the back of your throat. Your limbs will not listen. They stay locked, pinned in place, and though you try and try and try to move you cannot, you are stuck staring and Nour’s wound stares right back—two garnet eyes streaked with tears of blood. The cobra has since released Nour and now it only watches quietly—expectantly, almost, as if waiting to see what you will do—but it is forgotten in your mind. Nour’s ankle continues to bleed, but there is too much blood, more than there was that day and more than there should be—a mix of blood and dust, it seeps into the earth which seems to drink it hungrily. And as you stare at $their body now—slumped in the dirt like a marionette cut from its strings—dread curls low in your gut. You know $they still breathe<<s>>—$they still lived that day, slumped in the dirt, as $they still live now, you know it, you just saw $them today for tea, you know $they live<<s>>—but here and now $they <<are>> dead, $they must be dead, something nags relentlessly at you beyond reason that $their heart does not beat, $their blood does not course rivers beneath $their warm skin. Some fleeting image flickers through your mind’s eye—a quiet corpse sleeping atop a cloud of blooming crimson—as though you’ve seen this before. Or that you’ve yet to see it still. [[Continue|Chp1-3.6Vision]]

You wrench your leg free from beneath Nour’s limp body with a desperate grunt and scramble backwards, fingernails clawing through the dust as your chest heaves in panicked pants. The arid air burns at your throat and though your lungs inflate in shuddering gasps you feel as though you cannot breathe. Your fingers fly to your throat and you whip around wildly, but though you can still hear distant shouting, you know no one will come for you this time. No one will help you, will scoop you up and tell you it will be okay, no one will hold you close and carry you home. You are alone. The cobra has since released Nour and now it only watches quietly—expectantly, almost, as if waiting to see what you will do—but it is forgotten in your mind. Nour’s ankle continues to bleed, but there is too much blood, more than there was that day and more than there should be—a mix of blood and dust, it seeps into the earth which seems to drink it hungrily. And as you stare at $their body now—slumped in the dirt like a marionette cut from its strings—dread curls low in your gut. You know $they still breathe<<s>>—$they still lived that day, slumped in the dirt, as $they still live now, you know it, you just saw $them today for tea, you know $they live<<s>>—but here and now $they <<are>> dead, $they must be dead, something nags relentlessly at you beyond reason that $their heart does not beat, $their blood does not course rivers beneath $their warm skin. Some fleeting image flickers through your mind’s eye—a quiet corpse sleeping atop a cloud of blooming crimson—as though you’ve seen this before. Or that you’ve yet to see it still. [[Continue|Chp1-3.6Vision]]

You whip around wildly, but though you can still hear distant shouting, you know no one will come for you this time. No one will help you, will scoop you up and tell you it will be okay, no one will hold you and dry your tears. You are alone. The cobra has since released Nour and now it only watches quietly—expectantly, almost, as if waiting to see what you will do—but it is forgotten in your mind. Nour’s ankle continues to bleed, but there is too much blood, more than there was that day and more than there should be—a mix of blood and dust, it seeps into the earth which seems to drink it hungrily. You wrench your leg free from beneath Nour’s torso and reach out to shake $their shoulder—tentatively at first, as you call for $them to wake up, as though you are only rousing $them from a nap. When $they <<do1>> not stir, your grip on $their arm tightens and you shake $them more insistently this time. “Wake up,” you croak. “//Wake up!//” $They <<do1>> not wake. You choke on a sob. And as you stare at $their body now—slumped in the dirt like a marionette cut from its strings—dread curls low in your gut. You know $they still breathe<<s>>—$they still lived that day, slumped in the dirt, as $they still live now, you know it, you just saw $them today for tea, you know $they live<<s>>—but here and now $they <<are>> dead, $they must be dead, something nags relentlessly at you beyond reason that $their heart does not beat, $their blood does not course rivers beneath $their warm skin. Some fleeting image flickers through your mind’s eye—a quiet corpse sleeping atop a cloud of blooming crimson—as though you’ve seen this before. Or that you’ve yet to see it still. [[Continue|Chp1-3.6Vision]]

Stinging tears prick at your eyes and you wail. “Pitta?” you cry. It is a nickname you haven’t used for Parim in years, not since you were a small child—Pitta, for those passerine birds he liked, the ones that would perch atop his balcony and twitter at you eagerly while Parim held your hand steady so the little bird with its brilliant yellow and green plumage would alight atop your hand to eat those fat, ripe berries from your palm, much to your delight. “Aria?” you try. Aria—for the beautiful timbre of Aurora’s singing voice, accompanied always by the dulcet hum of her bow harp while she played for you on the divan in her room, teaching you how to strum each chord. Farah used to like it, when you grew older—your soft strumming was the only thing sometimes to calm her crying in her crib. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to run away, I didn’t mean it, I swear—” You stutter on another wail as it dies in your throat, choked off by a sob. You whip around wildly in search of the shape of your oldest siblings but they are nowhere. No one will hear you this time. No one will come for you. No one will help you, will scoop you up and tell you it will be okay, no one will hold you and dry your tears. You are alone. The cobra has since released Nour and now it only watches quietly—expectantly, almost, as if waiting to see what you will do—but it is forgotten in your mind. Nour’s ankle continues to bleed, but there is too much blood, more than there was that day and more than there should be—a mix of blood and dust, it seeps into the earth which seems to drink it hungrily. And as you stare at $their body now—slumped in the dirt like a marionette cut from its strings—dread curls low in your gut. You know $they still breathe<<s>>—$they still lived that day, slumped in the dirt, as $they still live now, you know it, you just saw $them today for tea, you know $they live<<s>>—but here and now $they <<are>> dead, $they must be dead, something nags relentlessly at you beyond reason that $their heart does not beat, $their blood does not course rivers beneath $their warm skin. Some fleeting image flickers through your mind’s eye—a quiet corpse sleeping atop a cloud of blooming crimson—as though you’ve seen this before. Or that you’ve yet to see it still. [[Continue|Chp1-3.6Vision]]

The thread pinched between your fingertips—forgotten until now—hums insistently, the vibration traveling down its length. When it reaches your fingers, a tremor goes through the earth. The melodic hum of Nour’s thread screeches into a dissonant shrill and you wince, slapping your hands to the sides of your head to cover your ears. Through your squinted gaze, the sand around you darkens a shade and the haze of dust that had surrounded you closes in—a violent, whipping vortex—until all you can see is swirling sand. It bites and stings at you like a scorpion as it rips at your $clothes, loud and deafening, and you have to shield your eyes to see as images start to take shape—sculpted from sand and colored streaks of screaming light. A blackened sun. The silhouette of the moon grinds to a halt, haloed in tendrils of fire-gold. The sky goes dark—a candle blown out. A child with a shock of white hair weaves between ghost-white trees, feet crunching heavy over snow as smoke rises from the spires of a crystalline mountain peak in the distance behind them. A newborn babe, its throat kissed with the crowned points of a star-shaped birthmark, cries out. A woman’s hungry hands, predatory in their posture—the flesh at her tawny fingers mottled black—reaches for the child before it is whisked away from her rapacious grasp. A figure lies slumped in a heap upon the ground, unmoving, a tangle of twisting roots burrowing beneath the figure’s flesh, supping on blood—which grows in a widening pool beneath them. That hand. Those fire-red silks, that warm brown hair. You know those looping braids, those sandals, that sun-kissed skin. Your $sibling lies still and wilted on a cold stone floor, the edges of $their robes steeped the wrong shade of crimson. $They <<do1>> not move. $Their chest does not rise. Still. Unbreathing. Two other bodies lie beside $theirs, in jewel-red pools of their own blood. And when it fades in a scattering of sand, you are left with the vision of an unblinking eye—dark and as void-like as the Nothing before the Beginning—once slumbering and unfocused. Now wide awake. The strand breaks free from your grip with a sharp //twang// and the scenery around you dissolves, swallowed whole by sand and you are left back on the beach, Luca beside you, sitting deathly still, one hand still hovering in the air, poised to pluck at those weaving strands of light that molded sand to your goddess’ sight. Your blood has run cold. You try to swallow but find you cannot. You shake your head, disbelieving. “No…no, no,” you whisper, voice rising. Your words waver on your tongue before they tumble from your lips, one over the other. “//No.// No, that wasn’t right. A-again. It all went by too quickly—I—I didn’t understand any of it. //Again.//” Luca—who had sat stiffly beside you, silent and unmoving until now, one hand on your shoulder—blinks. $lucaThey yanks $lucatheir hand away as if burned and $lucatheir tight frame swells with a sharp intake of breath, as if $lucathey had been holding it. You know $lucathey saw everything, too. $lucaTheir eyes flit to you. “$mcnickname…” But you aren’t listening. “Again,” you insist, shaking your head. “That can’t be…that wasn’t….no, no, I didn’t understand it. Again. Show me again.” You aren’t quite sure if you are speaking to yourself, to Luca, or to your goddess, but you scramble to your knees, determined, your fingers scraping through algid sand. “$mcnickname,” Luca tries again. $lucaThey leans forward, climbing onto $lucatheir hands and knees as $lucathey tries to capture your eyes with $lucatheir own. $lucaTheir dark hair drags through the surf as $lucathey ducks $lucatheir head to peek at you even as you hunch over yourself, clawing at the sand in desperate swipes. “$mcnickname…? You…you saw it as I did. You know what it meant…” <div class="choice"><<link 'You ignore $lucathem.' 'Chp1-3.6Ignore'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link '“//Quiet,//” you hiss.' 'Chp1-3.6Quiet'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link '“//Shut up,//” you snap. “It—it was //wrong.// It had to be.”' 'Chp1-3.6Snap'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice">[[You shake your head. “No, it was wrong. I’ll do it again, that—that was a fluke, I did it wrong. Usually there’s—there’s branching, that wasn’t just it, it just wasn’t.”|Chp1-3.6Wrong]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You shake your head. “No, no—it’s okay, I just did it wrong, see? I’ll do it again, I’ll just do it again and this time…th-this time…”|Chp1-3.6Again]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.6Wrong") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You dive forward to scrabble at the sand. You squeeze your eyes shut and will yourself to focus. You find the thread again and the rush of images is the same. As it is the third and fourth time. And the fifth. And the sixth. The same. Always the same. “No, no, no. That’s wrong, that can’t be…” you whisper. You try to take a breath but it catches in your throat and you choke and make a small, strangled squeak. “Is there really nothing I can do…?” It isn’t so much a question as it is a plea. A hesitant, hollow plea—one you know will go unanswered, unfulfilled. When has Fate ever cared for your pleas? She will spin ever forward, as time will—unaffected. Unremorseful. //Uncaring.// And what is left for you to do but count down the days until your $sibling’s send-off ceremony? To watch the seconds disappear through your fingers like grains of sand? The finality of it sinks in all at once—sudden and overwhelming. Despair swallows you whole like quicksand and your desperate scrabbling attempts to find purchase on solid ground only serves to sink you deeper and deeper, hopelessness pressing in on all sides and suffocating you. Your $sibling will die. And there is nothing you can do. <div class="choice">[[You had been keeping everything together, held in place by nothing more than a thread since your return to the palace. And now—it snaps.|Chp1-3.6Snapped]]</div> <div class="choice">[[A spitting fury sparks to life in your chest at the injustice of it all. You scream.|Chp1-3.6Scream]]</div> <div class="choice">[[An involuntary sob wracks your body and before you know it, you are doubled over, consumed with grief.|Chp1-3.6Grief]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You sit deathly still, deathly silent. You are too shocked to move, to speak, to otherwise react. A hollow numbness sits like a cold void in your chest.|Chp1-3.6Shock]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link 'It’s all so absurd, really, so unbelievably absurd, so //fucking// absurd! Before you know it, you are doubled over laughing uncontrollably and without mirth.' 'Chp1-3.6Laugh'>><</link>></div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.6Again") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You dive forward to scrabble at the sand. You squeeze your eyes shut and will yourself to focus. You find the thread again and the rush of images is the same. As it is the third and fourth time. And the fifth. And the sixth. The same. Always the same. “No, no, no. That’s wrong, that can’t be…” you whisper. You try to take a breath but it catches in your throat and you choke and make a small, strangled squeak. “Is there really nothing I can do…?” It isn’t so much a question as it is a plea. A hesitant, hollow plea—one you know will go unanswered, unfulfilled. When has Fate ever cared for your pleas? She will spin ever forward, as time will—unaffected. Unremorseful. //Uncaring.// And what is left for you to do but count down the days until your $sibling’s send-off ceremony? To watch the seconds disappear through your fingers like grains of sand? The finality of it sinks in all at once—sudden and overwhelming. Despair swallows you whole like quicksand and your desperate scrabbling attempts to find purchase on solid ground only serves to sink you deeper and deeper, hopelessness pressing in on all sides and suffocating you. Your $sibling will die. And there is nothing you can do. <div class="choice">[[You had been keeping everything together, held in place by nothing more than a thread since your return to the palace. And now—it snaps.|Chp1-3.6Snapped]]</div> <div class="choice">[[A spitting fury sparks to life in your chest at the injustice of it all. You scream.|Chp1-3.6Scream]]</div> <div class="choice">[[An involuntary sob wracks your body and before you know it, you are doubled over, consumed with grief.|Chp1-3.6Grief]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You sit deathly still, deathly silent. You are too shocked to move, to speak, to otherwise react. A hollow numbness sits like a cold void in your chest.|Chp1-3.6Shock]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link 'It’s all so absurd, really, so unbelievably absurd, so //fucking// absurd! Before you know it, you are doubled over laughing uncontrollably and without mirth.' 'Chp1-3.6Laugh'>><</link>></div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.6Ignore") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You ignore $lucathem and dive forward to scrabble at the sand. You squeeze your eyes shut and will yourself to focus. You find the thread again and the rush of images is the same. As it is the third and fourth time. And the fifth. And the sixth. The same. Always the same. “No, no, no. That’s wrong, that can’t be…” you whisper. You try to take a breath but it catches in your throat and you choke and make a small, strangled squeak. “Is there really nothing I can do…?” It isn’t so much a question as it is a plea. A hesitant, hollow plea—one you know will go unanswered, unfulfilled. When has Fate ever cared for your pleas? She will spin ever forward, as time will—unaffected. Unremorseful. //Uncaring.// And what is left for you to do but count down the days until your $sibling’s send-off ceremony? To watch the seconds disappear through your fingers like grains of sand? The finality of it sinks in all at once—sudden and overwhelming. Despair swallows you whole like quicksand and your desperate scrabbling attempts to find purchase on solid ground only serves to sink you deeper and deeper, hopelessness pressing in on all sides and suffocating you. Your $sibling will die. And there is nothing you can do. <div class="choice">[[You had been keeping everything together, held in place by nothing more than a thread since your return to the palace. And now—it snaps.|Chp1-3.6Snapped]]</div> <div class="choice">[[A spitting fury sparks to life in your chest at the injustice of it all. You scream.|Chp1-3.6Scream]]</div> <div class="choice">[[An involuntary sob wracks your body and before you know it, you are doubled over, consumed with grief.|Chp1-3.6Grief]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You sit deathly still, deathly silent. You are too shocked to move, to speak, to otherwise react. A hollow numbness sits like a cold void in your chest.|Chp1-3.6Shock]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link 'It’s all so absurd, really, so unbelievably absurd, so //fucking// absurd! Before you know it, you are doubled over laughing uncontrollably and without mirth.' 'Chp1-3.6Laugh'>><</link>></div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.6Quiet") <= 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Imposing<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You don’t have the wherewithal to feel guilty for snapping at Luca—desperation drives you and you dive forward to scrabble at the sand. You squeeze your eyes shut and will yourself to focus. You find the thread again and the rush of images is the same. As it is the third and fourth time. And the fifth. And the sixth. The same. Always the same. “No, no, no. That’s wrong, that can’t be…” you whisper. You try to take a breath but it catches in your throat and you choke and make a small, strangled squeak. “Is there really nothing I can do…?” It isn’t so much a question as it is a plea. A hesitant, hollow plea—one you know will go unanswered, unfulfilled. When has Fate ever cared for your pleas? She will spin ever forward, as time will—unaffected. Unremorseful. //Uncaring.// And what is left for you to do but count down the days until your $sibling’s send-off ceremony? To watch the seconds disappear through your fingers like grains of sand? The finality of it sinks in all at once—sudden and overwhelming. Despair swallows you whole like quicksand and your desperate scrabbling attempts to find purchase on solid ground only serves to sink you deeper and deeper, hopelessness pressing in on all sides and suffocating you. Your $sibling will die. And there is nothing you can do. <div class="choice">[[You had been keeping everything together, held in place by nothing more than a thread since your return to the palace. And now—it snaps.|Chp1-3.6Snapped]]</div> <div class="choice">[[A spitting fury sparks to life in your chest at the injustice of it all. You scream.|Chp1-3.6Scream]]</div> <div class="choice">[[An involuntary sob wracks your body and before you know it, you are doubled over, consumed with grief.|Chp1-3.6Grief]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You sit deathly still, deathly silent. You are too shocked to move, to speak, to otherwise react. A hollow numbness sits like a cold void in your chest.|Chp1-3.6Shock]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link 'It’s all so absurd, really, so unbelievably absurd, so //fucking// absurd! Before you know it, you are doubled over laughing uncontrollably and without mirth.' 'Chp1-3.6Laugh'>><</link>></div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.6Snap") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You don’t have the wherewithal to feel guilty for snapping at Luca—desperation drives you and you dive forward to scrabble at the sand. You squeeze your eyes shut and will yourself to focus. You find the thread again and the rush of images is the same. As it is the third and fourth time. And the fifth. And the sixth. The same. Always the same. “No, no, no. That’s wrong, that can’t be…” you whisper. You try to take a breath but it catches in your throat and you choke and make a small, strangled squeak. “Is there really nothing I can do…?” It isn’t so much a question as it is a plea. A hesitant, hollow plea—one you know will go unanswered, unfulfilled. When has Fate ever cared for your pleas? She will spin ever forward, as time will—unaffected. Unremorseful. //Uncaring.// And what is left for you to do but count down the days until your $sibling’s send-off ceremony? To watch the seconds disappear through your fingers like grains of sand? The finality of it sinks in all at once—sudden and overwhelming. Despair swallows you whole like quicksand and your desperate scrabbling attempts to find purchase on solid ground only serves to sink you deeper and deeper, hopelessness pressing in on all sides and suffocating you. Your $sibling will die. And there is nothing you can do. <div class="choice">[[You had been keeping everything together, held in place by nothing more than a thread since your return to the palace. And now—it snaps.|Chp1-3.6Snapped]]</div> <div class="choice">[[A spitting fury sparks to life in your chest at the injustice of it all. You scream.|Chp1-3.6Scream]]</div> <div class="choice">[[An involuntary sob wracks your body and before you know it, you are doubled over, consumed with grief.|Chp1-3.6Grief]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You sit deathly still, deathly silent. You are too shocked to move, to speak, to otherwise react. A hollow numbness sits like a cold void in your chest.|Chp1-3.6Shock]]</div> <div class="choice"><<link 'It’s all so absurd, really, so unbelievably absurd, so //fucking// absurd! Before you know it, you are doubled over laughing uncontrollably and without mirth.' 'Chp1-3.6Laugh'>><</link>></div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.6Scream") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You fall quiet, body going rigid, your fingers trembling in your clenched fists, your grip so tight you think, faintly, you feel the bite of your nails break the skin, a thin trickle of warmth seeping over your palms and falling like crimson teardrops into the pearl-white surf. Luca shifts uncomfortably on $lucatheir hands and knees. $lucaThey bites $lucatheir lip and leans forward, one hand reaching for you. “$mcnickname…?” You interrupt $lucathem with a strangled wail, the guttural sound ripped raw and wretched from your throat. “So that’s it, then?!” you scream, hurling a wild granular spray of sand out over the water as you clamber to your feet with Luca following right after, popping up beside you, $lucatheir fingers twisting at $lucatheir cloak. Pacing doggedly to the side, you lurch forward, stalking over the shore and Luca stumbles out of your way. “First you, then Parim, then Aurora, and Ember, and Castor—//and now Nour?!//” Your pupils—pinpricks against the whites of your eyes—comb the tumbling waves in a frenzied fervor for any mocking sign of those dark, glittering scales, some lurking shadow beneath the water. “What else?!” you howl, and you punctuate your next words by bashing your heel against a rock. “What! Else!” You double over, your nails digging into your scalp as you scream your throat ragged. Eyes wide, Luca begins to reach for you again only to take a staggering step back as you whip around to stalk the other way down the beach. Your shin clangs hard against metal and you bite your tongue as you stumble to your knees, spitting a curse. You squint, the glint of Aurora’s greataxe catching the light; it stands rigid before you in the sand. You immediately surge forward, hands grasping the hilt of your sister’s axe as you lurch to your feet. With a grunt of effort, you swing her axe in a wide arc. Luca staggers backwards, ducking to avoid the slicing blade as it cleaves over the space above $lucatheir head, a spray of sand and seawater trailing after it as you let the shaft slide through your fingers, hurling it out to sea, where it spins through the air before crashing into the waves. “Take it!” you screech. “Just! Take it! Like you’ve taken //’’everything!’’//” You hop on one foot as you tear the sandal from your right foot and hurl that into the ocean as well. Pivoting on your heel, you pace rabidly back and forth. “What else? //What else do you want?!//” Luca climbs unsteadily to $lucatheir feet and approaches slowly, hands raised placatingly, eyes round with trepidation. “$mcnickname…?” $lucaThey tries again to reach for your wrist, $lucatheir fingers grazing your skin, but you tear away, storming off in the opposite direction down the beach. You only make it a few staggering paces before you stumble and sink to your knees. Stinging tears carve their way over your cheeks. [[Continue|Chp1-3.6SnakeHypothetical]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.6Grief") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You fall quiet, body going rigid, your fingers trembling in your clenched fists, your grip so tight you think, faintly, you feel the bite of your nails break the skin, a thin trickle of warmth seeping over your palms and falling like crimson teardrops into the pearl-white surf. Luca shifts uncomfortably on $lucatheir hands and knees. $lucaThey bites $lucatheir lip and leans forward, one hand reaching for you. “$mcnickname…?” You interrupt $lucathem with a strangled wail, the guttural sound ripped raw and wretched from your throat. “So that’s it, then?” you cry, your voice shuddering over the sobs that wrack your body, shoulders shaking. “First you, then Parim, then Aurora, and Ember, and Castor—//and now Nour?!//” Tears blur your vision—all the colors bleeding together, all silver-greys and teal-blues—but still your eyes comb the tumbling waves for any mocking sign of those dark, glittering scales, some lurking shadow beneath the water. “What else?!” you wail, voice climbing higher. “What else do you want from me? What more do you want? You’ve already taken //’’everything!’’//” Luca—eyes wide and bottom lip quivering—brings $lucatheir hands to $lucatheir chest, fingers twisting at $lucatheir tattered shirt as $lucathey fall back on $lucatheir backside and bring $lucatheir knees to $lucatheir chest. You pitch forward, shrinking in on yourself as your arms snake around to clutch at your sides, needing to hold yourself lest you come apart into a million pieces and scatter upon the breeze the way Starfell did when They formed the stars. Your heaving sobs come heavy and relentless and suffocating, and every desperate gasp for air burns, it burns your throat, your lungs, your chest, and the stinging tears in your eyes carve trails down the sides of your face, leaving your skin burning in their wake. You shake like a leaf, forehead pressed to the sand as you ride out your stuttering sobs, until all that is left is your strangled, choking squeaks. Luca shuffles unsteadily back onto $lucatheir knees and crawls slowly toward you, one hand raised placatingly and hovering just beyond your shoulder, as if afraid to touch you. “$mcnickname…?” $lucaTheir hand alights over your back and you shake and gasp, struggling to catch your breath. [[Continue|Chp1-3.6SnakeHypothetical]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.6Shock") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You fall quiet, body going rigid, your fingers trembling in your clenched fists, your grip so tight you think, faintly, you feel the bite of your nails break the skin, a thin trickle of warmth seeping over your palms and falling like crimson teardrops into the pearl-white surf. Luca shifts uncomfortably on $lucatheir hands and knees. $lucaThey bites $lucatheir lip and leans forward, one hand reaching for you. “$mcnickname…?” When $lucatheir fingers alight nervously like a cautious bird atop your shoulder you do not react. You barely feel the pressure of $lucatheir fingers against your skin—as though it is not your body but someone else’s, one you are looking down upon, far removed. Your pupils—pinpricks against the whites of your eyes—comb the tumbling waves for any mocking sign of those dark, glittering scales, some lurking shadow beneath the water. So that’s it then? First Luca, then Parim, then Aurora, and Ember, and Castor—and now Nour? What else? //What else?// What more can She possibly want from you that She hasn’t already taken? She has taken //’’everything.’’// You think, faintly, you hear Luca calling your name, $lucatheir tone growing increasingly panicked and you think $lucathey might be shaking you but you do not stir. A cold numbness sits like a hollow in your chest, swallowing everything, and you can feel nothing else. Nothing seems to matter. You don’t want it to matter. If it did not matter it would not hurt so much. You don’t know how long you sit there—deaf and blind and dead to the world—but it is the faint prick of water against your forearm that stirs you again. A teardrop spills from your chin to your wrist and you realize you have been crying silently. A hand shakes your shoulder and you tilt your head vaguely in the direction of someone repeating your name, urgency latent in their tone. You blink and your eyes focus on Luca’s bright yellow stare—wide and trembling—watching your face. “$mcnickname…?” $lucathey asks in a hoarse voice. “Are you…?” You nod after a long pause and $lucathey seems to pacify somewhat, pulling away from you and retreating in on $lucathemself, arms hugged round $lucatheir knees as $lucathey continue to stare at you with big round eyes. $lucaTheir bottom lip quivers. You wonder if you had been breathing at all—when you take a breath it comes in a gasp, like it is your first, like you have spent an eternity slumbering far, far away beneath an endless ocean and you have forgotten what it is like to fill your lungs with air—it //burns.// [[Continue|Chp1-3.6SnakeHypothetical]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.6Snapped") <= 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Imposing<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You fall quiet, body going rigid, your fingers trembling in your clenched fists, your grip so tight you think, faintly, you feel the bite of your nails break the skin, a thin trickle of warmth seeping over your palms and falling like crimson teardrops into the pearl-white surf. Luca shifts uncomfortably on $lucatheir hands and knees. $lucaThey bites $lucatheir lip and leans forward, one hand reaching for you. “$mcnickname…?” You interrupt $lucathem with a strangled wail, the guttural sound ripped raw and wretched from your throat. “So that’s it, then?!” you scream, hurling a wild granular spray of sand out over the water as you clamber to your feet with Luca following right after, popping up beside you, $lucatheir fingers twisting at $lucatheir cloak. Pacing doggedly to the side, you lurch forward, stalking over the shore and Luca stumbles out of your way. “First you, then Parim, then Aurora, and Ember, and Castor—//and now Nour?!//” Your pupils—pinpricks against the whites of your eyes—comb the tumbling waves in a frenzied fervor for any mocking sign of those dark, glittering scales, some lurking shadow beneath the water. “What else?!” you howl, and you punctuate your next words by bashing your heel against a rock. “What! Else!” You double over, your nails digging into your scalp as you scream your throat ragged. Eyes wide, Luca begins to reach for you again only to take a staggering step back as you whip around to stalk the other way down the beach. Your shin clangs hard against metal and you bite your tongue as you stumble to your knees, spitting a curse. You squint, the glint of Aurora’s greataxe catching the light; it stands rigid before you in the sand. You immediately surge forward, hands grasping the hilt of your sister’s axe as you lurch to your feet. With a grunt of effort, you swing her axe in a wide arc. Luca staggers backwards, ducking to avoid the slicing blade as it cleaves over the space above $lucatheir head, a spray of sand and seawater trailing after it as you let the shaft slide through your fingers, hurling it out to sea, where it spins through the air before crashing into the waves. “Take it!” you screech. “Just! Take it! Like you’ve taken //’’everything!’’//” You hop on one foot as you tear the sandal from your right foot and hurl that into the ocean as well. Pivoting on your heel, you pace rabidly back and forth. “What else? //What else do you want?!//” Luca climbs unsteadily to $lucatheir feet and approaches slowly, hands raised placatingly, eyes round with trepidation. “$mcnickname…?” $lucaThey tries again to reach for your wrist, $lucatheir fingers grazing your skin, but you tear away, storming off in the opposite direction down the beach. You only make it a few staggering paces before you stumble and sink to your knees. Stinging tears carve their way over your cheeks. [[Continue|Chp1-3.6SnakeHypothetical]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.6Laugh") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You fall quiet, body going rigid, your fingers trembling in your clenched fists, your grip so tight you think, faintly, you feel the bite of your nails break the skin, a thin trickle of warmth seeping over your palms and falling like crimson teardrops into the pearl-white surf. It’s all so absurd, really, so unbelievably absurd, so absolutely //’’fucking’’// absurd! You bring a fist to your mouth and bite down over your knuckles to muffle the sound threatening to bubble up from your throat. All that manages to come out is a small squeak and you hunch over, shoulders shaking helplessly. Luca—who must take your trembling for crying—shifts uncomfortably on $lucatheir hands and knees. $lucaThey bites $lucatheir lip and leans forward, one hand reaching for you. “$mcnickname…?” You interrupt $lucathem as you sit suddenly ramrod straight, hands clasped over your mouth—your pupils pinpricks against the whites of your eyes—as a giggle builds in your chest, quiet and muffled at first but louder and louder until it bursts in a peal of unhinged laughter that racks your entire body. Your hands leave your mouth to claw at the sides of your face. “Ahahahaha! What a //fucking// joke!” you scream, eyes combing the tumbling waves in a frenzied fervor for any mocking sign of those dark, glittering scales, some lurking shadow beneath the water. You feel She must certainly be laughing at you. Does She think it’s funny? “Are you laughing?! Is this all some fucking //game// to you?! First Luca, then Parim, then Aurora, and Ember, and Castor—//and now Nour?!// What else? Huh?! C’mon, tell me! What else? What more do you want from me?! You’ve already taken //’’everything!’’//” Luca—eyes wide and bottom lip quivering—brings $lucatheir hands to $lucatheir chest, fingers twisting at $lucatheir tattered shirt as $lucathey fall back on $lucatheir backside and bring $lucatheir knees to $lucatheir chest. <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairstyle is "headscarf") and not ($hairlength is "shaved")>>\ You scrape your nails over your scalp, tugging at the roots of your hair in fistfuls as you double over laughing. <<elseif ($hairlength is "bald") or ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairstyle is "headscarf")>>\ You scrape your nails over your scalp as you double over laughing. <<else>>\ You tear at your headscarf, raking your nails over the top of your head as you double over laughing. <<endif>>\ “What! Else! What! Else!” you shriek, each word punctuated by your fists pounding into the sand. Your disturbed laughter comes heavier now—suffocating and relentless and entirely mirthless. It will not stop. You cannot make it stop. You want it to stop. You fall forward, driving your forehead to the sand and wrapping your arms around yourself as you convulse with laughter, gasping between cackles, and every sharp suck of air burns and you cannot breathe and it burns, it burns, it burns in your chest, in your throat, in your lungs. Hot tears sting at the corners of your eyes and stream in burning streaks over the sides of your face until your laughter devolves into strangled, choking sobs and squeaks. Luca shuffles unsteadily back onto $lucatheir knees and crawls slowly toward you, one hand raised placatingly and hovering just beyond your shoulder, as if afraid to touch you. “$mcnickname…?” $lucaTheir hand alights over your back and you shake and gasp, struggling to catch your breath as the last of your wretched laughter spills unbidden from your throat. [[Continue|Chp1-3.6SnakeHypothetical]]

You shake your head helplessly. “She will take and take and take from me,” you croak, voice brittle and broken. “When will She be satisfied…?” You right yourself, sitting up straight and taking several steadying breaths as you swipe at your eyes with the back of your hand. Luca still hovers warily nearby, eyes darting over your person and lips pressed taut in a trembling line. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, turning to look at $lucathem. “For scaring you.” $lucaThey swallows. “Luca…?” It is only a moment’s hesitation before $lucathey seems to remember $lucathemself and $lucathey nods, scooting closer until you sit shoulder to shoulder. “I know. It’s okay,” $lucathey whispers. “You don’t scare me.” <<if $outlook is "realistic">>\ Your head hangs lower. “My mother says the world is uncaring,” you murmur. You’d like to say she is wrong—that it is an oversimplification, and an unfair one at that—but right now you find it hard to disagree. <<elseif $outlook is "cynical">>\ Your head hangs lower. “My mother says the world is uncaring,” you murmur. You find it hard to disagree. <<else>>\ Your head hangs lower. “My mother says the world is uncaring,” you murmur. And, as much as you do not want to agree—you have always tried to see the brighter side of things and the good in the world, despite everything—you now find it hard to disagree. <<endif>>\ Keen and solemn, and haunted by an air of gravity so unbefitting a teenager of $lucatheir age, Luca’s bright eyes burn yellow at the edges of your vision—sober and searching, they flicker between yours. $lucaTheir lips quirk into a pensive frown. When next $lucathey speaks, $lucatheir words are deliberate, as if chosen carefully. “But are you?” $lucathey asks. Your head drifts vaguely toward $lucathem. “What?” “Are //you// uncaring?” $lucathey asks again, more insistently. When you do not answer after a pause, $lucathey continues, voice softening meaningfully. “The world is only as uncaring as are its people. If you choose to care, then the world does, too. So I ask again. Are //you// uncaring?” “I…” Your voice trails off and you say nothing. Luca lets out a quiet breath. “What…” $lucathey tries again. “What will you do now…?” You lift your chin, staring blankly ahead. After a beat of silence, you shake your head. “There is nothing I can do,” you murmur despondently. “Whether I act or don’t—it still would change nothing. Fate cannot be unwritten. This is…this is…” $lucaThey stares at you, eyes narrowed, for a long time before $lucathey turns to look out over the skittering waves. $lucaThey is quiet for so long you fear $lucathey has disappeared and left you and you almost turn to look when $lucathey speaks again. “Tomorrow,” $lucathey says, words measured carefully. “Your $sibling Nour will die from a snake bite.” It takes a moment for the words to register, but when they do, you blink, twisting slowly to look at Luca. $lucaThey does not meet your eyes. You sniff, brow furrowed. “//What//…? Why would you say something so horrible…?” “Your $sibling will die. You know it because you have seen it in a vision,” $lucathey continues. “Stop it.” “Tomorrow comes and you are walking with your $sibling along a garden path. Your $sibling ahead of you, and you behind,” Luca says, face still studiously facing forward, $lucatheir eyes shrouded beneath feathery bangs. “A cobra darts out along the path. Your $sibling is poised to step on it.” $lucaThey turns to face you. “What do you do?” “What…?” “Do you let $them step on the serpent?” $lucathey repeats. “Do you do //nothing?// Since—as you say—$their death is inevitable, predestined by Fate, and if not today then tomorrow, or the next day, or some day after that.” You say nothing, your stare hard beneath the cut of your knotted brow, too stunned for words. “Or,” Luca continues. “Do you move to stop $them anyway? Even //if//, in the end, it changes nothing? Because $they <<are>> your $sibling and because you love $them.” Your mouth falls open and shut wordlessly. “I…” Luca turns to glare at you, eyes narrowed and expression severe. Expectant. “//Do you let $them step on the serpent?//” <div class="choice"><<link 'You do nothing because it will change nothing. Fate will take $them from you regardless.' 'Chp1-3.6DoNothing'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link 'You reach out to stop $them.' 'Chp1-3.6StopNour'>><</link>></div>

You swallow thickly and set your jaw, lifting your chin as you speak, the words cutting sharp like gravel over your tongue, as though you betray yourself even in speaking them. “I…I would do nothing,” you say again. “Fate will only claim $them regardless. And my interference would only invite Her judgement.” Luca’s expression does not falter. $lucaThey looks eerily stoic and only observes you in shrewd silence, brow furrowed. “I don’t believe you,” $lucathey finally says. “I don’t think you really mean that.” “Believe what you will.” “You would not do nothing if you felt you could do something. You could not live with yourself. I know you would not.” “What do you expect of me?” you snap, with more vitriol than you had intended, like an animal backed into a corner and fueled by desperation. “What am I to do? Why is this up to me?” “If not you, then who else? You are so intent on resigning yourself to Fate as everyone else. Do you really think you have no choice? And even if you didn’t, would it matter?” “What do you mean?” “Was it fate then, that I burned with my father and his staff? In his manor in Skyrus?” You pull away as if burned yourself, your wide stare flickering over those scrawling red scars etched into $lucatheir porcelain skin. You quickly turn your head. “Don’t turn your head. Don’t look away,” Luca commands you. “Answer me. Was it fate?” “It was,” you whisper. It had to have been. Unavoidable, inescapable, unpreventable. Predetermined. “Then—if you knew,” Luca continues, leaning forward to chase your stare. You squeeze your eyes shut. “If you saw. Would you have let me leave? Would you have held your tongue? Tied your hands? Would you have done nothing at all?” “It wasn’t my fault…” you breathe, voice hitching, pleading. “It wasn’t,” Luca assures you. “But you are not ignorant now, as much as you might want to be. I know you would not do nothing.” You grit your teeth and shake your head. “You know //nothing,//” you seethe. Luca does not so much as flinch. “I know //you.//” $lucaThey reaches up to flick your forehead. You turn to glare at $lucathem but it melts away at Luca’s expression—determined and sullen and stubborn as ever, but softened by a sincerity, an imploringness, one $lucathey is often reticent to show. “I know you,” $lucathey repeats. “And I know that, //always//, in every eventuality, you would not sit idle and let someone you love fall to harm if you felt you could spare them. That’s what you always do. What you’ve always done. Ever since we were kids. Even if perhaps you shouldn’t have, even if it meant you would take the punishment instead, you would step in to get me or Ember out of trouble. Because you love your family.” You turn away, shaking your head as you squeeze your eyes shut once more. “Stop. Stop talking.” “I know you tried for your siblings,” Luca continues, ignoring you. “For Parim and Aurora and the twins. Your mother asked that you let go, not that you stop caring. Don’t look away now. You cannot bear the weight for things beyond your control—for the circumstances that wrought their deaths nor for the choices //they// made despite your warnings. Do you think they did not know what they risked in the choices they made? Aurora left for the Strait of Auganite despite your warnings because she feared for Nour’s safety—because she loved her family. Ember succumbed to his obsession with hunting Parim’s butcher because he loved his family. Castor, ever the careful one, turned to recklessness in his grief because he loved his family. And your $sibling, Nour, did not let you step on that serpent when you were both but children because $they love<<s>> $their family. So I know that, given the chance, you would not let your $sibling step on the serpent. //Because you love your family.//” $lucaThey shakes $lucatheir head. “So how can you say the world is uncaring when it is filled with people—people like you—who care so, //so// much?” It is the last crack in your wall of apathy—the stone wall you’d built around yourself so you would not have to see outside, so you would not have to know, have to feel, have to care—the final fissure that sends it crumbling, tumbling down, brick by brick and leaving you bare. Vulnerable Defenseless. <div class="choice"><<link 'It hurts. It hurts //so// much.' 'Chp1-3.6Hurts'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice">[[Your throat constricts painfully, but you swallow the emotion, replacing the gaping cavity left in your chest with hardened resolve.|Chp1-3.6Stoic]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Your throat constricts painfully, but you swallow the emotion with practiced ease, replacing the gaping cavity left in your chest with sharpened resolve. You turn toward Luca with a small, artful smile.|Chp1-3.6Sly]]</div>

Swallowing thickly, you speak, your mouth feeling painfully dry. “I…I would reach out and stop $them,” you say, voice hoarse. “Why?” Luca asks. “What do you mean //’why?’//” “//Why?//” $lucathey repeats, more forcefully this time. “B-because…because…” you falter, brow furrowing as you shake your head. “Because $they <<are>> my $sibling.” “And what does that matter?” Luca presses. “//Why// do you stop $them? If it is as you say and it won’t matter in the end to Fate—//why do you stop $them?//” Your voice hitches and you snap at $lucathem. “What else am I supposed to do?! What more do you want me to say?! Because $they would do it for me? Because $they //did//? Because I could not live with myself if I did nothing?” $lucaThey reaches up to flick your forehead. You turn to glare at $lucathem but it melts away at Luca’s expression—determined and sullen and stubborn as ever, but softened by a sincerity, an imploringness, one $lucathey is often reticent to show. “I know you,” $lucathey says. “And I know that, //always//, in every eventuality, you would not sit idle and let someone you love fall to harm if you felt you could spare them. That’s what you always do. What you’ve always done. Ever since we were kids. Even if perhaps you shouldn’t have, even if it meant you would take the punishment instead, you would step in to get me or Ember out of trouble. Because you love your family.” Your shoulders sag and you turn away, squeezing your eyes shut. “I know you tried for your siblings,” Luca continues. “For Parim and Aurora and the twins. Your mother asked that you let go, not that you stop caring. Don’t look away now. You cannot bear the weight for things beyond your control—for the circumstances that wrought their deaths nor for the choices //they// made despite your warnings. Do you think they did not know what they risked in the choices they made? Aurora left for the Strait of Auganite despite your warnings because she feared for Nour’s safety—because she loved her family. Ember succumbed to his obsession with hunting Parim’s butcher because he loved his family. Castor, ever the careful one, turned to recklessness in his grief because he loved his family. And your $sibling, Nour, did not let you step on that serpent when you were both but children because $they love<<s>> $their family. So I know that, given the chance, you would not let your $sibling step on the serpent. //Because you love your family.//” $lucaThey shakes $lucatheir head. “So how can you say the world is uncaring when it is filled with people—people like you—who care so, //so// much?” It is the last crack in your wall of apathy—the stone wall you’d built around yourself so you would not have to see outside, so you would not have to know, have to feel, have to care—the final fissure that sends it crumbling, tumbling down, brick by brick and leaving you bare. Vulnerable Defenseless. <div class="choice"><<link 'It hurts. It hurts //so// much.' 'Chp1-3.6Hurts'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice">[[Your throat constricts painfully, but you swallow the emotion, replacing the gaping cavity left in your chest with hardened resolve.|Chp1-3.6Stoic]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Your throat constricts painfully, but you swallow the emotion with practiced ease, replacing the gaping cavity left in your chest with sharpened resolve. You turn toward Luca with a small, artful smile.|Chp1-3.6Sly]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.6Stoic") <= 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 3>>\ <<notify>>+ Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $chp1nourvision to true>>\ You do not allow yourself to cry—not this time. You’ve no more room for tears. You cannot afford them—you cannot afford to break, not now, not when you still have people left, people who are relying on you. So you sit straighter, squaring your shoulders and lifting your chin. It would be easier to turn away, to pretend not to care—but it is as your oldest friend says. You just cannot find it in you to do so. It is not who you are. Your sister, Aurora, was a pillar of strength. Stoic and imperious to a fault, but unwavering nonetheless. You wonder how she managed it all the time. If she could manage it for you, then you can for her. For Luca. For your family. After a deep, shuddering breath, you’ve wiped the grimace from your face and replaced it with a mask of repose. You incline your head towards Luca, acquiescing a grateful nod. “Thank you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. $lucaThey glances away. “Mm.” “I mean it.” $lucaThey sighs, flushing slightly in embarrassment. “Yeah. I know you do.” “It’s been a long time since I’ve needed you to knock some much needed sense into me.” $lucaThey scoffs but a small, self-satisfied, upward quirk to $lucatheir lips betrays $lucatheir appeasement. “Not nearly long enough,” $lucathey huffs, rocking back as $lucathey tuck $lucatheir crossed legs in closer. “You are woefully stubborn. Distressingly so. I sometimes think I would have an easier time pulling a stuck cow through the mud than I would moving //you.//” You place a mock-affronted hand over your chest. “Did you seriously just compare me to a //cow//?” “That was my kinder choice of metaphor.” It is your turn to scoff and you roll your eyes good-naturedly, reaching over to muss up $lucatheir dark hair the way you sometimes do to Farah, if only to delight in the indignant scowl she would shoot you as she’d bat your hand away. Luca makes the nearly the same face as $lucathey ducks away from you, smacking your wrist. “Quit it,” $lucathey says, though $lucathey makes no attempt to fix $lucatheir hair. Instead, $lucathey hunches forward, propping an elbow over one knee and cupping $lucatheir chin in $lucatheir hand. You breathe in deeply—the scent of seaspray and minerals in the brisk air—and look out over the water, the tide lapping at your ankles. “My mother is convinced the future is set and cannot be changed,” you say quietly. “Your mother is one woman and her view is only one of many. Who’s to say it is right?” “You don’t believe in predestination, then?” Luca shrugs. “I don’t know what to believe. But it matters little whether my choices matter to Fate,” $lucathey says. “They matter to me.” You glance at $lucathem in askance, then nod. “They matter to me,” you echo. Luca puffs out a breath, bangs fluttering over $lucatheir brow. “So,” $lucathey says after a pause. “...What are you going to do?” You remain silent for a long time, your chest rising and falling easily now, the breeze washing over your skin—bathed in rose-gold light from the sun over the horizon—your grip over your folded legs firm with hardened resolve. You turn toward Luca. [[“I need to divine one more thing.”|Chp1-3.7NextMorning]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.6Sly") <= 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative + 3>>\ <<notify>>+ Manipulative<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $chp1nourvision to true>>\ <<if $momrelationship is "distant">>\ You do not allow yourself to cry—not this time. No more tears. No more breaks. No more self-pity. Such things are a waste of time now—and time is something you have precious little of. You sit straighter, squaring your shoulders and lifting your chin. It would be easier to turn away, to pretend not to care—but it is as your oldest friend says. You just cannot find it in you to do so. It is not who you are. And just what did your mother expect? You have always been a meddler. <<else>>\ You do not allow yourself to cry—not this time. No more tears. No more breaks. No more self-pity. Such things are a waste of time now—and time is something you have precious little of. You sit straighter, squaring your shoulders and lifting your chin. It would be easier to turn away, to pretend not to care—but it is as your oldest friend says. You just cannot find it in you to do so. It is not who you are. You have always been a meddler. Just where does your mother think you got it from? You learned from the best. <<endif>>\ After a deep, shuddering breath, you’ve wiped the grimace from your face and replaced it with an easy mask of repose. You incline your head towards Luca, an artful smile gracing your lips. “Just when did you get so wise? I’m afraid I hadn’t noticed.” Luca lies back in the sand, bangs shifting over $lucatheir forehead as $lucathey clasp $lucatheir hands over $lucatheir chest. “You should pay better attention, then.” “Brat.” <<if $person is "woman">>\ “Hag.” <<else>>\ “Clodpole.” <<endif>>\ “//Half-wit.//” “//Blockhead.//” You crack a smile and Luca’s sullen expression cracks as well, eyes crinkling at the corners. In this moment, $lucathey reminds you so much of Ember—though you’d never admit how similar you’ve always thought the two, not ever to either of them, lest you send them both into a spluttering fit and get told to, in no uncertain terms, fall and break your neck. Instead, you reach over and muss up Luca’s dark hair. $lucaThey scowls indignantly and ducks away from you, smacking your wrist. “Quit it,” $lucathey says, though $lucathey makes no attempt to fix $lucatheir hair. You breathe in deeply—the scent of seaspray and minerals in the brisk air—and look out over the water, the tide lapping at your ankles. “My mother is convinced the future is set and cannot be changed,” you say quietly. “Your mother is one woman and her view is only one of many. Who’s to say it is right?” “You don’t believe in predestination, then?” Luca shrugs. “I don’t know what to believe. But it matters little whether my choices matter to Fate,” $lucathey says. “They matter to me.” You glance at $lucathem in askance, then nod. “They matter to me,” you echo. Luca puffs out a breath, bangs fluttering over $lucatheir brow. “So,” $lucathey says after a pause. “...What are you going to do?” You remain silent for a long time, your chest rising and falling easily now, the breeze washing over your skin—bathed in rose-gold light from the sun over the horizon—your grip over your folded legs firm with hardened resolve. You turn toward Luca. [[“I need to divine one more thing.”|Chp1-3.7NextMorning]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.6Hurts") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 3>>\ <<notify>>+ Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $chp1nourvision to true>>\ You do not realize you had begun to cry again until a teardrop slips soundlessly over your chin and to the skin at your wrist. You blink, vision blurring with tears and you gasp, clutching your chest as you choke on a sob. It would be easier to turn away, not to care—it would not hurt this much. But it is as your oldest friend says. You just cannot find it in you to do so. It is not who you are. “It hurts,” you weep, and your voice catches painfully in your throat as you squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head. “It hurts //so much//.” “I know,” Luca whispers, the words faint but spoken with gravity—a sense of solemn, hard-won conviction. And perhaps it is that—the understanding with which $lucathey speaks—or perhaps it is the way in which—when your eyes flutter open to eye the $lucagender sitting cross-legged next to you through your tears, your friend since childhood—$lucatheir shoulders slump heavy with the weight of the world. Or—perhaps still it is the way $lucatheir downcast eyes sag with a profound look of loneliness, that skulking cloud that shadowed $lucathem everywhere, chased away only in moments of games and mischief with you as children or by the warmth of $lucatheir father’s hand on $lucatheir head—or perhaps it is all of it—which makes you think $lucatheir words go beyond mere platitudes, beyond tokens of sympathy, to empathy. You sniff. Though your chest still shudders with shaky, stuttering breaths, you swallow your sobs, throat bobbing painfully tight, and swipe at your tear-stained face with the back of your hand. Sitting straighter, you lean forward to wrap your arms gently around Luca as you pull $lucathem close to your chest, one arm around $lucatheir back and one over the side of $lucatheir head as you rest your cheek atop the crown of $lucatheir head, swaying slightly the way you used to hold your baby sister Farah when she grew frightened of the boom of thunder during those precious rare rainstorms in the winter months. Luca tenses in your hold. “Er—what are you doing?” “Hugging you.” “Yes, but why?” “You looked like you needed it.” Luca squirms a bit and you can imagine the perplexed knot to $lucatheir brow, the indignant frown tugging at $lucatheir lips. “//I// looked like //I// needed it?” “You did,” you agree. $lucaThey wriggles again but you squeeze $lucathem tighter and eventually $lucathey relents with a sigh and goes limp against you. “Fine,” $lucathey huffs. “If this makes you feel better.” You stifle a small smile as $lucathey slowly relaxes, giving $lucathemself away. You hold $lucathem for a few more moments before $lucathey grumbles against your shoulder. “Okay, this is getting gross.” $lucaThey reaches up to poke your cheek. “Unhand me.” A small laugh escapes you and you allow $lucathem to extricate $lucathemself from your grip, ignoring the sheepish tilt to $lucatheir head and $lucatheir petulant pout as $lucathey attempts to salvage some of $lucatheir dignity. You think you hear $lucathem sniffle but you kindly ignore that, too. You breathe in deeply—the scent of seaspray and minerals in the brisk air—and look out over the water, the tide lapping at your ankles. “My mother is convinced the future is set and cannot be changed,” you say quietly. “Your mother is one woman and her view is only one of many. Who’s to say it is right?” “You don’t believe in predestination, then?” Luca shrugs. “I don’t know what to believe. But it matters little whether my choices matter to Fate,” $lucathey says. “They matter to me.” You glance at $lucathem in askance, then nod. “They matter to me,” you echo. Luca puffs out a breath, bangs fluttering over $lucatheir brow. “So,” $lucathey says after a pause. “...What are you going to do?” You remain silent for a long time, your chest rising and falling easily now, the breeze washing over your skin—bathed in rose-gold light from the sun over the horizon—your grip over your folded legs firm with hardened resolve. You turn toward Luca. [[“I need to divine one more thing.”|Chp1-3.7NextMorning]]

<<audio ":playing" stop>>\ <<audio "desertstorm" loop play>>\ <<set $parimteaset to "gone">>\ The next morning you rise early, too restless to sleep any longer. You ask Aurynn about the missing shards from Parim’s tea set. He tells you he did not touch them. When you inquire with Samira, she tells you the same. Some small piece of your heart is lost to you with the rest of your brother’s broken tea set. But you’ve little time to allow yourself to dwell on it. Seven days. You have just seven days. [[Continue|Chp1-3.7Father]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.2aloof") <= 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 3>>\ <<notify>>+ Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You compose your face into a blank mask of cool repose. "I'm fine," you say simply. Luca flicks you hard on the head, $lucatheir fingers leaving a static-like buzz on your skin. "Ow," you grumble, rubbing at your forehead. "What was that for?" "You know. You don't have to pretend around me." "I'm not pretending." "You know, you're just going to make me worry more if you try to hide when you're hurting from me. I thought we made a promise not to keep secrets." You look away guiltily. "You're right. I'm sorry." "I'm sorry, too," Luca murmurs. "I didn't know Parim as well as you did, but I remember he was always kind to me the few times I met him when we were kids. He was a good man. He deserved better. They all did." You nod weakly. You'd had no time to grieve when you first heard the news; the war kept going and your soldiers were awaiting your orders. You had to be a commander. And upon returning to the palace, you've been so swamped with work and preparations for Nour's coronation, you hadn't had any time to properly grieve your dead siblings. There are times when you forget, when you expect Ember to come barging into your room without knocking, a disgruntled and apologetic Castor following closely behind his twin. There are times you find your feet making their way toward Aurora's old room, to ask her opinion on how best to handle a piece of correspondence with a rather prickly noble only to suddenly remember her room will be empty. And there are times during ceremonies when you look to the dais, searching for the spot Parim should be, standing next to your father, only to find it filled by a discomforted-looking Nour, who catches your searching gaze with a sad, knowing look. Parim, Aurora, Castor, and Ember...they're all really gone. They aren't coming back. You let out a low hum and Luca turns to you questioningly. "I don't think I've even cried since it happened. I didn't have time to. Now, I...I feel like I don't even know how to grieve them. It's easier to just...not." You look up at Luca. "Am I a terrible person?" "No. You're just...hurting. Everyone hurts differently." You nod and fall quiet. $lucaThey sits in silence, giving you a few moments to compose yourself before speaking again. "Something else happened." $lucaThey gestures at your throat, and you bring your fingers to the sensitive skin there. "Didn't it?" You nod. [[Continue|Chp1-1.3]]

<<if visited("Chp1-1.14stoicharsh") <= 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Imposing, + Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You close your eyes, a stirring of emotion rises up within your chest, like shifting sand in the wind, but you force it down, pleading with your heart to obey. You swallow the lump in your throat and when you open your eyes, you have donned a cold mask of composure. //Dignified and above it all,// as your mother always says. Lifting your chin, you turn to Aurynn, your stare severe and your tone icy. "No," you say. "Let's go. I have a meeting with Nour to get to." Aurynn shoots you a skeptical look, but upon seeing the harsh look on your face, he sagely decides not to press the issue. You step over the shattered tea set and ease the door open. Aurynn follows, shutting the door behind you. [[Continue|Chp1-1.15]]

<<set $mother to true>>\ <<set $najaat to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-3.2eavesdrop2") <= 1>>\ <<set $aloof += 2>>\ <<notify 3s>>+ Aloof, Mother and Lady Najaat Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You affect a casual lean against the wall. Aurynn arches a brow at you as he glances at the door, then moves to stand beside you. "Let’s stop beating around the bush, shall we?" you hear your mother say. "What exactly are you accusing me of this time, my lady?" "Don’t play games with me, Lady Phoebe," the other voice snaps, and you recognize it as Nour’s mother—Lady Najaat. "I //know// you had something to do with this, you scheming little //snake.// This all plays perfectly into your hands. I don’t know how you managed to convince him, but don’t think it will last. I //will// get this turned around." "This display is unbecoming of you, Lady Najaat," your mother replies smoothly. She pauses, then lets out a short, tinkling laugh. "Oh, who am I kidding? No it isn’t. But I can assure you, darling, I had nothing to do with the decision." "You lying //leech.// You expect me to believe that? This has your name written all over it. Did you rope your vile little $child into this as well?" Your mother clucks her tongue and when next she speaks, her sing-song voice carries a sharp edge to it. "//Careful.//" "Tell me—exactly how long have you been planning this, hm?" The click of heels against stone sounds through the door, as if Lady Najaat is pacing before your mother’s desk. "Was pulling the rug out from under me after my $child had been coronated part of your plan? You do so enjoy such underhanded tactics. I should almost be impressed." "Underhanded? I should think that was more //your// style, no? //I// am a lady with decorum," your mother replies. "Trust me, my dear—while I’d love to take credit for your distress, if I had something to do with it, I would be the last person you’d ever suspect. I know how to cover my tracks. //Some// of us are well-versed in the art of //subtlety.//" "//Subtlety,//" Lady Najaat repeats. She barks out a mirthless laugh. "Do us both a favor and cut the shit. You and your loathsome louse of a $child are the only ones who stand to gain from this. It should be your brat being shipped off to Celestyl—not mine. //My// $child is next-in-line for the throne." "Ah, the throne, yes—that is what you’ve been vying for, hm? A shame your poor $child never did match up with those lofty expectations of yours. Oh, but I suppose that’s where you’d come in, right? Here comes Mother Dearest, always over your $child’s shoulder, stepping in, taking over, handling everything—er, sorry, //’providing guidance,’//" your mother says, her voice condescendingly cheery. "Oh! A bit like a de facto empress, no? Am I laying it on a bit too thick?" "What an insinuation," Lady Najaat snarls. "My $child is plenty capable of ruling." "Ah—so you’d prefer the term //’advisor,’// then. Or—’regent,’ perhaps?" The click of heels comes to a stop. "Enjoy your seat on your high horse while it lasts. It’ll be //your// $child being shipped off for Celestyl come Thissys—not mine." "Mm. Better work fast then," your mother hums. "The way I hear it, you only have a week. Tick tock." Lady Najaat scoffs. You hear the sharp click of her heels resume and the grinding screech of a chair scraping over stone and you quickly back farther away from the door. The door flies open and Lady Najaat comes storming out in a thunderous flash of sapphire skirts, her legs working in quick, sharp strides as her heeled sandals clack against the floor. She comes to a sudden halt when she notices you, fixing you with a glower as she readjusts her ornately plaited sienna hair. She would resemble her $child Nour more, if you squinted at her perhaps, with her glowing brown skin and long straight hair; but unlike your $sibling, her face carries none of the warmth or softness that Nour’s does, her tumultuous henna eyes dripping venom, lips curled into a nasty scowl. <<if not ($hairtexture is "loose coils") and not ($hairtexture is "tight coils")>>\ Your mother approaches from behind Lady Najaat, her almond-shaped amber eyes lighting up upon seeing you. She eases into a smile, running a slender $skin finger over her $haircolor hair, plaited neatly in an elegant gem-adorned braid over her shoulder. A thin gold chain circlet decorates her brow. <<else>>\ Your mother approaches from behind Lady Najaat, her almond-shaped amber eyes lighting up upon seeing you. She eases into a smile, running a slender $skin hand over her coiled $haircolor hair, which hangs loose to her shoulders in a thick spray of lively, gem-adorned curls. A thin gold chain circlet decorates her brow. <<endif>>\ "Well, if it isn’t my darling $child," she says brightly, emerald skirts swaying around her legs as she comes to a stop before you. "What a pleasant surprise." You incline your head at each of them as Aurynn releases you, stepping back into a bow. "Mother," you say. "Lady Najaat." Lady Najaat turns her nose up at you scornfully, not even dignifying your greeting with a proper response. She brushes her hands over the front of her sleeveless dress—the dark blue fabric cinched around her waist with a single gold cord—dusting off imaginary dirt. "I should not be surprised to see //you// here. Certainly, you had something to do with this as well," she hisses. "Being just the conniving //snake// your mother is." "I beg your pardon?" you say. "Lady Najaat," your mother says, her tone low and warning. "I would caution you against speaking to my $child like that. Leave $them out of your petty squabbles, hm?" Thin as a whip and sharp as one, too, she fixes Lady Najaat with a pointed look, stepping around her and behind you, placing a hand on either of your shoulders. Lady Najaat glances between the two of you, then sneers, affecting a mockingly pleasant tone, though her face is no less bitter. "My //sincerest congratulations,// $Title $mcname, on your impending coronation," she says to you, and then her stare finds your mother’s, holding it like a challenge. "May it prove a ceremony to remember." Sparing one last withering glare at your mother, she whirls around on her heel. Aurynn quickly sidesteps out of her way as she storms off down the corridor, the sharp clack of her heels echoing after her as she disappears down the staircase. "Well," your mother breathes, patting your shoulders. "I’m sorry you had to see that, darling. Honestly, that woman…" She trails off before shaking her head, turning you around to face her. "What were you doing out here anyway, hm? Don’t tell me you came all this way to visit your dear old mother? Why, I’d have put on some tea if I’d known." She winks slyly. "And I'd have told Lady Najaat to keep her voice down if I'd have known curious ears would be listening in. Not that she'd have listened, the harpy." "Ah, well I—" "Oh, no need to be embarrassed; I won't chastise you, dear. Now, come in, come in!" She begins ushering you towards the study only to pause when your retainer discreetly clears his throat. [[Continue|Chp1-3.2MomNoticeAurynn]]

Your plan is, perhaps, somewhat ill-thought out, but you can see no better alternative and desperate times call for desperate measures—even Luca had begrudgingly agreed after //much// convincing, though $lucathey still seemed rather dour about the whole thing. Still, $lucathey agreed to help however you needed $lucathem to. Though, you suppose $lucathey doesn’t really have much choice either way. Still, things would go over much smoother for everyone if you can only sway your father to your side. Your attempts to secure an audience with your father throughout the week prove unfruitful—each time you are turned away by the guards outside the throne hall or his chambers. Always the same reason: //’The Emperor is busy.’// <div class="choice">[[You grow more incensed each time, and, on one occasion, you even exploded at one of the guards, demanding fervently to be let in, so help you gods.|Chp1-3.7Explode]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You seethe quietly. Your flaring temper begins to manifest in every little thing—in your expression, in your mannerisms, in your stride.|Chp1-3.7Seethe]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Your attempts at flirtation and flattery, at trickery and temptation, do not work either, and with every denial of your aims to seek an audience, you grow more and more frustrated.|Chp1-3.7Charm]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Your attempts at charisma and compliments, at deception and distraction, do not work either, and with every denial of your aims to seek an audience, you grow more and more frustrated.|Chp1-3.7Charm]]</div> <div class="choice">[[While you admire the guards’ unhindered sense of loyalty, it is wholly frustrating, and any attempts to reason with them or pressure them into allowing you an audience go unfulfilled. Your patience begins to wane severely.|Chp1-3.7Reason]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You leave without much protest the first few times, having resolved to simply try again later. But as each attempt to secure an audience goes unfulfilled, even your patience begins to falter and you find yourself growing much more obstinate and desperate.|Chp1-3.7Desperate]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7Explode") <= 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ When he refused, you are certain you recall insulting him—//rather graphically//—and though you can’t quite remember the details, you’re pretty sure it involved a long-winded tirade against him, his mother, and his entire ancestral tree. Not your most eloquent, but you were too impassioned to care. You don’t see much of Nour, either. Nothing beyond fleeting glimpses as $they flit<<s>> by in a hurry—too busy with preparations for $their departure for a proper greeting—an apologetic smile on $their face, one that feels too forced to be entirely casual, and Zain always following closely behind. You aren’t even sure what exactly you would say to your $sibling if you caught a moment alone with $them. Your breath catches in your throat each time you see $them and you are left quietly floundering for air long after $they <<are>> already gone. And, as the days tick by—the first day of Thissys and Nour’s send-off ceremony growing ever closer—you find yourself growing increasingly agitated. [[Continue|Chp1-3.7SamRoom]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7Seethe") <= 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Imposing<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Servants duck their heads and cower as you stalk by them in the halls. Gawking nobles scurry out of your way like mice when they see you coming. <<if $magic is "illusion">>\ Even the air around you seems to sizzle with your fury. You pass through a hallway at one point and leave the servants behind you on their knees and clutching at their heads in pain. <<elseif $magic is "fire">>\ The air itself around you sizzles with heat. You pass through a hallway lined with decorative tapestries and leave the corridor in disarray, servants dropping their things to beat out the flames licking at the walls, the smell of smoke trailing after you. <<elseif $magic is "gravity">>\ The air itself is heavier around you. Stifling. You pass through a hallway lined with decorative urns and leave nothing but shards in your wake. A serving boy makes the mistake of bumping into you with a ceramic jug of water and you leave him spluttering in confusion, drenched down his front and with a pile of shattered pieces of pottery at his feet. <<else>>\ The air itself around you seems to sizzle with your fury. Samira even turned you away when you showed up at the temple to assist her in her priestess studies as usual, fearing your temper might do more hindrance than help. You aren’t entirely sure what she meant by that—all you would have had to do was sit there and let her channel your ichor, but when you protested this to her, she blinked and only doubled down on her insistence you leave and turned you out the door without further ceremony. <<endif>>\ You don’t see much of Nour, either. Nothing beyond fleeting glimpses as $they flit<<s>> by in a hurry—too busy with preparations for $their departure for a proper greeting—an apologetic smile on $their face, one that feels too forced to be entirely casual, and Zain always following closely behind. You aren’t even sure what exactly you would say to your $sibling if you caught a moment alone with $them. Your breath catches in your throat each time you see $them and you are left quietly floundering for air long after $they <<are>> already gone. And, as the days tick by—the first day of Thissys and Nour’s send-off ceremony growing ever closer—you find yourself growing increasingly agitated. [[Continue|Chp1-3.7SamRoom]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7Charm") <= 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ In your frustration, your attempts at cajolery lose their edge, your impassioned indignation evident in everything from your mannerisms to your stride. You briefly consider siccing Aurynn on them, though you don’t think it would do you much good. The guards simply refuse to budge. You don’t see much of Nour, either. Nothing beyond fleeting glimpses as $they flit<<s>> by in a hurry—too busy with preparations for $their departure for a proper greeting—an apologetic smile on $their face, one that feels too forced to be entirely casual, and Zain always following closely behind. You aren’t even sure what exactly you would say to your $sibling if you caught a moment alone with $them. Your breath catches in your throat each time you see $them and you are left quietly floundering for air long after $they <<are>> already gone. And, as the days tick by—the first day of Thissys and Nour’s send-off ceremony growing ever closer—you find yourself growing increasingly agitated. [[Continue|Chp1-3.7SamRoom]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7Reason") <= 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Frustration wears at your composure, and when it becomes obvious the guards will not be moved by rhyme or reason, you soon resort to using veiled threats and commination. Though it is clear some of the guards you speak to are visibly spooked at how you came to know so much about their personal lives, they still refuse to budge. You don’t see much of Nour, either. Nothing beyond fleeting glimpses as $they flit<<s>> by in a hurry—too busy with preparations for $their departure for a proper greeting—an apologetic smile on $their face, one that feels too forced to be entirely casual, and Zain always following closely behind. You aren’t even sure what exactly you would say to your $sibling if you caught a moment alone with $them. Your breath catches in your throat each time you see $them and you are left quietly floundering for air long after $they <<are>> already gone. And, as the days tick by—the first day of Thissys and Nour’s send-off ceremony growing ever closer—you find yourself growing increasingly agitated. [[Continue|Chp1-3.7SamRoom]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7Desperate") <= 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $secondarypersonality to "manipulative">>\ <<set $secondarypersonalitynum to $manipulative>>\ <<if $sincere > $secondarypersonalitynum>>\ <<set $secondarypersonality to "sincere">>\ <<set $secondarypersonalitynum to $sincere>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $aloof > $secondarypersonalitynum>>\ <<set $secondarypersonality to "aloof">>\ <<set $secondarypersonalitynum to $aloof>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $secondarypersonality is "sincere">>\ You refuse to leave when instructed to and—swallowing your pride—you resort to pleading with the guards. Desperation erases any shame you might have felt in doing so, but even your earnest imploring does nothing to move them. <<elseif $secondarypersonality is "aloof">>\ You refuse to leave when instructed to and—swallowing your pride—you resort to pleading with the guards, emotion shining through the cracks in your usual composure. Desperation erases any shame you might have felt in doing so, but even your earnest imploring does nothing to move them. <<else>>\ You refuse to leave when instructed to and—summoning your best crocodile tears—you resort to pleading with the guards, grasping at any lead in their personal lives that might tug on their heartstrings. However, even your lauded acting does nothing to move them. <<endif>>\ You don’t see much of Nour, either. Nothing beyond fleeting glimpses as $they flit<<s>> by in a hurry—too busy with preparations for $their departure for a proper greeting—an apologetic smile on $their face, one that feels too forced to be entirely casual, and Zain always following closely behind. You aren’t even sure what exactly you would say to your $sibling if you caught a moment alone with $them. Your breath catches in your throat each time you see $them and you are left quietly floundering for air long after $they <<are>> already gone. And, as the days tick by—the first day of Thissys and Nour’s send-off ceremony growing ever closer—you find yourself growing increasingly agitated. [[Continue|Chp1-3.7SamRoom]]

After being turned away again at your father’s door left you in a sour mood, you had resolved to spend the rest of the evening shut away in your quarters with the curtains drawn tightly closed, sulking and working through your neglected and ever-growing stack of paperwork and correspondence by the dim flickering light of a candle, but Samira evidently had other ideas. Having dismissed Aurynn earlier that afternoon as he had been in one of his spacey moods and you figured he could use an evening off, Samira had agreed to take over his duties for the rest of the evening, stubbornly ignoring your protests that the palace guard detail assigned to you was plenty capable of watching out for you in your retainer’s absence and she really needn’t bother. Her concern wasn’t over your //protection,// she’d chastised you, and refused to elaborate when you’d looked confused. You were now beginning to realize what she had meant by that. “Why don’t you get out of this room for a bit? Take a turn about the garden,” she says. You shake your head. “I have work to do.” “You can do your work outside.” “There are far fewer distractions in here,” you say, settling down cross-legged at the low tea table in the center of your room, a formidable array of envelopes splayed out before you. The small vial of dried Celestyl’s Slumber Samira had given you lies discarded on the floor beside the table—you had been stewing in ruminative silence with the bottle clutched between your fingers right before Samira had knocked at your door, startling you from your thoughts and sending the bottle clattering to the floor. Now, you glance at the vial of amethyst petals, brow furrowed. It’s probably a bad idea. //Definitely// a bad idea, as Luca had ardently agreed, but you were beginning to run out of options. ‘//A last resort only,’// you had promised $lucathem. Samira’s gaze flickers your way, but if she notices you sweep the vial aside and out of sight, she says nothing. You gesture to a cabinet on the far side of your room, next to the wardrobe. “Would you fetch me a quill from the top right drawer there? Then you may take the rest of the evening for yourself. Please shut the door on your way out.” Samira narrows her eyes at you, but moves to do as you ask. She stands over you and holds out the quill. “Thank you,” you mumble—more as an after-thought—as you take it from her outstretched fingers. She hums noncommittally, then glances over the spread of papers atop the table. “Why, you’ve so much clutter in here, Your Highness,” she says. “Why don’t I take care of it for you?” Without waiting for your reply, she sweeps the stack of envelopes into her arms and disappears through your bedroom door before you even have a chance to splutter out an affronted protest at her nerve. You are left with no choice but to follow after her. And so it is such that you find yourself hunched over a bench beneath a hot afternoon sun, penning letters beneath the light-dappled shade of a sprightly olive tree, its twisting spiraled trunk stretching into a canopy of bursting jade-green leaves and providing a much-needed reprieve from the heat of the late afternoon. Samira offers to handle replying to the more menial letters—those which need only a polite refusal or an expression of gratitude as response—while you handle the rest, among them such things as investment proposals and pleas for refortifications and resources. You are also supposed to be going over your preferences for the plans regarding your upcoming coronation. Your mother had the plans and expenditure sheets dropped off to you this morning, much to your chagrin. <div class="choice">[[Though you don’t want to, you’ll deal with them yourself. It will make things easier for your family if some of the work is done before Thissys. For Nour especially, you hope. Besides, you already feel guilty that Samira is taking over a portion of your duties already.|Chp1-3.7Letters]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Though you don’t want to, you’ll deal with them yourself. It will make things easier for your family if some of the work is done before Thissys. For Nour especially, you hope. Besides, while you’re grateful for Samira’s help, it’s your work so you should be the one to do it.|Chp1-3.7Letters]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You hand them to Samira. You don’t much care what she chooses—you just don’t want to think about the coronation.|Chp1-3.7LettersSam]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You hand them to Samira. Thinking about the coronation only serves to make you even more embittered, and you are already in a sour mood as is.|Chp1-3.7LettersSam]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You hand them to Samira. Thinking about the coronation only serves to make your chest tight with grief, and you don’t want to lose your composure right now. You haven’t the time for that.|Chp1-3.7LettersSam]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You stuff them at the back of your stack. You won’t be filling them out.|Chp1-3.7Letters]]</div>

You work mostly in silence, with only the occasional spark of idle chatter. Your mind is too preoccupied for any deeper conversation. “Will you be going home for Thissys?” you ask absently. You assume she means to visit her younger brothers and her father. She had seemed eager to spend the holiday with them—and had already shown you the dried flower crowns she’d woven for them as gifts—but you realize Samira has not yet informed you of her plans. It is unlike her. She pauses in her work, lifting her quill so as not to splotch the page and mar her elegant script with ink. You feel her glance your way from the corners of your eyes. Her stare is unnerving, almost. Scrutinizing. Finally, she looks away and squares her shoulders. “...Not this year,” she says after a pause. You do not miss the hint of solemn resignation and quiet conviction in her tone, but she elaborates no further and so you do not press her. “Then—you’ll be in attendance at my $sibling’s send-off ceremony?” “I will.” "Will your family be coming? I've still yet to meet them. The priesthood's immediate family members are invited to attend the early festivities before my father announces Nour's departure, if you did not hear. That includes all the acolytes." She shifts uncomfortably on the bench and sits a little stiffer. "No, I'm afraid they won't be attending." You glance sidelong at her. "Oh. Are...they well?" "They are fine. They simply have other plans." "Without you?" "I visited them yesterday to celebrate the first of Thissys instead." You pause. "Is...is this about the other priestesses in your cohort? If you're worried about how they'll treat your family, I—" "It's not," she says, albeit a bit too abruptly. Despite her words, a frown tugs at her lips, but when she glances at you, her expression softens, replaced with something more akin to...concern, perhaps, though you cannot be certain of the reason for it. Some question hangs behind her warm brown eyes, one meant for you but one she does not give voice to, and you shift under her stare—it is penetrating, almost like she can see through you, into you, and you wonder for a brief moment if she can, through some aspect of your blood bond. Your hand unconsciously drifts to your $sigil, but the sigil there remains quiet and inactive. You acquiesce a tight nod instead, tapping your index finger against the corner of an envelope as you chew the inside of your cheek. Unspoken words lie heavy on your own tongue, but hesitation seals your lips. You can feel Samira studying you from the corners of your eyes, but after a charged moment, you angle your head away and continue working in silence. The sun is beginning to sink below the horizon when you finally stretch and straighten, massaging your temples. Words are beginning to blur together, and you find yourself re-reading the same line over and over. You sink back with a small sigh, willing yourself to refocus. As you sort through your dwindling stack of unopened letters, an envelope catches your eye. You pluck it from the stack, turning it over in your hands. It is a delicate shade of lavender, the dark wax seal on the back marked with the puckered shape of a plump rose in full bloom. You frown. It isn’t a seal you recognize to be from any of Theia’s noble houses. Brow furrowed, you break the seal methodically, unfolding the crisp parchment with practiced fingers, eyes skimming over the elegant handwriting. //Rynn, I shall take your silence thus far as confirmation that you have been simply too busy to respond to even a single one of my letters and not as some petty act of willful ignorance on your part, for I know you would not in good conscience blatantly disregard each of numerous inquiries into your state of health and mind from your well-intentioned friend. I trust that this letter will find you swiftly and as tight-lipped as ever and will not languish away gathering dust at your desk—a fate I am certain none of my other letters to you ever shared, for you would, of course, never be so casually callous—not to me. But you are not quite so inattentive as to forget the Lady’s favorite flower, no? She bids me write you to tell you Mother misses you and to come visit. I have been tasked with making the necessary arrangements, of which I’m sure you’ll find thoroughly pleasant and familiar. Oh, and do be so good as to bring home a souvenir? Seeing as you’ve neglected to do so thus far, I can only assume you haven’t found anything quite so memorable in magnitude as to make for an appropriate favor for your ever-supportive friends, but six years should certainly have been plenty of time for you to find something //special//—and, dare I hope, agreeable? So I do hope you will not disappoint. Or need I remind you the sand in our hourglasses runs rapidly thin? See you soon, Your chary shepherd.// At the bottom of the page are three dried and pressed flowers—one a blackened, furling blossom; another, a small cluster of yellow buds; and the last, a skeletal web of what once must have been fluttering folds of twilight-purple petals, judging from the flakes of dried petal flesh still clinging to the flower’s veins, arched like delicate, butterfly wings. Samira glances over your shoulder, the flowers having drawn her eyes. “What’s that?” <div class="choice">[[“I’m not sure.”|Chp1-3.7NotSure]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“It’s a letter from my admirer.” ♥|Chp1-3.7Admirer]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You are too wrapped up in your own thoughts to really process what she said, so you hum a vague response instead. “Hm?” ♥|Chp1-3.7Distracted]]</div>

<<set $gavesamcoronationpapers to true>>\ Samira takes them from you without any protest. When she asks you if you have any preferences regarding the decor or dining or other such arrangements, you simply give her a curt reply: “Whatever you see fit.” She nods and does not ask any more questions. You work mostly in silence, with only the occasional spark of idle chatter. Your mind is too preoccupied for any deeper conversation. “Will you be going home for Thissys?” you ask absently. You assume she means to visit her younger brothers and her father. She had seemed eager to spend the holiday with them—and had already shown you the dried flower crowns she’d woven for them as gifts—but you realize Samira has not yet informed you of her plans. It is unlike her. She pauses in her work, lifting her quill so as not to splotch the page and mar her elegant script with ink. You feel her glance your way from the corners of your eyes. Her stare is unnerving, almost. Scrutinizing. Finally, she looks away and squares her shoulders. “...Not this year,” she says after a pause. You do not miss the hint of solemn resignation and quiet conviction in her tone, but she elaborates no further and so you do not press her. “Then—you’ll be in attendance at my $sibling’s send-off ceremony?” “I will.” "Will your family be coming? I've still yet to meet them. The priesthood's immediate family members are invited to attend the early festivities before my father announces Nour's departure, if you did not hear. That includes all the acolytes." She shifts uncomfortably on the bench and sits a little stiffer. "No, I'm afraid they won't be attending." You glance sidelong at her. "Oh. Are...they well?" "They are fine. They simply have other plans." "Without you?" "I visited them yesterday to celebrate the first of Thissys instead." You pause. "Is...is this about the other priestesses in your cohort? If you're worried about how they'll treat your family, I—" "It's not," she says, albeit a bit too abruptly. Despite her words, a frown tugs at her lips, but when she glances at you, her expression softens, replaced with something more akin to...concern, perhaps, though you cannot be certain of the reason for it. Some question hangs behind her warm brown eyes, one meant for you but one she does not give voice to, and you shift under her stare—it is penetrating, almost like she can see through you, into you, and you wonder for a brief moment if she can, through some aspect of your blood bond. Your hand unconsciously drifts to your $sigil, but the sigil there remains quiet and inactive. You acquiesce a tight nod instead, tapping your index finger against the corner of an envelope as you chew the inside of your cheek. Unspoken words lie heavy on your own tongue, but hesitation seals your lips. You can feel Samira studying you from the corners of your eyes, but after a charged moment, you angle your head away and continue working in silence. The sun is beginning to sink below the horizon when you finally stretch and straighten, massaging your temples. Words are beginning to blur together, and you find yourself re-reading the same line over and over. You sink back with a small sigh, willing yourself to refocus. As you sort through your dwindling stack of unopened letters, an envelope catches your eye. You pluck it from the stack, turning it over in your hands. It is a delicate shade of lavender, the dark wax seal on the back marked with the puckered shape of a plump rose in full bloom. You frown. It isn’t a seal you recognize to be from any of Theia’s noble houses. Brow furrowed, you break the seal methodically, unfolding the crisp parchment with practiced fingers, eyes skimming over the elegant handwriting. //Rynn, I shall take your silence thus far as confirmation that you have been simply too busy to respond to even a single one of my letters and not as some petty act of willful ignorance on your part, for I know you would not in good conscience blatantly disregard each of numerous inquiries into your state of health and mind from your well-intentioned friend. I trust that this letter will find you swiftly and as tight-lipped as ever and will not languish away gathering dust at your desk—a fate I am certain none of my other letters to you ever shared, for you would, of course, never be so casually callous—not to me. But you are not quite so inattentive as to forget the Lady’s favorite flower, no? She bids me write you to tell you Mother misses you and to come visit. I have been tasked with making the necessary arrangements, of which I’m sure you’ll find thoroughly pleasant and familiar. Oh, and do be so good as to bring home a souvenir? Seeing as you’ve neglected to do so thus far, I can only assume you haven’t found anything quite so memorable in magnitude as to make for an appropriate favor for your ever-supportive friends, but six years should certainly have been plenty of time for you to find something //special//—and, dare I hope, agreeable? So I do hope you will not disappoint. Or need I remind you the sand in our hourglasses runs rapidly thin? See you soon, Your chary shepherd.// At the bottom of the page are three dried and pressed flowers—one a blackened, furling blossom; another, a small cluster of yellow buds; and the last, a skeletal web of what once must have been fluttering folds of twilight-purple petals, judging from the flakes of dried petal flesh still clinging to the flower’s veins, arched like delicate, butterfly wings. Samira glances over your shoulder, the flowers having drawn her eyes. “What’s that?” <div class="choice">[[“I’m not sure.”|Chp1-3.7NotSure]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“It’s a letter from my admirer.” ♥|Chp1-3.7Admirer]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You are too wrapped up in your own thoughts to really process what she said, so you hum a vague response instead. “Hm?” ♥|Chp1-3.7Distracted]]</div>

You pore over the penmanship with a squint. //’Rynn?’// You shake your head. “I’m not sure,” you say. “It’s addressed to a ‘Rynn.’ Aurynn, perhaps? I wonder if his mail got mixed in with mine by mistake.” You flip the letter back over—sure enough, the address line is marked out to an ‘Aurynn Anouar.’ <<cycle "$chp1guilty" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__You feel a bit guilty now, having read a personal letter of his—one from a friend and regarding family, or so it seems, judging from the contents.__''" "guilty">> <<option "''__Perhaps you should feel a bit guilty now, having read a personal letter of his—one from a friend and regarding family, or so it seems, judging from the contents, but you are more piqued by curiosity and puzzlement than anything to feel suitably ashamed.__''" "unashamed">> <</cycle>> Rereading the last line, you hum a low, pensive sound to yourself. It is an oddly ominous way to end a mostly innocuous-sounding letter. You flip the envelope back over, examining the rose seal with a thoughtful twist of your lips. It certainly isn’t the signet of House Sunspirit—the offshoot from which Aurynn hails. Samira’s stolid stare flickers again over the flowers pressed to the bottom of the parchment and she pauses, her quill hovering over her parchment, eyes narrowing as a frown tugs heavy at her lips. “Hm. I don’t suppose Aurynn’s gotten on someone’s bad side lately?” “It wouldn’t be unlikely. When has he not?” you hum, turning to her. “Why do you ask?” She scrutinizes the letter in your hands a moment more, the lines of her thick brows corded tight and serious as her eyes skim over the penmanship, then she shakes her head and shuffles her stack of papers, shifting in her seat. “Merely a curious arrangement of flowers, I suppose. These are almost all finished,” she says, gesturing to her bundle of envelopes. “I can handle the rest, should you need a break. A turn about the palace would likely do you some good. And should your stroll take you past the library, you could kindly return Aurynn’s letter to him. Or, I may deliver the letter to him for you later, be that your preference, Your Highness.” Your gaze drops back down to the letter clutched between your fingers. <div class="choice">[[Ask her about the flowers.|Chp1-3.7AskFlower]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Take a break and find Aurynn to return his letter to him. You don’t want to pry further into his personal business than you already have.|Chp1-3.7FindAurynn]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You insist on finishing your work by yourself and dismiss her from her duties, leaving her with Aurynn’s letter so she may return it to him.|Chp1-3.7FinishWork]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7Admirer") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedSam to $flirtedSam + 1>>\ <</if>>\ She quirks a brow, her stolid stare flickering over the parchment again. You can tell she doesn’t believe you, but she plays along anyway. “Is that so?” she muses. “Your admirer has an…//odd// way of expressing their interest in you.” “Oh? Is it the flowers? Too cliché? Should I demand a far more grand gesture next time?” “If you are high-maintenance, I suppose.” “Alright, then. What would you do? If you were my admirer?” “But I am not.” “But you disapprove. Would you not send me flowers?” “I never said I took offense to the notion of sending someone flowers.” “Then is it the choice in blooms? What flowers would you send me instead? If you were my admirer?” She turns to fix you with those dark brown eyes, hooded beneath the length of her lashes, her expression inscrutable. She is quiet for a pause, and you almost think she will refuse to entertain your hypothetical question, but finally she speaks. “<<cycle "$favflower" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__Ocotillo.__''" "ocotillo">> <<option "''__Lavender.__''" "lavender">> <<option "''__Yucca.__''" "yucca">> <<option "''__Sunflowers.__''" "sunflowers">> <<option "''__Lotus.__''" "lotus">> <<option "''__Celosia.__''" "celosia">> <<option "''__Striped lilies.__''" "striped lilies">> <<option "''__Starcluster.__''" "starclusters">> <<option "''__Poppies.__''" "poppies">> <<option "''__Marigolds.__''" "marigolds">> <<option "''__Saffron crocus.__''" "saffron crocus">> <<option "''__Desert Lupine.__''" "desert lupine">> <<option "''__None—you do not like flowers.__''" "dislike">> <</cycle>>” [[Continue|Chp1-3.7Admirer2]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7Distracted") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedSam to $flirtedSam + 1>>\ <</if>>\ She leans in a bit closer, her braids slipping over her shoulder and brushing against your arm as she reaches across you to point at the letter. Though she takes care to avoid directly touching your hands, you tense up, startled, and move your thumb further up the page. She glances at you in askance, her dark-eyed gaze intense, then pulls away. “Who’s that from?” You clear your throat discreetly and shift in your seat. You can still feel her eyes on you as you pore over the penmanship with a squint. You shake your head. “I’m not sure,” you say. “It’s addressed to a ‘Rynn.’ Aurynn, perhaps? I wonder if his mail got mixed in with mine by mistake.” You flip the letter back over—sure enough, the address line is marked out to an ‘Aurynn Anouar.’ <<cycle "$chp1guilty" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__You feel a bit guilty now, having read a personal letter of his—one from a friend and regarding family, or so it seems, judging from the contents.__''" "guilty">> <<option "''__Perhaps you should feel a bit guilty now, having read a personal letter of his—one from a friend and regarding family, or so it seems, judging from the contents, but you are more piqued by curiosity and puzzlement than anything to feel suitably ashamed.__''" "unashamed">> <</cycle>> Rereading the last line, you hum a low, pensive sound to yourself. It is an oddly ominous way to end a mostly innocuous-sounding letter. You flip the envelope back over, examining the rose seal with a thoughtful twist of your lips. It certainly isn’t the signet of House Sunspirit—the offshoot from which Aurynn hails. Samira’s stolid stare flickers again over the flowers pressed to the bottom of the parchment and she pauses, her quill hovering over her parchment, eyes narrowing as a frown tugs heavy at her lips. “Hm. I don’t suppose Aurynn’s gotten on someone’s bad side lately?” “It wouldn’t be unlikely. When has he not?” you hum, turning to her. “Why do you ask?” She scrutinizes the letter in your hands a moment more, the lines of her thick brows corded tight and serious as her eyes skim over the penmanship, then she shakes her head and shuffles her stack of papers, shifting in her seat. “Merely a curious arrangement of flowers, I suppose. These are almost all finished,” she says, gesturing to her bundle of envelopes. “I can handle the rest, should you need a break. A turn about the palace would likely do you some good. And should your stroll take you past the library, you could kindly return Aurynn’s letter to him. Or, I may deliver the letter to him for you later, be that your preference, Your Highness.” Your gaze drops back down to the letter clutched between your fingers. <div class="choice">[[Ask her about the flowers.|Chp1-3.7AskFlower]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Take a break and find Aurynn to return his letter to him. You don’t want to pry further into his personal business than you already have.|Chp1-3.7FindAurynn]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You insist on finishing your work by yourself and dismiss her from her duties, leaving her with Aurynn’s letter so she may return it to him.|Chp1-3.7FinishWork]]</div>

<<set $Favflower to $favflower.toUpperFirst()>>\ <<if not ($favflower is "dislike")>>\ //$Favflower.// Your favorite. <<endif>>\ You blink. “Ah. You noticed?” <<if $favflower is "celosia">>\ “Of course,” she says, as though it should come as no surprise. “You like having it in your tea on special occasions.” She pauses and glances at you uncertainly. “It…//is// your favorite, isn’t it?” You nod, a soft, sad smile ghosting over your lips. Memories of strolling along the Thiss with your family play through your mind, the spicy scent of celosia in the air—and your siblings, young and happy. It feels like something from a dream. “It is,” you agree. <<elseif $favflower is "desert lupine">>\ “Of course,” she says, as though it should come as no surprise. She pauses uncertainly and glances at you. “It…//is// your favorite, isn’t it?” “It is,” you agree. “Why?” “It’s just…you always look so…//sad//…when you are looking at lupines.” “Oh,” you say quietly. “They just remind me of someone, is all.” Your heart twangs at a memory sitting with your oldest friend from so long ago—Luca Lupine—both of you children, tucked away among a bed of desert lupines and marigolds and playing mancala with pebbles and lines scratched through the dirt. She stares at you for a moment, then nods and looks away. <<elseif $favflower is "lotus">>\ “Of course,” she says, as though it should come as no surprise. “You like watching them float down the Thiss.” <<elseif $favflower is "dislike">>\ “Of course,” she says, as though it should come as no surprise. She pauses, hesitation on her tongue. “You…grew sick of them.” She says nothing more on it, but those unspoken words hang in the air between you. You nod tightly. The smell of burning lavender and wildflowers during your siblings’ funeral pyres haunts you still. <<elseif $favflower is "saffron crocus">>\ “Of course,” she says, as though it should come as no surprise. “Your balcony window overlooks a bed of saffron crocus. You like the smell carried in over the breeze.” <<elseif $favflower is "ocotillo">>\ “Of course,” she says, as though it should come as no surprise. “You said once the flowers made the tips of the shrub look as though they were catching fire. You asked me if I thought it was lovely, too.” “Oh,” you say, surprised she remembered. You don’t recall the occasion. “...Did you?” She glances at you, and her gaze lingers over your face before her stare flits away. “...Yes,” she says softly. <<elseif $favflower is "lavender">>\ “Of course,” she says, as though it should come as no surprise. “You love the smell. You always keep some hanging in your room.” She smiles soft and sad. “My Pa used to love the smell of lavender, too.” <<elseif $favflower is "yucca">>\ “Of course,” she says, as though it should come as no surprise. “You’re always craning your neck up to look at them. You look like a heron when you do.” You scoff and her lips quirk into a small smile. “They do tend to have that effect, no? I used to think those spills of lily-white bells some sort of apparition or spirit surely as a girl—some lovely nymph with fluttering white hair sprouting tall from that bed of lotus-like leaves.” <<elseif $favflower is "sunflowers">>\ “Of course,” she says, as though it should come as no surprise. “Sometimes, when you think no one is looking, you chase the sun’s warmth with your face upturned. Just like a sunflower.” <<elseif ($favflower is "striped lilies") or ($favflower is "starclusters")>>\ “Of course,” she says, as though it should come as no surprise. She pauses and glances at you uncertainly. “They…//are// your favorite, isn’t it?” You nod, a soft, sad smile ghosting over your lips. Memories of strolling along the Thiss—dotted with sprays of $favflower—with your family play through your mind, the spicy scent of celosia in the air—and your siblings, young and happy. It feels like something from a dream. “They are,” you agree. <<else>>\ “Of course,” she says, as though it should come as no surprise. “Sometimes Farah asks me to come pick some with her to leave in your room. I hope they were able to brighten your day, if only a little.” You offer her a soft smile. So //that’s// who has been leaving bouquets in your room. “They did.” <<endif>>\ You clear your throat discreetly. You had mostly been simply teasing with the question, but her serious answer renders you somewhat sheepish. You redirect your attention back to the letter in your hand instead, poring over the penmanship with a squint. //’Rynn?’// You shake your head. “The admirer isn’t mine this time,” you say. “It’s addressed to a ‘Rynn.’ Aurynn, perhaps? I wonder if his mail got mixed in with mine by mistake.” You flip the letter back over—sure enough, the address line is marked out to an ‘Aurynn Anouar.’ <<cycle "$chp1guilty" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__You feel a bit guilty now, having read a personal letter of his—one from a friend and regarding family, or so it seems, judging from the contents.__''" "guilty">> <<option "''__Perhaps you should feel a bit guilty now, having read a personal letter of his—one from a friend and regarding family, or so it seems, judging from the contents, but you are more piqued by curiosity and puzzlement than anything to feel suitably ashamed.__''" "unashamed">> <</cycle>> Rereading the last line, you hum a low, pensive sound to yourself. It is an oddly ominous way to end a mostly innocuous-sounding letter. You flip the envelope back over, examining the rose seal with a thoughtful twist of your lips. It certainly isn’t the signet of House Sunspirit—the offshoot from which Aurynn hails. Samira scrutinizes the letter in your hands for a moment, the lines of her thick brows corded tight and serious as her eyes skim over the penmanship, then she shakes her head and shuffles her stack of papers, shifting in her seat. “Hm. Well, in any case, these are almost all finished,” Samira says, gesturing to her bundle of envelopes. “I can handle the rest, should you need a break. A turn about the palace would likely do you some good. And should your stroll take you past the library, you could kindly return Aurynn’s letter to him. Or, I may deliver the letter to him for you later, be that your preference, Your Highness.” Your gaze drops back down to the letter clutched between your fingers. <div class="choice">[[Ask her about the flowers.|Chp1-3.7AskFlowerFlirted]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Take a break and find Aurynn to return his letter to him. You don’t want to pry further into his personal business than you already have.|Chp1-3.7FindAurynn]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You insist on finishing your work by yourself and dismiss her from her duties, leaving her with Aurynn’s letter so she may return it to him.|Chp1-3.7FinishWork]]</div>

<<set $chp1askedsamaurynnflowers to true>>\ You start to tuck the letter back within its lavender envelope when you pause, your thumb brushing over the dried petals pressed to the fine paper. You glance at Samira inquisitively. “You never did explain what it is about the letter you find so…’odd,’” you say. “Well,” she says as she inhales, her lips twisting with a thoughtful quirk. “I wouldn’t think to send someone I particularly //liked// one of the most poisonous plants in the world. Seems a touch counter-intuitive. Though I suppose it all depends on one’s tastes.” You arch a brow, eyes going wide. She reaches across you and taps the feathered tip of her quill to the skeletal purple flower. “Furthermore, that specimen is native to Starfell. In fact, none of these are blooms you would readily find in the grasslands of Sunniya, over which House Sunspirit presides. Nor anywhere else in Theia, for that matter. Those other two—” she gestures to the black and yellow blooms, “—are native to Celestyl. I suppose it wouldn’t be entirely unimaginable to find either the aconite or the iris in a noble’s greenhouse—they are fond of their exotic beauties—though, I can’t quite see a Theian noble finding anything overly extravagant about golden yarrow. It is as mundane as any wildflower.” She taps her index finger twice to the innocuous cluster of bright maize-yellow flowerlets. “It has its medicinal uses, sure, but none that could not easily be substituted by many common Theian wildflowers. Regardless…though it’s written in our native Solaran, I don’t recognize the signet embossed in the seal. It looks foreign.” She looks meaningfully at you, as if aware you must have noticed it too. <<if $toldaurynnnoforbook is false>>\ You recall Aurynn mentioning staying with a distant relative of his parents’ for a while in Celestyl when he was younger. You wonder if perhaps this ‘shepherd’ is a friend from his time there. Perhaps then, the mother ‘shepherd’ mentions is not Aurynn’s mother, but rather the relative he stayed with in Celestyl? <<endif>>\ Brushing a hand beneath the flare of her hood, her thread-laced braids glittering as they shift over the amethyst robes at her chest, Samira acquiesces a small shrug, pursing her lips. “Perhaps those flowers have some personal significance to Aurynn and his correspondent. I know there are a great many symbolic meanings tied to certain flowers and their color variations, though I must admit I’m unfamiliar with them. I’m more acquainted with their practical uses.” <div class="choice">[[Ask about the black flower.|Chp1-3.7black]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Ask about the yellow flower.|Chp1-3.7yellow]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Ask about the purple flower.|Chp1-3.7purple]]</div>

<<set $chp1findaurynnvault to true>>\ You stand and dust off your $clothes, squinting as you raise a hand to shield your brow against the glare of the setting sun. “I suppose I’ll take you up on that walk about the palace,” you say. You could not focus on reading letters anymore if you tried. “You don’t have to finish my work for me, you know. You should take the rest of the evening for yourself.” <<if ($gavesamcoronationpapers is true) and ($sibling is "brother")>>\ She waves dismissively, gathering up your stack of letters and adding them to her pile. “As I said—most of these are nearly finished. I won’t be able to hope to finish the coronation plans by tonight, but I’ve made some headway on them and I hope they’ll be to your b—er, to your liking. I won’t be much longer.” She makes a shooing motion with her hand. “Go on, now, Your Highness. Shoo shoo.” <<elseif $gavesamcoronationpapers is false>>\ She waves dismissively, gathering up your stack of letters and adding them to her pile. “As I said—these are nearly finished. I won’t be long.” She makes a shooing motion with her hand. “Go on, now, Your Highness. Shoo shoo.” <<else>>\ She waves dismissively, gathering up your stack of letters and adding them to her pile. “As I said—most of these are nearly finished. I won’t be able to hope to finish the coronation plans by tonight, but I’ve made some headway on them and I hope they’ll be to your s—er, to your liking. I won’t be much longer.” She makes a shooing motion with her hand. “Go on, now, Your Highness. Shoo shoo.” <<endif>>\ “Ah—” you open your mouth to protest her casual dismissal of you almost out of prideful reflex, as though she were simply driving off some small harmless animal and not her patron $title, but after a moment you sagely decide not to press the issue. If the bemused lilt to her lips is any giveaway, she is simply teasing you. You fold Aurynn’s letter and tuck it back into its envelope. “Right, then. I’ll be off,” you say. “...Thank you. For your help.” She glances up at you, her eyes taking on a softer, more genuine look—one filled with subdued concern. “Of course,” she hums. “Take your time.” [[Continue|Chp1-3.7Vault]]

You fold Aurynn’s letter and tuck it back into its envelope, holding it out to her between two outstretched fingers. She glances at it wordlessly and raises an eyebrow. “I’ll finish the rest of this,” you say, taking the stack of papers from her lap. “It’s getting late. You should be on your way. Would you mind returning Aurynn’s letter to him, when you next see him? And if you should need an escort to your chambers, I can arrange one for you.” Your tone leaves little room for argument, and you cross your legs, setting quill to parchment again to further emphasize your intent to complete the rest of your work by yourself. Samira frowns. She looks ready to protest, but after several moments of silence, she finally stands, taking Aurynn’s letter from your fingers. “No need,” she says. “Good night, Your Highness.” You bid her the same and she leaves with a bow. You do not leave the garden until the sun has sunk low beneath the horizon, leaving you without the light to read by. You retire to your room but cannot sleep, kept awake by worry gnawing low in your gut as you sit hunched over your tea table, rolling the vial of Celestyl’s Slumber through your fingers until morning filters in once more through the slits in your curtains. One more day. [[Continue|Chp1-3.8Chp1Pt4Start]]

<<set $chp1askedsamaurynnflowers to true>>\ You start to tuck the letter back within its lavender envelope when you pause, your thumb brushing over the dried petals pressed to the fine paper. You glance at Samira inquisitively. “What makes it an odd arrangement of flowers?” She does not answer immediately; her head tips to the side, as if in rumination, her hands deliberate and purposeful in their organizing of her stack of letters into a neat pile. She sets it atop her lap and angles her head toward you. “It is mostly this one—” she taps the feathered tip of her quill to the skeletal purple flower, “—which made me wonder if perhaps his letter’s author was upset with Aurynn. It’s…well. It’s an extremely poisonous specimen.” You arch a brow. Samira rolls one of her braids between her fingers, pursing her lips. “Furthermore, that specimen is native to Starfell. In fact, none of these are blooms you would readily find in the grasslands of Sunniya, over which House Sunspirit presides. Nor anywhere else in Theia, for that matter. Those other two—” she gestures to the black and yellow blooms, “—are native to Celestyl. I suppose it wouldn’t be entirely unimaginable to find either the aconite or the iris in a noble’s greenhouse—they are fond of their exotic beauties—though, I can’t quite see a Theian noble finding anything overly extravagant about golden yarrow. It is as mundane as any wildflower.” She taps her index finger twice to the innocuous cluster of bright maize-yellow flowerlets. “It has its medicinal uses, sure, but none that could not easily be substituted by many common Theian wildflowers. Regardless…though it’s written in our native Solaran, I don’t recognize the signet embossed in the seal. It looks foreign.” She looks meaningfully at you, as if aware you must have noticed it too. <<if $toldaurynnnoforbook is false>>\ You recall Aurynn mentioning staying with a distant relative of his parents’ for a while in Celestyl when he was younger. You wonder if perhaps this ‘shepherd’ is a friend from his time there. Perhaps then, the mother ‘shepherd’ mentions is not Aurynn’s mother, but rather the relative he stayed with in Celestyl? <<endif>>\ Brushing a hand beneath the flare of her hood, her thread-laced braids glittering as they shift over the amethyst robes at her chest, Samira acquiesces a small shrug, pursing her lips. “Perhaps those flowers have some personal significance to Aurynn and his correspondent. I know there are a great many symbolic meanings tied to certain flowers and their color variations, though I must admit I’m unfamiliar with them. I’m more acquainted with their practical uses.” <div class="choice">[[Ask about the black flower.|Chp1-3.7black]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Ask about the yellow flower.|Chp1-3.7yellow]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Ask about the purple flower.|Chp1-3.7purple]]</div>

<<set $askflowercount to $askflowercount + 1>>\ You point to the ruffled black flower, its frilled tips tinged a luxurious shade of violet. “You said this one is native to Celestyl? What is it?” “Bearded iris,” she says. “The Blackwater variety.” You hum a contemplative sound to yourself. “What do you know about it?” “Well, you’ll mostly find iris used in making things like medicines, poultices and dyes. Some varieties of bearded and sweet iris roots are used in making orris root, used most commonly in perfumery. It has a soft, powdery, violet-like scent. Earthy. I hear it’s quite popular among the nobility in Celestyl. Or—what’s left of them, anyway.” Your lips twinge briefly in distaste at the mention of the Lunar King’s coup, but your expression schools a moment later. You've little idea as to whether the iris carries any significance beyond mere decoration either in the letter or in Celestyl. You are only familiar with iris as far as its use in funerals go. You've never thought a flower more hideously haunting than those iris mariae—all lined up among lantanas and white water-lilies and other wildflowers along your siblings' funeral pyres—with their flesh-like petals, the inside stained a vicious, dark, reddish black. Bloodied, as though it had been stuck through with an arrow. They were supposed to give sight to the dead, that they might see again on the otherside, even when their eyes here remained closed. The iris. <<if $askflowercount >= 3>>\ <div class="choice">[[Leave to find Aurynn.|Chp1-3.7FindAurynn]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You insist on finishing your work by yourself and dismiss her from her duties, leaving her with Aurynn’s letter so she may return it to him.|Chp1-3.7FinishWork]]</div> <<else>>\ <div class="choice">[[Ask about the yellow flower.|Chp1-3.7yellow]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Ask about the purple flower.|Chp1-3.7purple]]</div> <<endif>>\

<<set $askflowercount to $askflowercount + 1>>\ You brush the tip of your index finger over the lively yellow blossoms. “You called this golden yarrow?” “Mm,” she nods. “A common wildflower, as I mentioned. Yarrow finds its uses in medicine and poultice-making, mostly. It helps with ailments such as stomach cramps, among other things. The roots can also be applied as a topical anesthetic.” “You said it’s native to Celestyl?” “Sure,” she says with a shrug, her tone mild. “Grows extensively there—abundant just about everywhere. Or so I’ve read.” She cocks her head to the side. “I think I recall hearing they’ve an entire festival dedicated to wildflowers in the summertime. In Celestyl. The mountainsides turn white and gold with yarrow, purple and indigo with stalks of lupines—meadows filled with swaying bluegrass and all manner of wildflowers as far as the eye can see. I imagine it must be gorgeous. Oh—and they brew ale from dried yarrow stems and blossoms and make other dishes highlighting Celestylian wildflowers. Sounds sort of like Antherys.” You press your lips together. “It does kind of sound like Antherys,” you admit. Antherys—that festival after Thissys, the flooding of the Thiss, when the waters fall again and the banks of the River Thiss—rich with fertile mud—burst into a wild spray of color, the river’s edge dotted with striped lilies and butterfly-laden starclusters and vibrant, feathery, plumed cockscomb. Those were always Parim’s favorite. You remember strolling down the river’s bank to the jaunty clang of sistrums and the silvery song of ney flutes, hanging from Parim’s and Aurora’s arms. Behind you, Ember and Luca would attempt to trip each other into the river while Castor and Nour looked on with faint disapproval and resignation respectively. And behind you, your mothers followed suit, each staunchly avoiding the other, their chins held high and their eyes narrowed balefully at one another. Your older siblings led you from stall to stall while you snacked on fried celosia leaves and teacakes, the streets packed with vendors hawking brightly colored clothing and jewelry and fragrant, spiced street food at passersby. You swallow and turn away. <<if $askflowercount >= 3>>\ <div class="choice">[[Leave to find Aurynn.|Chp1-3.7FindAurynn]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You insist on finishing your work by yourself and dismiss her from her duties, leaving her with Aurynn’s letter so she may return it to him.|Chp1-3.7FinishWork]]</div> <<else>>\ <div class="choice">[[Ask about the black flower.|Chp1-3.7black]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Ask about the purple flower.|Chp1-3.7purple]]</div> <<endif>>\

<<set $askflowercount to $askflowercount + 1>>\ You point to those sinister, skeletal, purple petals. “You said this was poisonous. What is it?” Her brow furrows. “Aconite,” she answers. “Also known as monkshood, for its cowl-like shape. Or wolfsbane—a name derived from its use among hunters in Starfell. They would tip their arrows in a poison derived from the root of the plant and use them to slay wolves and frostwolves that strayed too close to their villages and livestock. In large enough doses, which need not be very large at all—far less than a scruple—it kills nearly instantly.” You frown. “Is it truly so dangerous?” She nods. “All parts of the plant are toxic. Symptoms of poisoning would appear within the hour if not immediately. And the toxins can be readily absorbed through the skin—in which case, the patient would forgo any such symptoms as nausea and vomiting for a tingling sensation at the point of absorption, which would rapidly spread, causing numbness followed by an attack on the heart. Multi-organ failure and death would follow swiftly. There is no cure. The only way to treat it—if one is quick enough and the dose is not fatal—is to treat the symptoms. Activated charcoal, for instance—if it is administered within an hour of ingestion. Or, I suppose magic might help a great deal as well, but...it isn’t something most people have access to.” She frowns. You subconsciously shift your thumb farther up the page and away from the pressed skeleton petals. “You don’t have to worry about touching it with your bare hands now,” she reassures you. “It has clearly been treated with a caustic solution to skeletonize the petals—it is hardly dangerous anymore. I assume whoever included the flower is familiar enough with the dangers of the plant to have handled it long enough to collect, treat, and press the specimen. Especially as they went to such cautious lengths as to remove the petal’s flesh, rather than simply drying it as they did the other two flowers.” “Should I be worried you are so familiar with lethal poisons?” You had only meant it in jest, but Samira—though it is very subtle—winces. Her brows draw together, as though wounded—or angry, you cannot quite tell. Her composure slips so seamlessly back into place, however, you think you must have surely imagined it. She waves a dismissive hand. “An understanding in poisons makes the foundation for an understanding in antidotes. Besides, poisonous plants often have their other uses. If you’re wondering why it is I am so acquainted with foreign poisons, it is simply an interest in flora.” She shrugs. “I suppose I just like reading about those plants I’ve never seen outside of illustrations before. Those otherworldly ones I couldn’t ever hope to grow myself—the ones that wouldn’t fare well in the heat of the desert.” “Remind me to show you Lady Helia’s greenhouse sometime. She keeps some weird-looking foreign plants in there. You’d like it, I think.” You tilt your head, appraising her. “You seem to know a great deal about drying flowers, beside that. Beyond mere practicality. You've done it before?” She nods after a moment. “Yes,” she says. “One of my fathers, my Pa—before he…before he //passed//…he taught me how to dry flowers and leaves. He would grow melancholic during the colder dry months when there was little color to the land. Said he liked having a bit of summer to keep with him. He’d string up yellow lantanas around the house, hang dried lavender, and press yucca bells to paper he’d use to write silly poems for my father. I used to make him flowers from rolled cypress and sycamore leaves in the autumn when he would begin to grow wistful; I’d spear them to the acacia trees outside as a girl. Pretend I was some nature spirit, bringing the springtime back to him.” A small, somber smile plays at her lips but it quickly fades as she shakes her head, replaced with a stoic frown. “Anyway, aside from being a lethal poison, aconite—if handled very carefully—sometimes finds its uses in making anesthetics. Ill-advised, in my opinion. There are far better substitutes.” <<if $askflowercount >= 3>>\ <div class="choice">[[Leave to find Aurynn.|Chp1-3.7FindAurynn]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You insist on finishing your work by yourself and dismiss her from her duties, leaving her with Aurynn’s letter so she may return it to him.|Chp1-3.7FinishWork]]</div> <<else>>\ <div class="choice">[[Ask about the black flower.|Chp1-3.7black]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Ask about the yellow flower.|Chp1-3.7yellow]]</div> <<endif>>\

The library vault is quiet when you enter, lit only by a few dim lanterns. The musk of old parchment and—though you know Master Aleksander ensures the vault is regularly and thoroughly cleaned—dust hangs heavy in the air. You wind past towering bookshelves filled with weathered tomes and bundles of scrolls, your light footsteps nearly soundless over the cold stone floor. You glance down each row of shelves, searching for that familiar head of flowing mahogany hair among them as you make your way towards the study area—a modest array of a few desks and chairs nestled in the back of the vault. Only one of them appears to have been recently occupied; a still burning lantern sits atop the wooden desk and the chair has been left haphazardly pushed out. You pause, frowning. Has he already left? You stand there in place for a moment, drumming your fingers against your thigh; though the room is deserted, the skin on the back of your neck prickles and you can’t shake the feeling you are being watched. <<if ($height is "tall") or ($height is "very tall")>>\ You resolve to scour the rest of the vault once more, but when you turn around, you nearly bump right into Aurynn’s chest. He stands before you, leaning at an angle against a bookcase with his left elbow propped against the shelf beside his head, amber eyes glinting sharp and cat-like. <<else>>\ You resolve to scour the rest of the vault once more, but when you turn around, you nearly bump right into Aurynn’s chest. He stands over you, leaning at an angle against a bookcase with his left elbow propped against the shelf beside his head, looking down at you, amber eyes glinting sharp and cat-like. <<endif>>\ He seems to take a quiet sort of satisfaction from your brief startlement, the corners of his lips quirking up just slightly—though something about his posture feels somewhat forced. Choreographed. “Need something?” he purrs. <<if $flirtedAurynn >= 3>>\ You take a hasty step backwards and clear your throat. A bundle of papers clutched within his other hand, which hangs loosely at his hip, draws your eye. Aurynn follows the movement and shifts his stance slightly, drawing his hand behind the curve of his thigh and leaning closer until he is almost nose-to-nose with you as he tilts his head. “$mcnickname?” he hums your name low and feathery. <<set $mainpersonality to "gentle">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $gentle>>\ <<if $confrontational > $mainpersonalitynum>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "confrontational">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $confrontational>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $dignified > $mainpersonalitynum>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "dignified">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $dignified>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $imposing > $mainpersonalitynum>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "imposing">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $imposing>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $charismatic > $mainpersonalitynum>>\ <<set $mainpersonality to "charismatic">>\ <<set $mainpersonalitynum to $charismatic>>\ <<endif>>\ <<if $mainpersonality is "confrontational">>\ When you don’t immediately respond, he leans in closer and you bristle, brandishing the lavender envelope in the tight space between you and thwacking it against his nose in emphasis. “Actually, I came to give you this,” you snap—albeit a bit too abruptly to be entirely casual—and press a firm hand to his chest to drive him back, holding out the letter between two outstretched fingers. “It’s for you.” <<elseif $mainpersonality is "gentle">>\ You blink. “Ah—right.” Your subsequent awkward cough has him narrowing his eyes in amusement, but before he has a chance to tease you, you brandish the lavender envelope, thwacking it lightly against his chest in emphasis. “Actually, I came to give you this,” you say, holding out the letter between two outstretched fingers. “It’s for you.” <<elseif ($mainpersonality is "dignified") or ($mainpersonality is "imposing")>>\ When you don’t immediately respond, he starts to lean in closer but with a quick flick of your wrist, you brandish the lavender envelope in the tight space between you and thwack it lightly against his nose in emphasis. “Actually, I came to give you this,” you say matter-of-factly, holding out the letter between two outstretched fingers. “It’s for you.” <<else>>\ When you don’t immediately respond, holding his stare instead, he starts to lean in closer—emboldened—but with a quick flick of your wrist, you brandish the lavender envelope in the tight space between you and thwack it playfully against his nose in emphasis. “Actually, I came to give you this,” you say matter-of-factly, holding out the letter between two outstretched fingers. “It’s for you.” <<endif>>\ <<else>>\ You take a hasty step backwards and clear your throat. A bundle of papers clutched within his other hand, which hangs loosely at his hip, draws your eye. Aurynn follows the movement and shifts his stance slightly, drawing his hand behind his waist and leaning in as he tilts his head, curious and expectant. “$mcnickname?” he hums. “Right—” you start, and with a quick flick of your wrist, you brandish the lavender envelope in the space between you and thwack it lightly against his chest in emphasis. “Actually, I came to give you this. It’s for you.” <<endif>>\ He glances boredly at the envelope and then raises an eyebrow. “What’s this?” he asks. “Not what I think it is, I hope.” <div class="choice">[[“Guess it depends. What do you think it is?” ♥|Chp1-3.7ThinkFlirt]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“What do you think it is?”|Chp1-3.7Think]]</div>

End of the current playable demo. Stay tuned for more updates! You can let me know about any issues, bugs, or thoughts by messaging me on <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/stygiansun-totaleclipse">Tumblr</a> or commenting on itch.io. I appreciate hearing your impressions, questions and any feedback to help me continue to improve the reading experience. :) Want early access to updates before public releases and access to exclusive side stories and art? You can join the <a href="https://www.patreon.com/c/FenofCattails">Patreon</a> or the <a href="https://ko-fi.com/fennyth">Ko-Fi!</a> Thanks so much for playing! :)

<<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 1>>\ "Guess it depends. What do you think it is?" “Not a heartfelt profession of your undying love for me all prettily penned out on paper, I hope,” he says. “A dusty vault is probably the most unsexy place I can think of for this sort of thing.” <div class="choice">[[“Only if you’ve a lack of imagination.” ♥|Chp1-3.7imagine]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Ah. Well. You’re in luck. It’s not.” ♥|Chp1-3.7inluck]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“In your dreams, perhaps.” ♥|Chp1-3.7dreamon]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“It isn’t.” ♥|Chp1-3.7no]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“I beg your pardon?” ♥|Chp1-3.7pardon]]</div>

You cock an eyebrow at him. "What do you think it is?" His brows pinch together as he regards the envelope warily, humming a low, discontented sound to himself. “It’s ah—not something the dowager Lady Dyra slipped to you, is it…?” <div class="choice">[[“Are you really going to refuse a letter from her Ladyship? Don’t be rude.”|Chp1-3.7rude]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“It’s not.”|Chp1-3.7shedidnt]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You cock an eyebrow at him, an unspoken question in your eyes.|Chp1-3.7unspoken]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7rude") <= 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative + 2>>\ <<notify>>+ Manipulative<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Are you really going to refuse a letter from her Ladyship?” you say. “Don’t be rude." “I am and I will,” he supplies readily, pushing the envelope away. “Alright, look, here’s our cover story: you politely but firmly tell the Lady Dyra that while you appreciate her—ah—//dedication// to securing a nice match for her grandchildren, you cannot pass her letter on to me because //you and I// are getting platonic-married—” “I’m not telling her that.” “—and then we just have to keep up the shtick long enough for the Lady Dyra to die of old age—which shouldn’t take too long, maybe like ten to fifteen years or so //at the most//—after which we can stage an over-dramatic falling out in which I divorce you—” “In which //you// divorce //me?//” “—for something scandalous like, I dunno, say, //money laundering//, and then—” “Ex-//cuse// me? I would not get caught for money laundering.” “Right, except that I end up finding out about your nefarious, scheming ways, after which I divorce you and threaten to expose you, completely scandalized that you would do such illicit things—//the horror//—but then you have to cover your tracks, right? So you arrange to have me //silenced,// by which I mean murdered—” You hold out a finger to his lips, shutting him up. “Alright, well, no need for any of that because you’re in luck. This isn’t from the Lady Dyra.” You remove your finger from his lips and thrust the envelope towards his chest. [[Continue|Chp1-3.7ReadLetter]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7shedidnt") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 2>>\ <<notify>>+ Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ “It isn’t,” you say. “But why—?” “Oh thank gods,” he says, shoulders slumping in relief. He then lights up and grabs you squarely by the shoulders. “Maybe you could tell her you had a vision.” You look at him skeptically. “I’m not about to lie to the dowager Lady Dyra.” “Not a lie. Just a tiny…mistruth.” “That’s called a lie.” “A //white lie.// Tell her I’m, like, cursed or something. And any match made between me and any of her grandchildren would be ill-fated. Like really doom-and-gloom type stuff. Or like our kids would be born with three heads or something.” “Ah,” you say, gently prying yourself from Aurynn’s grip. He lets you go and you pat his arm knowingly. “Her Ladyship has been hounding you for a match, then?” “I’ve never met a woman more relentless.” “She does that to everyone.” “Even to you?” “Well. Not so directly. She is at least self-aware enough to show some restraint around royalty. Hasn’t stopped her from trying more…subtle methods. Well, subtle for //her.// She has very little shame, as I’m sure you’re well aware. In any case, you’re in luck. This isn’t from Lady Dyra.” You thrust the envelope toward his chest. [[Continue|Chp1-3.7ReadLetter]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7unspoken") <= 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 2>>\ <<notify>>+ Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ “She keeps hounding me for a match,” he says. “I’ve never met a woman more relentless.” “Ah,” you say with a knowing nod. “Yes, she does that to everyone.” “Even to you?” “Well. Not so directly. She is at least self-aware enough to show some restraint around royalty. Hasn’t stopped her from trying more…subtle methods. Well, subtle for //her.// She has very little shame, as I’m sure you’re well aware.” “Hm,” he hums absently, then he lights up suddenly and grabs you squarely by the shoulders. “Maybe you could tell her you had a vision.” You look at him skeptically. “A…//vision.//” He nods. “Yeah. Tell her I’m, like, cursed or something. And any match made between me and any of her grandchildren would be ill-fated. Like really doom-and-gloom type stuff. Or like our kids would be born with three heads or something.” “Ah,” you say, gently prying yourself from Aurynn’s grip. He lets you go and you pat his arm knowingly. “Well, no need for any such fabrications. This isn’t from Lady Dyra.” You thrust the envelope toward his chest. [[Continue|Chp1-3.7ReadLetter]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7imagine") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 1>>\ <<set $charismatic to $charismatic + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Charismatic<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Only if you’ve a total lack of imagination," you say, giving him a suggestive look. “What, you’ve never had yourself a little tryst amongst the bookshelves? I’d have thought you could make the most of any situation.” He wrinkles his nose as he glances around the vault. He swipes a finger over one of the shelves, and his glove comes away coated in dust. Making a face, he blows the dust off his finger and wipes his glove on the fabric at his waist. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it with a sigh. “You know, I want to say I’ve never had a little fling in a place like this but, honestly, I can’t. I’ve been taken to worse places. Or I guess, taken //in// worse places.” “I’m just not gonna ask,” you say. “Not exactly the outlook I was looking for, but I guess that’s a bit closer.” “This place is still a total mood-killer.” “What, you couldn’t get it up in here? It’s not that bad. You’ve seen worse. You just said so.” He slumps against the bookshelf, leaning against it with his shoulder as he shoots you an unimpressed look. “...I mean I //guess// if I had a reason to be really determined to, then sure.” “Well, it’s a shame then that I don’t have a good reason for you,” you say, thrusting the envelope at him again. “This isn’t from me.” [[Continue|Chp1-3.7ReadLetter]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7inluck") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 1>>\ <<set $dignified to $dignified + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Dignified<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "Ah. Well. You’re in luck,” you deadpan, unimpressed. “It’s not." “Oh, good,” he says. “I was worried this was about to get awkward. A bunch of musty old books really doesn’t set a very scintillating mood for that kind of thing, you know? Best you save that sort of speech for later, yeah?” “Awfully presumptuous, aren’t you?” <<if $flirtedAurynn >= 5>>\ He looks at you meaningfully, leaning forward with an entirely un-innocent look in his eyes. “Am I?” <<else>>\ “That’s me.” <<endif>>\ <<if ($attraction is "women") or ($attraction is "none")>>\ <<if $attraction is "women">>\ “Hm.” You lift your chin, folding your arms squarely across your chest. “For the record, I am not interested in men. As you know.” <<else>>\ “Hm.” You lift your chin, folding your arms squarely across your chest. “For the record, I am not interested. As you know.” <<endif>>\ <<if $kissedaurynn is true>>\ He leans his shoulder against the bookcase, his lithe body cutting an angle towards the floor, the sash at his waist slipping over the jut of his hipbone. His eyes travel the length of your body as he mirrors your pose, folding his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes appraisingly. <<if $attraction is "women">>\ “You weren’t uninterested in men a few days ago on that fountain.” Your face immediately heats up as you recall his lips pressed to yours and you open your mouth to speak only to close it again. Aurynn’s eyes narrow further, the corners of his lips crawling up into a smirk. His head tilts a bit further, his gold earrings dangling against his jaw and glinting in the dim light. “But fine,” he says breezily, stretching his arms over his head, his face framed by his curving, copper limbs. The planes of his stomach stretch taut, and you suspect he is purposefully trying to draw attention to it. “So was that a one time thing? Just you testing the waters? Did it sate your curiosity? Or did it pique it?” "Don't get ahead of yourself." "Alright, alright. If you want, you can pretend I'm a woman next time you kiss me, if that makes you feel any better. I don't care. Wouldn't be the first time someone's thought so." <<else>>\ “You weren’t uninterested a few days ago on that fountain.” Your face immediately heats up as you recall his lips pressed to yours and you open your mouth to speak only to close it again. Aurynn’s eyes narrow further, the corners of his lips crawling up into a smirk. His head tilts a bit further, his gold earrings dangling against his jaw and glinting in the dim light. “But fine,” he says breezily, stretching his arms over his head, his face framed by his curving, copper limbs. “Was it just a one time thing? Or is that what you’ve been telling yourself?” <<endif>>\ <<else>>\ He takes a small step forward, the sash at his waist slipping over the jut of his hipbone. He tilts his head at you, his honey-gold eyes framed through the length of his lashes, his gold earrings dangling against his jaw and glinting in the dim light. “I remember,” he says. You swallow thickly. His eyes follow the movement and narrow decisively, the corners of his lips curling into a knowing smirk. <<endif>>\ You scoff and take a step back. “Just take the damn letter.” <<else>>\ <<if $secondarypersonality is "sincere">>\ “Hm.” You lift your chin, folding your arms squarely across your chest. “For the record, if I was going to write you a letter of admiration, I would not profess my affections somewhere so dark and dingy.” He starts to speak, his lips curling into a smile but you lift a finger and press it to his lips, cutting him off. “But alas, I did not pen you a pretty poem, so you shall have to stew in disappointment this time. The letter is not from me.” You pull your finger away and thrust the envelope at his chest. <<else>>\ “Hm.” You lift your chin, folding your arms squarely across your chest. “For the record, I am not interested.” <<if $kissedaurynn is true>>\ He leans his shoulder against the bookcase, his lithe body cutting an angle towards the floor, the sash at his waist slipping over the jut of his hipbone. His eyes travel the length of your body as he mirrors your pose, folding his arms over his chest and narrowing his eyes appraisingly. “You weren’t uninterested a few days ago on that fountain.” Your face immediately heats up as you recall his lips pressed to yours and you open your mouth to speak only to close it again. Aurynn’s eyes narrow further, the corners of his lips crawling up into a smirk. His head tilts a bit further, his gold earrings dangling against his jaw and glinting in the dim light. “But fine,” he says breezily, stretching his arms over his head, his face framed by his curving, copper limbs. “Was it just a one time thing? Or is that what you’ve been telling yourself?” <<else>>\ He takes a small step forward, the sash at his waist slipping over the jut of his hipbone. He tilts his head at you, his honey-gold eyes framed through the length of his lashes, his gold earrings dangling against his jaw and glinting in the dim light. “Aren’t you?” he says. You swallow. His eyes follow the movement and narrow decisively, the corners of his lips curling into a knowing smirk. <<endif>>\ You scoff and take a step back. “Just take the damn letter.” <<endif>>\ <<endif>>\ [[Continue|Chp1-3.7ReadLetter]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7dreamon") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 1>>\ <<set $confrontational to $confrontational + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Confrontational<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You frown and fold your arms across your chest. "In your dreams, perhaps." “Oh, indeed,” he agrees exuberantly. “Just the other night I was dreaming that I was kissing yo—” He catches your baleful glare and freezes, mouth hanging open as he averts his eyes. <<if $person is "woman">>\ “...a man,” he finishes. “Uh huh.” <<if not ($hairlength is "bald")>>\ “And he had pretty $eye eyes and $haircolor hair and was definitely not my charge named $mcname Al’Teia.” <<else>>\ “And he had pretty $eye eyes and $skin skin and was definitely not my charge named $mcname Al’Teia.” <<endif>>\ <<else>>\ “...a woman,” he finishes. “Uh huh.” <<if not ($hairlength is "bald")>>\ “And she had pretty $eye eyes and $haircolor hair and was definitely not my charge named $mcname Al’Teia.” <<else>>\ “And she had pretty $eye eyes and $skin skin and was definitely not my charge named $mcname Al’Teia.” <<endif>>\ <<endif>>\ Your eyes narrow as your face warms despite yourself and you thrust the envelope at his chest, smacking him hard with it. “I don’t need to hear about your wet dreams,” you say. “Who said it was a we—” “Just take the damn envelope.” “Well. Since you asked so nicely.” [[Continue|Chp1-3.7ReadLetter]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7no") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 1>>\ <<set $imposing to $imposing + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Imposing<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Your eyes narrow ever so slightly, and you simply thrust the envelope toward him again. “It isn’t,” you say. “Always no nonsense with you, huh?” he murmurs. “That’s what I—” “Just take it.” “Ooh, do that again,” he says. Your eyes narrow further and you frown. “Do what again?” He gasps exaggeratedly, clapping a fawning hand to his chest. “//That.// Your scary face. It never fails to give me shivers.” You scowl and he theatrically shudders, which only serves to make you scowl harder, despite yourself. He holds a hand to his lower stomach. “Woah. I felt that one right in my womb.” You make a face at him. “You don’t have a—” You sigh and shake your head. “Do you even hear yourself when you talk sometimes? Do you even know what you just said to me?” He blinks. “Nah, I’ve already forgotten. What’d I say?” “Forget it. That’s an order. Now would you just take the damn envelope?” He gives you an exaggerated salute. <<if $person is "man">>\ “Yes, //sir.//” <<elseif $person is "woman">>\ “Yes, //ma'am.//” "//Don't// call me ma'am." <<else>>\ “Yes, //my liege.//” <<endif>>\ [[Continue|Chp1-3.7ReadLetter]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7pardon") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 1>>\ <<set $gentle to $gentle + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Gentle<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ You blink. "I beg your pardon?" He nods sagely. “I do like it when you beg.” You frown and swat him across the arm with the envelope, face heating up. “Ow.” “Do be serious,” you say. “I was being ser—” You thrust the envelope out to him again. “Please just take it.” “Only because you said ‘please.’” [[Continue|Chp1-3.7ReadLetter]]

Glancing down at the envelope, he plucks it from your fingers. “What…?” he trails off as he turns the letter over in his hands, noting the rose seal, his expression flickering strangely. His whole body freezes up like an antelope spying rustling in the brush—that tension just before it flees. After a moment, he seems to remember himself; he blinks and forcibly eases his stance, then shoots you a look and gestures at the envelope, his thumb slipping beneath the broken seal and flipping the seal flap open, an eyebrow quirked. “It’s opened?” “It got mixed in with my correspondence. I opened it before realizing it was not addressed to me,” you say. “Snooping through my mail now, are we?” he says, his tone light and teasing. His posture, however—though nonchalant—still carries an underlying tension unbefitting him. “I’m going to assume you read the whole thing?” he asks, already unfolding the letter with some reluctance as his eyes dart over the page, his brow knotting with a frown. <div class="choice">[[You nod. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”|Chp1-3.7SorrySincere]]</div> <<if $chp1askedsamaurynnflowers is true>>\ <div class="choice">[[You nod cooly, but do not apologize. You did, after all, continue on to inquire about the letter’s flowers with Samira. Any attempt at an apology, however guilty you feel, would fall flat.|Chp1-3.7NodAloof]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You nod cooly, but do not apologize. You did, after all, continue on to inquire about the letter’s flowers with Samira. Besides, you are not remorseful so you won’t waste time with false apologies.|Chp1-3.7NodAloof]]</div> <<else>>\ <div class="choice">[[You nod cooly, but do not apologize. Rather, you study him quietly as he reads, watching his expression.|Chp1-3.7NodAloof]]</div> <<endif>>\ <div class="choice">[[You simply feign an apologetic nod, but say nothing more as you wait for him to finish reading, carefully studying his expression.|Chp1-3.7NodManip]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7SorrySincere") <= 1>>\ <<set $sincere to $sincere + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Sincere<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ He hums absentmindedly. He grips the paper unnecessarily tight, causing it to crinkle around his fingers. His posture tenses further, and his stare flicks furtively to you before it flicks back to the page just as quickly, as if he is overly aware of your presence and your eyes on him. It is taking him far longer to read than you should have thought he would need. You start to feel a bit self-conscious, as if perhaps you are intruding on what should be a private moment and you look away, wondering if you should just excuse yourself now. <div class="choice">[[“I’ll just…take my leave now,” you say after a moment. It’s clear he wants you to leave.|Chp1-3.7Leave]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You stay fixed in place.|Chp1-3.7Stay]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7NodAloof") <= 1>>\ <<set $aloof to $aloof + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Aloof<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ He hums absentmindedly. He grips the paper unnecessarily tight, causing it to crinkle around his fingers. His posture tenses further, and his stare flicks furtively to you before it flicks back to the page just as quickly, as if he is overly aware of your presence and your eyes on him. It is taking him far longer to read than you should have thought he would need. <div class="choice">[[“I’ll just…take my leave now,” you say after a moment. It’s clear he wants you to leave.|Chp1-3.7Leave]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You stay fixed in place.|Chp1-3.7Stay]]</div>

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7NodManip") <= 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative + 1>>\ <<notify>>+ Manipulative<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ He hums absentmindedly. He grips the paper unnecessarily tight, causing it to crinkle around his fingers. His posture tenses further, and his stare flicks furtively to you before it flicks back to the page just as quickly, as if he is overly aware of your presence and your eyes on him. It is taking him far longer to read than you should have thought he would need. <div class="choice">[[“I’ll just…take my leave now,” you say after a moment. It’s clear he wants you to leave.|Chp1-3.7Leave]]</div> <div class="choice">[[You stay fixed in place.|Chp1-3.7Stay]]</div>

He doesn’t seem to hear you at first, or maybe he doesn’t register your words immediately. It takes him a long moment to drag his gaze from the letter crumpling in the force of his grip to look at you. Just as soon as his eyes land on you do they flicker to some point over your shoulder. He stills. You turn your head to glance behind you, but see nothing out of the ordinary. “Aurynn?” You reach out and wave a hand in front of his face, but he doesn’t so much as react. He had been acting spacey earlier as well; it is a strange sort of mood that strikes him from time to time, though it seems to take him more often nowadays than it has in previous years. After a charged moment, he sucks in a breath, as if he had been holding it, and squeezes his eyes shut, reaching up to rub his gloved fingers over his eyelids. He refolds the letter, seeming all too eager to forget it, and pockets it in the sash at his waist. “It’s getting late,” he says. “I’ll walk you back to your room.” “You don’t have to.” “I was just finishing up here anyway,” he says. “Wait here.” He doesn’t wait for your reply and instead turns on his heel, striding back towards the study area to push in his chair and fetch his lantern, which he snuffs out and deposits on a desk in the corner of the room. When he returns, he looks you over a moment. “Ready?” You nod. He leads you back to the entrance, and you have to quicken your pace to keep up with him. He tugs the door of the vault shut behind you with the grinding //thud// of heavy wood over stone, then walks you stiffly back to your room. Though he makes light conversation, he seems on edge the entire time, glancing around as though he is being watched or followed. He deposits you at your bedroom door and bids you goodnight without further ceremony, turning on his heel before you can stop him and disappearing down the end of the hallway, his hair—blackened in the gloom of night—trailing behind him like an apparition. You retire to your room but cannot sleep, kept awake by worry gnawing low in your gut as you sit hunched over your tea table, rolling the vial of Celestyl’s Slumber through your fingers until morning filters once more through the slits in your curtains. One more day. [[Continue|Chp1-3.8Chp1Pt4Start]]

It is several more long, drawn out moments before he finally lowers the letter, clearing his throat discreetly as he looks away, seeming intent on avoiding your stare. He fidgets with the hem of one of his gloves, his expression too pinched to come off as neutral. And while there is a perturbed air about him, you’d almost think he looks more…//mortified// than anything. <<if $magic is "illusion">>\ Indeed, your mind tingles, picking up on the turmoil in his head which permeates the space around you. You sense unbridled humiliation and shame—and beneath it all, as if he were suppressing it, the faintest flicker of dread. He is usually quite good about not letting his emotions drift away from him where others attuned to such mental spaces like yourself might pick up on them. You wonder if he even realizes he is doing it. <<endif>>\ You chew your cheek, feeling somewhat awkward. You wonder if perhaps you should say something to ease the thorny tension. <div class="choice">[[You gesture at the letter. “Pretty flowers,” you say, striking a casual tone, as though you are making small talk. “Your friend sent those to you?”|Chp1-3.7Pretty]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“So…did you find everything you needed okay in here?”|Chp1-3.7FindOk]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Say nothing.|Chp1-3.7saynothing]]</div>

He doesn’t spare another glance at the letter. “‘Friend’ is generous. They do like their cryptic little puzzles, though.” “It’s a puzzle?” “Barely. Guess they went easy on me this time.” Your gaze flits over those colored blooms pressed to the page. “What’s it mean?” He steps closer, deftly refolding the letter. He thwacks it lightly against your nose. “Means it’s past someone’s bedtime.” “I don’t have a bedtime.” “Tell that to cranky $mcnickname tomorrow. Now, as much as I enjoy making you lose sleep over me, I’d rather not suffer your sleep-deprived tyranny tomorrow, so allow me to escort you back to your room.” “You don’t have to—” “I was just wrapping up, anyway,” he says. “It’s getting late. I’ll walk you back, so wait here.” [[Continue|Chp1-3.7ContEscort]]

He glances around the vault and shrugs. “I guess. Yeah. The whole collection in here is…sparser than I’d thought it’d be. It’s missing some topics entirely.” “Was there something in particular you were looking for?” “Not really. Just something I noticed.” “Well, you can always speak to Master Aleksander about procuring any tomes you’re interested in that the library doesn’t already have. Some topics, though, are kept exclusively in the priesthood’s collection in the temple library, or in Lady Safina’s personal collection as Head Priestess—though, only the temple’s priesthood is allowed access to that library. Even I’m not permitted to enter.” He arches a brow. “Huh. What kinds of topics?” You shrug. “Sigils and sigil-writing mostly. Probably more in-depth material on healing magic and bloodstones as well, I’d posit?” “Sigils?” He frowns. “Do they teach sigil-writing to the temple’s clerics and acolytes? I thought only the Head Priestess retained that knowledge. Lady Safina’s the one who wrote our sigils, right?” He shifts his weight, angling his leg forward to glance down at the gold ink emblazoned along the side of his left thigh. You nod, subconsciously brushing your fingers against the sigil at your $sigil. “Well, yes, it’s within her duties as the temple’s Head to perform the blood bond rites and the drawing of the sigils. Still, some of the other temple’s more prominent leaders are familiar with the practice so that they may perform the rites in lieu of the Head Priestess, if absolutely necessary. But I think the temple at least instructs all their clerics and initiates in the basics of sigils, considering they must all eventually take one if they are not of noble blood.” He hums a low sound to himself. “Hm. So, Samira…?” “Would be familiar in the basic workings of a sigil and a blood bond, yes. Perhaps somewhat more than you or I. Though, I doubt as an acolyte she’d have recieved any instruction in writing sigils. Why do you ask?” He shrugs. “Just curious, I guess. I didn’t really listen when they were explaining the whole blood bond thing when Lady Safina wrote our sigils.” You shoot him an exasperated look. “Those are permanent and no small gesture.” “Well, I heard //that// part. Kinda spaced out after that, though.” You sigh, and he peels away from the bookshelf, folding and pocketing the letter. “Anyway, I was just wrapping up,” he says. “It’s getting late. I’ll walk you back to your room. Wait here.” [[Continue|Chp1-3.7ContEscort]]

You both stand there for a long moment, neither daring to break the silence. Finally, Aurynn lets out a small, inaudible sigh. He angles his head toward you, his gaze just shy of meeting your eyes—as if he is choosing instead to focus on the ridge of your brow. “You came all the way to give me this? Seems more like something you’d send a servant for.” You acquiesce a slow nod. Normally, running such an errand would be beneath you, yes—and you know Aurynn knows this, as well. His jaw is tight, and though he attempts a lackadaisical smile, it falls flat at his eyes; his features carry an apprehension, an anticipation—as though he were holding back a grimace. He tugs at the hem of one of his gloves like it itches. You get the sense you’ve interrupted something. You wonder if he would seem so apprehensive were it a servant who had interrupted him, rather than yourself. “Usually, yes,” you agree. “Though, Samira was insistent I take a break from some of my duties by taking a walk. As it took me by the library, it seemed only appropriate to deliver your letter to you now.” “Well,” he says with a tight nod, refolding and pocketing the letter, “Thanks, anyway.” When you do not move to leave, he stands there quiet and rigid for a brief moment before he peels away from the bookcase, rolling out his neck and shoulders. “I was just wrapping up, anyway,” he says, as if sensing your intention to pry where you should not. “It’s getting late. I’ll walk you back to your room. Wait here.” [[Continue|Chp1-3.7ContEscort]]

He doesn’t wait for your reply and instead turns on his heel, striding back towards the study area to push in his chair and fetch his lantern, which he snuffs out and deposits on a desk in the corner of the room. When he returns, he looks you over a moment. “Ready?” You nod. <<if $flirtedAurynn >= 3>>\ He places a light hand over the small of your back to guide you forward and you let him lead you back towards the vault door. He lets you step through first. When he does not immediately follow, you look back to see him frozen in place. <<else>>\ You let him lead you back towards the vault door, and he lets you step through first. When he does not immediately follow, you look back to see him frozen in place. <<endif>>\ He stands preternaturally still—unbreathing, even—staring back into the dark recesses of the vault, those corners untouched by the dim glow of the wall sconces. A trickle of sweat runs down the side of his forehead. You follow his gaze, but nothing about it seems out of place to you. <div class="choice">[[“Aurynn?”|Chp1-3.7Prompt]]</div> <div class="choice">[[“Aurynn…?” You reach out to lightly touch his hand. ♥|Chp1-3.7Hand]]</div>

<<set $chp1TalkedAurynnVault to true>>\ He doesn’t seem to hear you at first, or maybe he doesn’t register your words immediately. His lips are drawn into a tight, tense line, his brows pinched heavy over his narrowed eyes. Every angle of him is pulled taut. You reach out and wave a hand in front of his face, but he doesn’t so much as react. He had been acting spacey earlier as well; it is a strange sort of mood that strikes him from time to time, though it seems to take him more often nowadays than it has in previous years. “Aurynn?” He blinks and sucks in a breath, as if he had been holding it, then squeezes his eyes shut, reaching up to rub his gloved fingers over his eyelids. He clears his throat. “Err—" his words come out sluggish and slurred at first, and he frowns and tries again, each word sounding like a puzzle knotting his tongue, delivered slowly and with great difficulty. "Yeah. Shorry. Jushtired. Long night. Lesh go.” Leaving no further room for comment, he steps past you, tugging the door of the vault shut behind him with the grinding //thud// of heavy wood over stone. He walks you stiffly back to your room, and—finding his tongue loosened—he makes light conversation, but he seems on edge the entire time, glancing around as though he is being watched or followed. He deposits you at your bedroom door and bids you goodnight without further ceremony, turning on his heel before you can stop him and disappearing down the end of the hallway, his hair—blackened in the gloom of night—trailing behind him like an apparition. You retire to your room after a long moment of hesitation but cannot sleep, kept awake by worry gnawing low in your gut as you sit hunched over your tea table, rolling the vial of Celestyl’s Slumber through your fingers until morning filters in through the slits in your curtains. One more day. [[Continue|Chp1-3.8Chp1Pt4Start]]

<<if visited("Chp1-3.7Hand") <= 1>>\ <<set $flirtedAurynn to $flirtedAurynn + 1>>\ <</if>>\ <<set $chp1TalkedAurynnVault to true>>\ He doesn’t seem to hear you at first, or maybe he doesn’t register your words immediately. His lips are drawn into a tight, tense line, his brows pinched heavy over his narrowed eyes. Every angle of him is pulled taut. You reach out and wave a hand in front of his face, but he doesn’t so much as react. He had been acting spacey earlier as well; it is a strange sort of mood that strikes him from time to time, though it seems to take him more often nowadays than it has in previous years. “Aurynn…?” He flinches when your fingers brush the skin at his wrist, and his head swivels toward you, eyes widening briefly before he schools his expression back into something more placid and laidback. When you pull your hand away, he reaches up to touch the spot your fingers had grazed with his other hand. He clears his throat. “Err—" his words come out sluggish and slurred at first, and he frowns and tries again, each word sounding like a puzzle knotting his tongue, delivered slowly and with great difficulty. "Yeah. Shorry. Jushtired. Long night. Lesh go.” Leaving no further room for comment, he steps past you, tugging the door of the vault shut behind him with the grinding //thud// of heavy wood over stone. He walks you stiffly back to your room, and—finding his tongue loosened—he makes light conversation, but he seems on edge the entire time, glancing around as though he is being watched or followed. You almost consider inviting him inside for a bit when he deposits you at your bedroom door, if only to ease his nerves somewhat, but before you can decide if you should ask him in, he has already bid you goodnight, turning on his heel before you can stop him and disappearing down the end of the hallway, his hair—blackened in the gloom of night—trailing behind him like an apparition. You retire to your room after a long moment of hesitation but cannot sleep, kept awake by worry gnawing low in your gut as you sit hunched over your tea table, rolling the vial of Celestyl’s Slumber through your fingers until morning filters in through the slits in your curtains. One more day. [[Continue|Chp1-3.8Chp1Pt4Start]]

<<set $hobby to "dancing">>\ <<set $hobbychosen to true>>\ You’d fallen out of the habit, as you did most of your childhood pursuits, at around eleven years old, when your mother had begun your training in earnest in her efforts to prepare you for when you would take up arms at sixteen—her schedule for you had been too packed for you to entertain any hobbies. She did not see fit to make room for frivolous things. They were a waste of time, and time was precious. When you were but a $kid, however, you loved watching the hoop dancers—decked in their swaying swirls of silk and satin, the fabric seeming to ignite like fire over their skin when they moved, the clink and clatter of beads following their every step and spin. They moved so gracefully, gold hoops twirling round their stretching limbs, round their hips, their ankles. You used to scale the garden’s trees with Nour—who you had to help, as $they <<were>> never an avid climber—to watch the palace dance troupe practice. You’d had some formal lessons when you were young, and you’d imitate the more experienced dancers when you could. You could not practice—not formally—in between the endless war councils and the weary marches under a blazing sun and the restless nights in your tents. But every once in a while, in the gloom of your lonesome tent, late at night, you would recount some of the steps you’d learned as a $kid, if only so as not to forget, and to give your feet something to do other than pacing back and forth. You could not really call it a hobby anymore. More like an echo from a time long lost to you, the memory of it ingrained into your very muscles—faint and faded, but there all the same, if you look hard enough for it. You set the figurine back on her desk with a soft //clink.// [[Continue|Chp1-3.2AskAboutNour]]

<<set $hobby to "drawing">>\ <<set $hobbychosen to true>>\ You’d fallen out of the habit, as you did most of your childhood pursuits, at around eleven years old, when your mother had begun your training in earnest in her efforts to prepare you for when you would take up arms at sixteen—her schedule for you had been too packed for you to entertain any hobbies. She did not see fit to make room for frivolous things. They were a waste of time, and time was precious. You used to love drawing and painting when you were little. Parim and Aurora would take you and the rest of your siblings on little picnics by the river and you’d try to sketch all the birds you saw to show your eldest brother, who’d always nod very approvingly and with an air of sobriety, as though he were your patron and you his fledgling master artist. Nour had taken to drawing and painting as well—$they’d send you sketches sometimes during your time away from the palace. They were always gorgeous, all scrawling swirls of ink or charcoal and blooming clouds of watercolor or powdery pastels. You could not practice much, not between the endless war councils and the weary marches under a blazing sun and the restless nights in your tents. But you kept sketching, however sporadically, when you had a moment, if only to give your hands something to do. <<if ($flirtedSam >= 3) and ($flirtedAurynn >= 3)>>\ You’d sketch what you could—birds, scenery, people. Your sketchbook was filled mostly with the faces of your acolyte and your retainer: Samira’s side profile—serious and introspective—with her cascades of braids, captured by your hand in soft charcoal in moments she was not looking. Aurynn’s casual grin, the brightness of his eyes and the swoop of his hair pinned to the page through chalk. <<elseif ($flirtedSam >= 3) and ($flirtedAurynn < 3)>>\ You’d sketch what you could—birds, scenery, people. Your sketchbook was filled mostly with renditions of your acolyte: Samira’s side profile—serious and introspective—with her cascades of braids, captured by your hand in soft charcoal in moments she was not looking. <<elseif ($flirtedSam < 3) and ($flirtedAurynn >= 3)>>\ You’d sketch what you could—birds, scenery, people. Your sketchbook was filled mostly with renditions of your retainer: Aurynn’s casual grin, the brightness of his eyes and the swoop of his hair pinned to the page through chalk and charcoal. <<else>>\ You’d sketch what you could—birds, scenery, people. A large chunk of your sketchbook was dedicated to small sketches and hasty scribbles of your siblings’ faces so you could still see them even when they were away. <<endif>>\ You set the figurine back on her desk with a soft //clink.// [[Continue|Chp1-3.2AskAboutNour]]

<<set $hobby to "music">>\ <<set $hobbychosen to true>>\ You’d fallen out of the habit, as you did most of your childhood pursuits, at around eleven years old, when your mother had begun your training in earnest in her efforts to prepare you for when you would take up arms at sixteen—her schedule for you had been too packed for you to entertain any hobbies. She did not see fit to make room for frivolous things. They were a waste of time, and time was precious. When you were young and learning the arts, Aurora had been the first to introduce you to music. Her family was among the few people she would sing for, and you counted yourself lucky to be among those to hear her sonorous singing, always accompanied by the dulcet strumming of her bow harp. You’d sit at the foot of her divan while she’d instruct you how to play each chord—Nour beside you, following along diligently, with Zain sitting quietly beside $them, his own fingers poised over the strings of his harp; Castor sitting with his lyre atop his lap, his eyes shut either in concentration or in great suffering in his waning patience with Ember’s //very// purposeful and dissonant off-tune strumming; and Luca, slumped limply over the windowsill, completely bored out of $lucatheir skull. You’d taken to music and singing instantly as a child. And when Farah was born, before your mother’s schedule for you became far too packed to entertain your passions, you’d sometimes play for her, standing over her crib while she cooed at you, eyes wide and twinkling in fascination. You could not practice much when you left the palace, not between the endless war councils and the weary marches under a blazing sun and the restless nights in your tents. Though you felt you could no longer call it a hobby with how scarcely you played anymore, sometimes, in the gloom of your lonesome tent, when all was quiet and the world was sleeping, you’d pick up your <<cycle "$instrument" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__bow harp__''" "bow harp">> <<option "''__lyre__''" "lyre">> <<option "''__flute__''" "flute">> <<option "''__lute__''" "lute">> <<option "''__oboe__''" "oboe">> <<option "''__drums__''" "drums">> <</cycle>> and play softly for yourself. You set the figurine back on her desk with a soft //clink.// [[Continue|Chp1-3.2AskAboutNour]]

<<set $hobby to "reading">>\ <<set $hobbychosen to true>>\ You’d fallen out of the habit, as you did most of your childhood pursuits, at around eleven years old, when your mother had begun your training in earnest in her efforts to prepare you for when you would take up arms at sixteen—her schedule for you had been too packed for you to entertain any hobbies. She did not see fit to make room for frivolous things. They were a waste of time, and time was precious. You did still read—it was the easiest thing to keep up with, though you scarcely ever had the time during your training to read purely for pleasure. You read what you were given—your arms were laden with every manner of book on tactics, strategy, military history, politics and more. While your assigned reading could quite often become a chore, you did have an appetite for knowledge and most of what you read you did so avidly. During your precious little free time growing up, you could usually be found in the palace’s library, perched atop a windowsill, a book in your hands and your brother, Castor sitting quietly across from you. After you left the palace, in between the endless war councils and the weary marches under a blazing sun and the restless nights in your tents, you found moments here and there to read, though it was sometimes difficult to procure new books on the road, and you found yourself missing the comforts of the library and often re-reading the same books over and over. While you read a great variety of topics, you developed a taste for <<cycle "$bookgenre" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__mysteries__''" "mysteries">> <<option "''__adventure__''" "adventure">> <<option "''__romance__''" "romance">> <<option "''__horror__''" "horror">> <<option "''__fantasy__''" "fantasy">> <<option "''__comedy__''" "comedy">> <<option "''__poetry__''" "poetry">> <<option "''__history__''" "history">> <<option "''__philosophy__''" "philosophy">> <<option "''__travel memoirs__''" "travel memoirs">> <<option "''__military tactics__''" "military tactics">> <<option "''__politics__''" "politics">> <</cycle>> especially. You set the figurine back on her desk with a soft //clink.// [[Continue|Chp1-3.2AskAboutNour]]

<h4>[[Family Members]]</h4> <<if $luca>><<if hasVisited("Luca")>><h4>[[Luca]]</h4><<else>><h4>[[(New) Luca|Luca]]</h4><<endif>><<endif>>\ <<if $aurynn>><<if hasVisited("Aurynn")>><h4>[[Aurynn]]</h4><<else>><h4>[[(New) Aurynn|Aurynn]]</h4><<endif>><<endif>>\ <<if $samira>><<if hasVisited("Samira")>><h4>[[Samira]]</h4><<else>><h4>[[(New) Samira|Samira]]</h4><<endif>><<endif>>\ <<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>>

<<if visited("Chp1-1.9.1manip") <= 1>>\ <<set $manipulative to $manipulative + 3>>\ <<notify>>+ Manipulative<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ "It's fine," you say, shooting her a practiced smile in an attempt to hide your weariness and frustration. "It's not a big deal. Next time, wake me up though?" "Okay..." she says, though she doesn't sound very convinced, and keeps eyeing you warily out of your periphery as you gather up the last papers, smacking them against the tea table a bit too aggressively in your effort to straighten out your stack. You settle back on your seat cushion, folding your legs criss-crossed beneath you. Farah sits down without a word across from you. Since your return, you have been having a difficult time getting all of your work done with her constantly clinging to you and following you everywhere. She's never been able to sit still or stay quiet for long, making it difficult for you to concentrate, but you know she's been lonely while you and the rest of your siblings were away, and most days you just don't have the heart to refuse her company. Regrettably, the more she follows you around the less work you are able to finish and you've had to pull several all-nighters just to finish your responsibilities. As such, you've been more irritable as of late. You glance up to find Farah watching you. You sigh inwardly and melt your features into a warmer attempt at a smile. "It's fine, Farah. Really." [[Continue|Chp1-1.10]]

''Name:'' Aurynn Anouar ''Pronouns:'' he/him ''Age:'' 26 ''Height:'' 5’ 11 (180 cm) ''Familial Relations:'' Mother and Father ''Magical Affinity:'' Deviant Illusory ---- <img src="images/aurynncodex.jpg" width="100%"/> ---- A low-ranking Theian noble from a distant off-shoot of House Sunspirit, Aurynn stepped in to save you from your first experience in battle gone wrong. You insisted on him accompanying you back to the palace, where you had your father appoint Aurynn to the prestigious position of your retainer to honor the life debt you owed him<<if $chp1MeetAurynnFlashback>>, and to sate your own curiosity regarding his fighting style, which seemed—strangely enough—in some parts Celestylian.<<else>>.<<endif>> He has served you as such for the last six years. <<if $chp1interrogatedAurynn>>\ It seems your suspicions regarding his fighting style being in part Celestylian were true—according to Aurynn, he lived in Celestyl with a relative of his parents for a time during his youth, where he befriended the now Lunar $kTitle Kieran. <<endif>>\ \ Flashy and alluring, your retainer is an infuriating flirt, somehow balancing the line between charming and aggravating. His propensity towards flirtation never ceases to irritate Samira, who he takes great pleasure in endlessly annoying. Overconfidence and cockiness seem to come naturally to him—a shame then, considering his terrible instant karma when it comes to self-aggrandizing statements. Despite being a noble, he hardly acts his station, something you have long learned to let go of. Flighty and carefree, he often seems to forget things a noble really //ought// to know, but you’ve chalked it up to his not paying much attention during his lessons. A number of scars mar his lithe figure; he’s explained he obtained them all years ago in battle before he met you—which you believe is true for many of them, considering how impulsive and reckless he is on the battlefield—but some of them look a little too precise. Surgical, even. And besides—for all his carelessness in combat now and his refusal to wear even a lick of armor—you've never once seen him come out of a fight with nary more than few minor scrapes and scratches. Despite his insistence he is an open book, you often can't help but feel the opposite. He answers no question he does not want to seriously, and for a Theian noble, he hardly ever wishes to laud any of his family's accomplishments. Rather, he seems to prefer not to speak much of them. And while he laughs most of your inquiries into his past or odd behaviors off, you’ve racked up a list of things you’ve learned not to ask about, including why he never takes off his gloves, his spacey episodes, or his migraines<<if $chp1TalkedAurynnVault>>—the latter two of which seem to be getting worse recently...<<else>>.<<endif>> <<if visited("Aurynn") >= 2>><<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><</if>> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

''Name:'' Samira Nahdiri ''Pronouns:'' she/her ''Age:'' 27 ''Height:'' 6’0 (183 cm) ''Familial Relations:'' Father, Pa (deceased), Jani and Omar (brothers), Dania (surrogate mother) ''Magical Affinity:'' None; Non-Demiblood ---- <img src="images/samiracodex.jpg" width="100%"/> ---- Born in the small, remote Theian village of Aspyn, Samira grew up working as an apothecary in her surrogate mother Dania's shop. Following the start of the war with Celestyl, she took up working as a healer, tending to wounded soldiers camped near or passing through her village. After her skill in tending to a wounded nobleman—Lord Dunedelver—was recognized, he insisted on bringing her to the capital with him to reward her for saving his life after the other healers had all given up on him, where she was elevated to priestess-in-training. You took her on as your acolyte soon after, offering blood patronage to allow her to channel the ichor in your blood to learn healing magic, a responsibility she observes with due reverence. Despite being born common, Samira has adapted to her role at court rather well, observing decorum perfectly. Well, //almost// perfectly. Your retainer, Aurynn—in his limitless annoyingness—seems to present a challenge to her on that front. Still, those unfamiliar with her lineage often mistake her for a noble, much to her chagrin it seems. You find her to be incredibly resourceful in her mastery of healing and her knowledge of plants and herbs. She has a love for horticulture and seems to prefer to spend most of her free time—or, what free time she does not insist on dedicating to assisting you—outside in the gardens. You’ve found her on more than one occasion, elbows deep in sand and soil, conversing with the plants. When it came time for you to take on an acolyte, being royalty, you could have had your pick of the priesthood's litter. You suppose it was Samira's apparent isolation among her peers which drew you to her initially. The other priests and priestesses seemed to gravitate away from her, and perhaps it reminded you somewhat of Luca. $lucaThey was always singled out by the other kids at court when you were both young. You know there have been unsavory rumors flying around Samira since her appointment to the priesthood, but you've chalked them all up to hearsay and gossip—that is what the Theian court does best, after all. Besides, she has proven herself time and again to be a faithful friend and attendant. <<if $SamCharList is "rayaconfront">>\ It seems, however, not everyone shares your good opinion. The other priestesses have been treating her terribly. You were aware Samira appeared rather removed from her peers, but you did not know things were so bad that her Sisters have been cornering her to insult and berate her. Sister Raya accused her of using //'wicked borrowed magic.'// It doesn't take much to realize she was talking about Maian magic—a rather absurd and insulting accusation. Samira assured you not to worry over it and that Sister Raya has always been resentful of her since they were both young. You wonder what exactly spurred such ire between them. Perhaps it had something to do with Samira's family? You are aware certain events left her family deeply shamed and nearly destitute prior to her appointment as your acolyte, though she has never seen fit to share what those circumstances were that left her family nearly in ruins. <<endif>>\ \ <<if visited("Samira") >= 2>><<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><</if>> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

''Name:'' Luca Lupine ''Pronouns:'' $lucathey/$lucathem ''Age at Death:'' 13 ''Height:'' 5'2" / 157cm ''Familial Relations:'' Lord Sandstrider (adoptive father) ''Magical Affinity:'' Deviant Fire ---- <img src="images/lucacodex.jpg" width="100%"/> ---- Your sullen childhood friend, Luca Lupine, wanted nothing to do with you when you first met. Adopted by Lord Sandstrider after $lucatheir birth parents' passing when $lucathey was very young, Luca seemed to prefer solitude to the company of the other noble children at court who teased $lucathem relentlessly for $lucatheir odd manner of dress. $lucaThey found the extravagant style of Theian attire to be uncomfortable and inconvenient, instead preferring simplistic, unrestrictive, and loose foreign clothing as Luca always burned too hot in the desert heat. When forced to dress up for formal occasions, $lucathey was known to sulk. Concerned at $lucatheir lack of a social life, Lord Sandstrider arranged for the two of you to meet, thinking both of you could use a friend. Luca proved a rather tough nut to crack, preferring to ignore your presence rather than indulge any attempt to make conversation. Breaking $lucatheir arm falling out of a tree probably didn't really help things between you either—not that that was your fault, as much as Luca begs to differ. Nevertheless, Luca slowly opened up and the two of you quickly became inseparable. When you were eleven and Luca thirteen, $lucathey accompanied $lucatheir father to his secluded manor near the edge of Theia for a short vacation. $lucaThey never returned, having perished with Lord Sandstrider and his staff in a vicious fire that reduced the entire manor, its occupants included, to ash. And you were left with not so much as a body to mourn. Ever since then, whether as a manifestation of your guilt and grief, through some connection beyond the planes of life and death, or through some other means unbeknownst to you, $lucathey appears in your dreams, aiding you in parsing through visions and prophecies. <<if $talkedluca is "chp1wolfchat">>\ It isn't uncommon for the Luca you know in your dreams to disappear on occasion—sometimes for weeks on end, leaving you without company in your pitiless dreamscapes—but $lucathey was gone longer this last time around, and $lucathey never can seem to give you an answer as to where $lucathey goes when $lucathey disappears. Now that $lucathey is back, $lucathey seems to be acting a bit odd. Something is bothering $lucathem, though $lucathey doesn't seem to want to talk about it right now. You'll have to remember to press $lucathem about it again sometime. <<endif>>\ \ <<if visited("Luca") >= 2>><<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><</if>> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

''Name:'' Farah Al'Teia ''Pronouns:'' she/her ''Age:'' 11 ''Height:'' 4'10" / 147cm ''Mother:'' Lady Soleil ''Magical Affinity:'' <<if $farahdivination>>Divination?<<else>>???<<endif>>\ ---- The youngest of your siblings, Farah was born the year Theia went to war with Celestyl, only a few months before your training with your mother began in earnest. When you left the palace to join the rest of your siblings in battle, she was only five. Being too young to join the rest of you, she grew up largely alone at the palace, and would always cling to you during your brief and sparse visits back home and would cry when you had to leave again. Her personality has certainly begun to bloom now in her adolescence—she takes after Ember with her fiery temper and restlessness, and after Castor with her cool gray eyes and granite frown whenever she pouts. You've taken to calling her //'spitfire,'// a nickname that seems to annoy her judging by the wrinkle in her nose whenever you use it, though she never does complain, so you haven't stopped. You used to write her letters while you were away—you and the rest of your siblings—but she'd stopped writing you after you all missed her tenth birthday party. <<if $talkedtofarah is "blew up">>\ She shattered your brother's tea set. Is she still angry with you or was her blow up about something else...? She said she hated you... <<elseif $talkedtofarah is "garden">>\ It seems she kept all of your letters. The deaths of your four oldest siblings have been hard on her; she was rendered inconsolable for months, and it seems her mother has locked herself away, catatonic with grief. And...you remember what it was like to deal with unfettered visions—like nightmares—when you were young. You've promised to help her with them, the way your mother did for you through your meditative practice. <<if $chp1nourvision>>Though...perhaps you won't be able to keep your promise after all...<<endif>>\ <<endif>>\ \ <<if visited("Farah") >= 2>><<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><</if>> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

''Name:'' Nour Al'Teia ''Pronouns:'' $they/$them ''Age:'' 24 ''Height:'' Same as yours ''Mother:'' Lady Najaat ''Magical Affinity:'' Deviant Fire ---- Your older $sibling, Nour, has always been the mildest of your siblings—pleasant and agreeable nearly to a fault, and every bit the opposite $their mother, Lady Najaat. You know $their mother has been exceedingly hard on $them $their entire life, and it tends to show in $their general clumsiness and $their anxiousness around delicate social situations. $Their mother's controlling nature has led Nour to have a rather strained relationship with her, though $they still endeavor<<s>> to meet her lofty expectations—never to much effect. Though $their mother pitilessly attempted to drive $them away from you and your siblings growing up, Parim and Aurora managed to coax $them into playing, and soon enough, not even $their mother's stern reprimands were enough to steer Nour away. $They <<were>> content to follow along with the rest of you. Lady Najaat did not leave much room for Nour in the way of friendships. Aside from you and the rest of your siblings, Zain—now Nour's retainer—was $their only friend growing up. You suspect $they'<<ve>> loved him since $they <<were>> a $kid, though both are too bound by duty to ever admit it. While $they loathe<<s>> confrontation and <<are>> quite slow to anger, given the right motivation, Nour is rather daunting in combat—unrecognizable at times, with $their soft dimpled smile replaced by the harsh and cutting lines of a scowl. Times like that, $they look<<s>> just like $their mother. You almost pity anyone caught on the receiving end of $their scimitar, wreathed in iridescent tongues of deviant flame—at times blistering hot, and at others, piercingly cold. Gentle and dutiful, $they <<have>> always been content to play a supportive role to your eldest siblings, Parim and Aurora. $They'<<ve>> always played the nurturing older $sibling role well as well, having babied you when you were younger, and now $they bab<<y>> Farah; $they'<<ve>> always adored children. You're certain $they'll do the same for Lady Helia's baby some day, too. <<if $chp1nourvision>>You're going to make //damn// sure $they get<<s>> that chance.<<endif>> <<if visited("Nour") >= 2>><<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><</if>> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

''Name:'' Parim Al'Teia ''Pronouns:'' he/him ''Age at Death:'' 27 ''Height:'' 6'5" / 196cm ''Mother:'' Lady Safina ''Magical Affinity:'' Sand ---- Your eldest brother, Parim Al'Teia, was, by all accounts, a perfect crown prince—strong, handsome, strategic, intelligent. At court, he had a reputation for being distant and dignified, but among you and the rest of your siblings, he was much warmer and less guarded. Though you know he very much disapproved of his mother's cold attitude toward you and your other siblings, he and Aurora both were very close with her. Proficient with the spear and with sand magic—a rare affinity, indeed—he was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, summoning biting sand storms, sculpting the desert to his whims, and swallowing the ground beneath one's feet in swathes of sinking quicksand. You didn't think you needed to watch out for him. He was supposed to be untouchable... His death was over quickly, you were assured, though you aren't sure if those were simply mere platitudes. You'd like to believe it is true. The alternative is too painful to think about. Torn to shreds beyond recognition by a Celestylian war beast, you were left with naught but his spear—a gift from his mother, the sleek wooden shaft carved with crude little designs made by smaller hands after he'd invited each of you to personalize his spear for him—and the tattered, bloodied remains of his cloak. You have precious few things left to remember him by. His favorite tea set is one of them—pearl-white porcelain and painted prettily with indigo desert larks flitting between the branches of an olive tree. He always did love birds. There must be a great many in Theia's Hall, where he is now, being a symbol of your goddess and all. You hope so. <<if $parimteaset is "broken">>\ In any case, the tea set lies shattered now... <<elseif $parimteaset is "gone">>\ In any case, it seems his tea set is lost to you now... <<endif>>\ \ <<if visited("Parim") >= 2>><<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><</if>> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

''Name:'' Aurora Al'Teia ''Pronouns:'' she/her ''Age at Death:'' 26 ''Height:'' 6'4" / 193cm ''Mother:'' Lady Safina ''Magical Affinity:'' Gravity ---- Your eldest sister, the Prince Aurora—as was her preferred title—upheld a very cold and imposing aura at court, her frigid features a mirror of her mother's. While she was disciplinary and unbending among you and your siblings—unmoved even by pleading, pouting, or puppy-dog eyes—she made for a diligent tutor and always assisted you in your studies whenever you requested her sound advice or aid. Though she was assiduous and tireless in her own training and studies, her late evenings were reserved for routine relaxation spent maintaining her hair and curling up on her divan to read. She never could seem to turn you away when you wished to spend the evening in her room. <<if not ($hairlength is "bald") and not ($hairlength is "shaved") and not ($hairlength is "very short") and not ($hairlength is "short")>>You'd always admired her beaded braids, and come evening, you would sit at the foot of her divan while she brushed your hair and wove beads and feathers into your hair. <<else>> You'd bring your favorite book with you and curl up beside her to read quietly until you began to fall asleep.<<endif>>\ Sturdy and statuesque, she took her training in combat seriously, and was never harder on anyone than she was on herself. She was proficient with the axe, and often enjoyed challenging Parim to spars. Her affinity for gravitational magic meant she had to exercise a great deal of discipline over her abilities. A talented fighter and tactitcian, she was set to take over as the army's general one day. Following Parim's death, she grew more obstinate and unyielding than before. She would hear no one, and despite your warnings not to leave for the Strait of Auganite, she left anyway. Celestyl did not reinforce the Strait just as you had predicted, but it had not mattered. Faithless hypocrites—for all their pious devotion to their Lunar Lord, Celestyl, they just as easily turned to taming //sea serpents//, spawn of Fate and servants of Maia, to ride the waves alongside their ships. Their wicked Celestian serpents shredded the hull of Aurora's ship and your sister drowned that fateful night. <<if visited("Aurora") >= 2>><<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><</if>> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

''Name:'' Castor Al'Teia ''Pronouns:'' he/him ''Age at Death:'' 24 ''Height:'' 5'9" / 175cm ''Mother:'' Lady Soleil ''Magical Affinity:'' Illustory, Healing ---- Quiet and clever your older brother Castor was; at court he had a reputation for being cold and unapproachable what with those stony features of his, but you knew him better. Though he seldom wore a smile, he was always patient and gentle—but firm—with his younger siblings. With Parim and Aurora, he was the picture of a duteous and respectful younger brother—often to the point Parim felt the need to tease him for being overly formal with his family. His relationship with his mother, though very close, could be strained at times; he took a quiet sort of umbrage at her willingness to use him and his siblings as pawns in her games at court. Although he preferred books and tactics to combat, With a silver tongue and a knack for debate and diplomacy, your older brother was set to take on a role as an ambassador within the Royal Syndicate—an intercontinental organization and alliance made up of members from a range of far-reaching countries beyond and including the sovereign nations of Theia, Celestyl, and Starfell. Castor developed a deadly proficiency with the sword, fighting with a blade gifted to him by his aunt on his mother's side. Affined to both illusion and healing, he specialized in more subtle methods of magic—most of which he employed to constantly clean up after Ember's messes. Stoic and forbearing, Castor was the perfect foil to his younger fraternal twin: cool and composed where Ember was hot-headed, taciturn where he was free-spoken, cautious where he was reckless. As twins, there was hardly any instance where one was ever without the other; the two were all but joined at the hip. Indeed, Parim used to joke they were conjoined in every sense but the literal. The deaths of your eldest siblings weighed heavily on him, but the day Ember died was the day he did as well—if not of body, then of mind. He was unrecognizable, his cool-headedness turned to savagery, his tranquil quietude to ragged battlecries, his cautiousness to recklessness. Consumed with a lust for blood, he would hear no one—not you, not Nour, not his retainers. It chills you still to hear recounts of what he did to every mangled corpse he left in his wake. And, eventually, he stopped taking his meals, as well. He refused to eat, to drink, to sleep. He had, you think, decided to die. Perhaps there was no saving him—he was already lost. He perished in combat alongside his two dutiful retainers, Acanthis and Cleometra, bleeding from more than a dozen wounds and felled only after his head was finally separated from his shoulders. At least you can take heart knowing he is reunited with Ember, Aurora, and Parim in Theia's Hall. You hope it's warm there. None of them ever did like the cold. <<if visited("Castor") >= 2>><<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><</if>> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

''Name:'' Ember Al'Teia ''Pronouns:'' he/they ''Age at Death:'' 24 ''Height:'' 5'8" / 173cm ''Mother:'' Lady Soleil ''Magical Affinity:'' Fire ---- Brazen and brash are but two of the words you would use to describe your hellfire of an older brother. He built a reputation of recklessness for himself, often speaking before thinking and blundering his way through polite social situations and leaving his ever-devoted twin Castor to smooth things over. His restlessness and inability to stay still combined with his lack of patience and inhibition made for a personality that all but attracted trouble. During your younger years at the palace, Ember was the sort to enjoy harmless pranks, of which you were often on the recieving end—be it filling your wardrobe and drawers with sand and baubles or opening your door simply to say hello and release a handful of skinks to go skittering across the rug. He and Luca entertained a sort of antagonistic sibling-like rivalry as well, always at odds with the other and wrestling each other into fountains and the like. You'd never have admitted it to either of their faces lest you get told to //'get bent'// or perhaps to //'trip and die please'// (and quite possibly suffer a swift dunking in the Thiss), but you'd always thought the two more alike than either cared to admit. An impressive shot, Ember was lethal with a bow. They enjoyed hunting and fishing long before they ever trained their bow on another person—they could shoot a fish through the eye from a field away. But, for all their precision with the bow, they were quite unheeding with their magic. Fitting, then, that they were affined to fire; their temper could blaze as hot as their flames when they were truly incensed. The last few months that you knew him eroded away at his mind like a plague. Following Parim's death, Ember became singularly obsessed with hunting down and slaying the beast which slaughtered your eldest brother. Things like eating and sleeping were easily forgotten, and you had to watch as his mind and body unraveled at the seams. He never did manage to kill the beast—his quarry remained ever elusive. And after Aurora's death, the trappings of his unstable mind became his undoing. Unhinged and completely irrational, not even Castor could assuage his dogged bloodlust. He went alone after a pack of Celestylian war beasts and never returned. Castor was the one to find him—what remained of him. //Gods.// You hope beyond hope it was over quickly, if not painlessly. <<if visited("Ember") >= 2>><<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><</if>> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

''Name:'' Phoebe Medaia ''Pronouns:'' she/her ''Age:'' 42 ''Magical Affinity:'' Illusory ---- Flighty and charismatic on the outside, your mother hides a keen sort of cunning beneath her witty and shameless exterior. Though subtle in her machinations, she is no less manipulative than your father's other consorts. If there is an opportunity to undermine the other consorts for her own benefit, she will take it, though she is always careful to cover her tracks. Regardless, even if no one else is able to pin a plot on your mother, you know her too well to recognize the signs of her handiwork. She has consistently maneuvered to improve your standing at court as well, and though she has refrained from pitting you directly against your siblings in the past, you know that hasn't stopped her from subtly attacking their reputations. She has devoted much of her effort to your training, ensuring you are not only a model royal but a model warrior as well. Her expectations have always been lofty and difficult to meet, and she holds you to a standard you<<if ($appearance is "apatheticmax") or ($appearance is "confidentmax") or ($appearance is "selfconsciousmax")>> strive<<elseif ($appearance is "selfconsciousmin")>> don't always manage<<else>> don't always care<<endif>> to achieve. <<if $momrelationshipchosen>>\ <<if $momrelationship is "distant">>\ Despite being so close with her as a child, your relationship thus far has become nothing short of strained and distant. You find it difficult to forgive her constant meddling in your siblings' affairs despite your clear disapproval, and though she has since promised to mind herself as per your wishes since your return to the palace, you still cannot always reconcile the woman she was to you as a $kid—a //mother,// loving and playful and safe—with the woman she was to you growing up—your austere tutor, harsh and unforgiving, her words as sharp and biting as a whip and her patience for failure just as thin. <<elseif $momrelationship is "mend">>\ Despite being so close with her as a child, your relationship thus far has become nothing short of strained. You know she loves you more than anything, but sometimes you find it difficult to forgive her constant meddling in your siblings' affairs despite your clear disapproval in the past. Furthermore, you still cannot always reconcile the woman she was to you as a $kid—a //mother,// loving and playful and safe—with the woman she was to you growing up—your austere tutor, harsh and unforgiving, her words as sharp and biting as a whip and her patience for failure just as thin. Still, you've lost enough family that you don't want to lose your mother, as well. You missed her while you were gone and while you were growing up. You miss her still. You've offered her a chance to mend the fractures in your relationship, with the stipulation that she stay out of your siblings' affairs for good. She seems eager for the opportunity to regain your favor and to have you back—often stiflingly so. <<else>>\ You've always been very close with her ever since you were a child. You've lost so much family as it is, you just cannot find it within you to resent your mother for her meddling in your siblings' affairs growing up despite your clear disapproval, or for her austere methods in readying you for your role as a warrior in your father's army. You know, despite her methods, she’s only ever endeavored to better both your positions at court, and that she only does so out of adoration for you. <<endif>>\ <<endif>>\ \ <<if visited("Your Mother") >= 2>><<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><</if>> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

<h4>''Family Members''</h4> ---- <<if hasVisited("Parim")>><h4>[[Parim]]</h4><<else>><h4>[[(New) Parim|Parim]]</h4><<endif>>\ <<if $aurora>><<if hasVisited("Aurora")>><h4>[[Aurora]]</h4><<else>><h4>[[(New) Aurora|Aurora]]</h4><<endif>><<endif>>\ <<if $castor>><<if hasVisited("Castor")>><h4>[[Castor]]</h4><<else>><h4>[[(New) Castor|Castor]]</h4><<endif>><<endif>>\ <<if $ember>><<if hasVisited("Ember")>><h4>[[Ember]]</h4><<else>><h4>[[(New) Ember|Ember]]</h4><<endif>><<endif>>\ <<if $nour>><<if hasVisited("Nour")>><h4>[[Nour]]</h4><<else>><h4>[[(New) Nour|Nour]]</h4><<endif>><<endif>>\ <<if $farah>><<if hasVisited("Farah")>><h4>[[Farah]]</h4><<else>><h4>[[(New) Farah|Farah]]</h4><<endif>><<endif>>\ <<if $mother>><<if hasVisited("Your Mother")>><h4>[[Your Mother]]</h4><<else>><h4>[[(New) Your Mother|Your Mother]]</h4><<endif>><<endif>>\ <<if $father>><<if hasVisited("Your Father")>><h4>[[Your Father]]</h4><<else>><h4>[[(New) Your Father|Your Father]]</h4><<endif>><<endif>>\ <<if $grandmother>><<if hasVisited("Your Grandmother")>><h4>[[Your Grandmother]]</h4><<else>><h4>[[(New) Your Grandmother|Your Grandmother]]</h4><<endif>><<endif>>\ <<if $consorts>>''Your Father's Other Consorts'' ---- <<if $safina>><<if hasVisited("Lady Safina")>><h4>[[Lady Safina]]</h4><<else>><h4>[[(New) Lady Safina|Lady Safina]]</h4><<endif>><<endif>>\ <<if $soleil>><<if hasVisited("Lady Soleil")>><h4>[[Lady Soleil]]</h4><<else>><h4>[[(New) Lady Soleil|Lady Soleil]]</h4><<endif>><<endif>>\ <<if $najaat>><<if hasVisited("Lady Najaat")>><h4>[[Lady Najaat]]</h4><<else>><h4>[[(New) Lady Najaat|Lady Najaat]]</h4><<endif>><<endif>>\ <<if $helia>><<if hasVisited("Lady Helia")>><h4>[[Lady Helia]]</h4><<else>><h4>[[(New) Lady Helia|Lady Helia]]</h4><<endif>><<endif>>\ <</if>>\ <<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

''Name:'' Solis Al'Teia ''Pronouns:'' he/him ''Age:'' 46 ''Magical Affinity:'' Fire, Divination ---- A taciturn and august man, your father carries with him an ever-present haggardness evident in the frown lines etched into his face. Your mother told you once he used to be much more animated and amiable in his youth. You suppose the tolls of two wars—first with Starfell and then with Celestyl—and the deaths of his first four children must weigh heavy on his shoulders, though you aren't quite sure if it is the loss of his sons and daughter he mourns, or the loss of his empire's princes. You've never really been afforded the opportunity to get to know your father as a $child would $their father. He is your emperor first, and your father last—ever bound by his duty to crown and empire. He seldom has time for you, and in those rare moments he does, he has been overly stiff and cordial with you, as though you are not his $child but rather a dignitary with whom he is expected to exchange pleasantries with. His expectations of you and all his children have always been high; you are a $title to a grand dynasty, and thus you've a responsibility to uphold and add to your family's great legacy. <<if visited("Your Father") >= 2>><<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><</if>> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

<<set $codexList to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-1.1Parim2") <= 1>>\ <<notify 3s>>Codex Unlocked; Parim Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <</if>>\ Parim seems completely oblivious to the wound at his neck. He watches you, his eyes expectant but not demanding—ever patient, your older brother was. "Talk to me, little bird." You open your mouth to speak but choke on your words as your stare settles on his mangled throat again. Parim mistakes your difficulty speaking for being choked up with emotion, and he slides his hand across the table, seeking yours. You let him cover your hand with his own, taking in the gnaw marks raking across his knuckles. "I’m sorry," you whisper. "What for?" "I didn’t know," you say. Your gaze drops to your teacup, your reflection gaunt and weary. You hardly recognize the face as your own. When you inhale, the <<cycle "$tea" autoselect>>\ <<option "''__spiced__''" "spiced">> <<option "''__floral__''" "floral">> <<option "''__fruity__''" "fruity">> <<option "''__herbal__''" "herbal">> <<option "''__sweet__''" "sweet">> <<option "''__bitter__''" "bitter">> <</cycle>>\ scent of your tea is carried up to you on a trail of rising steam. "I should have known." "You should have known what?" "What would happen." You look up, gesturing to his throat. He glances down, running a hand over his ruby robes—now stained the wrong shade of red—as if he had only just noticed the blood trailing down his chest. You continue. "I didn't foresee it. Not because I failed to see the possibility but because I did not bother to foresee anything at all. I thought you would be safe. I thought you untouchable. Unequaled. Unrivaled. Unparagoned." Parim begins to pull his hand away but you turn your hand over under his to grasp his hand tightly, like a lifeline. "I thought you peerless, perfect, paramount. //Invincible.// So I did not bother to divine your fate. I did not think I needed to." Parim is quiet for several moments, a puzzled look on his face. When he lifts his hand to his chest, his fingers come away stained scarlet. He traces farther up his chest until he reaches the raw pulsing wound at his throat. "When did this happen…?" he asks, bewildered. "I didn’t even feel it…" "I was told it was over very quickly," you murmur. "For you, Yari, and Sandris..." "My retainers..." His eyes glaze over, gaze going somewhere far away, and though he looks directly at you, it is as though he is seeing right through you. "It all happened so quickly, I didn’t…It was so quiet, the way it moved. Unnatural. I didn’t even know it was trailing us until…" His gaze suddenly becomes focused again as his head snaps rigidly to the side, staring at the canvas wall of the tent. A faint rumble goes through the ground, somewhere far off. A ripple goes through your tea, and some faint and searching presence tugs at your stomach. Parim’s face is preternaturally still, but when he addresses you, his voice is soft and vulnerable in a way you are wholly unfamiliar with. "So quick to take the blame, you are; you've been that way since you were a child, always stepping in when Ember or your friend Luca were going to get in trouble." He shakes his head. "I owe you an apology—I should have figured you would turn out this way, that your selflessness would turn you to self-torment. I just...thought I'd have more time to guide you." Another tremor passes through your tea. Parim steadies his own teacup, his eyes still trained on the side of the tent. "Your insight into past and future does not make you solely responsible for them. You've always insisted on shouldering blame that isn't yours to bear." He turns to face you, his voice taking on a stern edge. "This cage has always been of your own making, little bird." The hairs on the back of your neck prickle, a shiver of dread worming its way beneath your skin. A tugging sensation pulls at the pit of your stomach, like someone is yanking a rope tethered deep within your abdomen. You know this. You’ve felt this strange tug many times before. A presence, relentless in its search for you. A shadow, a dark blur—always stalking the edge of your vision, far away at first but always ever closer, closing in, cutting off escape. You do not even need to look up to sense the shadow looming over the canvas side of the tent. You lock eyes with your brother. He mouths a single word. //Fly.// The side of the tent bursts inward. You are thrown backward as the table topples over, porcelain shattering with a loud //CRASH//. A freezing gust of wind whips through the room. Strips of canvas billow to the ground, shredded by glistening fangs, and a great, hulking white-furred wolf—easily taller than a man—leaps through the mess, alighting in the space between you and Parim. The wood of the table splinters beneath its massive paws. Your brother does not even react, simply closing his eyes as the wolf’s maw snaps shut around his throat. <div class="choice"><<link 'You turn away, not wanting to see this. //It isn\’t real. It isn\’t real.//' 'Chp1-1.1TurnAway'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link 'You cannot help but watch this play out, paralyzed by fear and horror.' 'Chp1-1.1Paralyzed'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link 'It is a fruitless endeavor to try control your dreams—you\'ve learned this by now. Likewise, it is pointless to evade or kill that which pursues you in dreams. You will face this pursuing presence quietly and without fear.' 'Chp1-1.1Accept'>><</link>></div> <div class="choice"><<link 'You\’ve always hated feeling helpless. You know it will change nothing, but you attack the wolf anyway.' 'Chp1-1.1Attack'>><</link>></div>

''Name:'' Vikaria Al'Teia ''Pronouns:'' she/her ''Magical Affinity:'' Divination ---- Having died before you were born, you've mostly gathered what you know of your grandmother—the late Empress Vikaria—from your family, with whom she seems to have garnered a strange reputation. While she was widely regarded as a strong and prosperous ruler among the public, and while those of your family who remember her mostly echo these proud sentiments—as it is tradition to laud one's ancestors—only some of them feel genuine. Others, like your father and Lady Safina, speak politely of her, though with voices somewhat stilted and chary, as though reciting a script, though you cannot be certain exactly as to why. Decades ago, she led the Theian empire to war after her bride—a tarnished Starfellan princess—perished, consumed in her own malignant hubris by Maia, the World Goddess, with whom she'd formed an illicit blood pact. Incensed by the Starfellan queendom's wrongful accusation of their princess' murder at Empress Vikaria's hands, and further insulted at the taint of Maia's corruption having been spread so close to the heart of her empire, spread there by the betrayal of her very bride, she accused the Starfellan dynasty of being Maian zealots and rallied Theia to war—a war she had proclaimed as being ordained by Theia, Herself: a holy culling of Maian cultists. An investigation led by the Royal Syndicate—an intercontinental organization and alliance made up of members from a range of far-reaching countries beyond and including the sovereign nations of Theia, Celestyl, and Starfell—which oversees and officiates all marriages between its royal members, ruled the princess' death an accident by her own fault, so the Royal Syndicate only served to parley but did not offer any military aid to either side, preferring instead to remain neutral, as is their prerogative. Your grandmother was believed to have been beloved by Theia—special, chosen. A practiced and renowned prophetess, her skills in divination virtually unparalleled. It was her decree that Theia intended to make her a God-Empress—ascended through the ichor of felled Starfellan nobles. <<if $momtalkgrandmother>>Your mother tells you this was hubris, merely—arrogance on the part of your grandmother or Theia or both, as neither of them have the power to make gods. That power belongs to Maia, only. And as the God Eater and the End of All Things, it was up to Maia's daughter, Fate, to punish Empress Vikaria for stepping out of line. Regardless, it comes as no surprise<<else>> It comes as no surprise, then,<<endif>> that through the weathering of time and the wild imaginations of children, your grandmother's endeavors in harvesting ichor have become twisted into a picture of sanguinary appetite, an insatiable lust for blood. You hear children have taken to calling her a 'blood-drinker,' like some fairytale monster. In truth, there was no blood-drinking involved. According to your mother, Empress Vikaria's methods for ichor extraction were much more delicate and refined, though all of her research regarding these methods have been locked away in the library's restricted vault by your father, having deemed the research too hazardous and nonviable to be safe. You've looked over what is currently in the vaults, though most of her notes hardly mention ichor-extraction at all and you've reason to believe much of what you've read is incomplete. <<if visited("Your Grandmother") >= 2>><<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><</if>> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

<<set $politicschosen to true>>\ You are certain the nobles would not take so kindly to such an idea, and, if true, you are somewhat surprised Lady Safina was the one to draft up such an idea in the first place. Though, you suppose, admittedly, you don't know her as well as Samira must. She has always been rather icy towards you. Still, as a demiblood, your ichor is a holy gift to you from your gods—their very //blood,// the power and responsibility associated with it having always been something reserved for nobility as the caretakers of your people. You are uncertain mortalbloods would be able to wield magic with the reverence and responsibility required of it—most especially if they are not bound by the constraints ichor imposes on your body. They do not know what it is to walk the line between control and chaos, to feel your blood boil beneath your skin like liquid fire when you have overextended your magic. And...something about the idea almost feels...//blasphemous.// The only mages without ichor are Maian mages. And Maian mages are outlawed for a reason. Still...if, somehow, one could resolve the complications associated with the idea, it would open up areas to advance studies in healing magic. And beyond that—the priesthood would not be spread so thin. Healing magic would be more readily available to a great many of your people if mortalbloods like Samira were able to wield magic without a patron. [[Continue|Chp1-2.4ConnectSam]]

<<run UIBar.stow(true);>><<run UIBar.hide();>>\ <div class="subtitle"><span class="subtitle-item">[[New Game|ChapterOneStart]]</span> <span class="subtitle-item"><<link 'Load Game'>><<run UI.saves();>><</link>></span> <span class="subtitle-item"><<link 'Settings'>><<run UI.settings();>><</link>></span></div>

Subjective (ie he/she/they): <<textbox "$they" "they">> Objective (ie him/her/them): <<textbox "$them" "them">> Possessive Determiner (ie his/her/their) <<textbox "$their" "their">> Possessive (ie his/hers/theirs) <<textbox "$theirs" "theirs">> Reflexive (ie himself/herself/themself) <<textbox "$themself" "themself">> <div class="choice">[[My pronouns are singular (ie he is/she is).|Chp1-1.7.2Trans][$plural to false]]</div> <div class="choice">[[My pronouns are plural (ie they are).|Chp1-1.7.2Trans][$plural to true]]</div>

Do you still identify with the sex you were assigned at birth? <div class="choice">[[Yes (cisgender).|Chp1-1.7.2][$trans to false]]</div> <div class="choice">[[No (transgender/other).|Chp1-1.7.2][$trans to true]]</div>

(Note: This will change Nour's pronouns as well.) <div class="choice">[[They/them/theirs. Use presets: person, princeps, leige, sibling, child, dynast.|Stats][$plural to true,$they to "they",$them to "them",$their to "their",$theirs to "theirs",$themself to "themself",$person to "person",$title to "princeps",$liege to "liege",$sibling to "sibling",$child to "child",$kid to "child",$dynast to "dynast"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[He/him/his. Use presets: man, prince, lord, brother, son, boy, emperor.|Stats][$plural to false,$they to "he",$them to "him",$their to "his",$theirs to "his",$themself to "himself",$person to "man",$title to "prince",$liege to "lord",$sibling to "brother",$child to "son",$kid to "boy",$dynast to "emperor"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[She/her/hers. Use presets: woman, princess, lady, sister, daughter, girl, empress.|Stats][$plural to false,$they to "she",$them to "her",$their to "her",$theirs to "hers",$themself to "herself",$person to "woman",$title to "princess",$liege to "lady",$sibling to "sister",$child to "daughter",$kid to "girl",$dynast to "empress"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Xe/xem/xyrs. Use presets: person, princeps, leige, sibling, child, dynast.|Stats][$plural to false,$they to "xe",$them to "xem",$their to "xyr",$theirs to "xyrs",$themself to "xemself",$person to "person",$title to "princeps",$liege to "liege",$sibling to "sibling",$child to "child",$kid to "child",$dynast to "dynast"]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Customize my pronouns.|PronounReset2]]</div>

You are a… <label><<radiobutton "$person" "man" checked>>Man.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$person" "woman">>Woman.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$person" "person">>Person.</label> And you use what title? <label><<radiobutton "$title" "prince" checked>>Prince.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$title" "princess">>Princess.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$title" "princeps">>Princeps.</label> What title would you take if you succeeded the throne? <label><<radiobutton "$dynast" "emperor">>Emperor.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$dynast" "empress">>Empress.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$dynast" "dynast" checked>>Dynast.</label> Others may refer to you as? <label><<radiobutton "$liege" "lord" checked>>Lord.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$liege" "lady">>Lady.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$liege" "liege">>Liege.</label> And among siblings, you prefer to be referred to as...? <label><<radiobutton "$sibling" "brother" checked>>Brother.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$sibling" "sister">>Sister.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$sibling" "sibling">>Sibling.</label> And among parents, you prefer to be referred to as...? <label><<radiobutton "$child" "son" checked>>Son.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$child" "daughter">>Daughter.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$child" "child">>Child.</label> You prefer that your child-self be referred to as a...? <label><<radiobutton "$kid" "boy" checked>>Son.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$kid" "girl">>Daughter.</label> <label><<radiobutton "$kid" "child">>Child.</label> Subjective Pronoun (ie he/she/they): <<textbox "$they" "they">> Objective Pronoun (ie him/her/them): <<textbox "$them" "them">> Possessive Determiner Pronoun (ie his/her/their) <<textbox "$their" "their">> Possessive Pronoun (ie his/hers/theirs) <<textbox "$theirs" "theirs">> Reflexive Pronoun (ie himself/herself/themself) <<textbox "$themself" "themself">> <div class="choice">[[My pronouns are singular (ie he is/she is).|Stats][$plural to false]]</div> <div class="choice">[[My pronouns are plural (ie they are).|Stats][$plural to true]]</div>

''Lady Safina'' ---- Mother to your two eldest siblings—Parim and Aurora. As the mother of your father's former heir and the second-in-line, and as Head Priestess, Lady Safina has always held much more sway over court than your father's other consorts, making her the ire of the rest of the harem. A harsh and imposing woman, she has never made any secret of her deep-seated distaste for the other consorts and their children, and has always endeavored to keep Parim's and Aurora's interactions with you and the rest of your siblings to a minimum. While her relationship with your father seems to have become strained over the years, it is also no secret she is his favorite, a fact she does not hesitate to leverage to her benefit. <<if visited("Lady Safina") >= 2>><<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><</if>> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

''Lady Soleil'' ---- Mother to Castor, Ember, and Farah, Lady Soleil has always struck you as the snooty sort—haughty and conceited. She and Lady Najaat have entertained a special sort of rivalry over the years—perhaps because of their respective childrens' closeness in ages and their similar standing at court. While she has never shied away from using her own children as pawns in her socio-political maneuvering, it was clear she loved all her children dearly and was rather close with them. Indeed, it seems the news of her sons' deaths has rendered her catatonic with grief. <<if visited("Lady Soleil") >= 2>><<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><</if>> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

''Lady Najaat'' ---- Mother to Nour, Lady Najaat is $their opposite in nearly every way—sour and severe, and with a seething temper to match her harsh scowls. An ambitious and ruthlessly manipulative woman, she has never had any qualms about leveraging Nour to her own advantage in her efforts to elevate her own standing at court. She has always been quite transparent regarding her disdain for you and your other siblings and has consistently attempted to steer Nour away from the rest of you. Her $child's lack of ambition and general clumsiness in navigating the intricacies of court comes at much frustration to her, which has strained her relationship with Nour. <<if visited("Lady Najaat") >= 2>><<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><</if>> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

''Lady Helia'' ---- Your father's most recent consort—and with a baby on the way—Lady Helia is the bright and bubbly sort. Being far too naive and trusting for her own good, she does not seem to have adapted well to being the newest addition to the royal harem, making her an easy target for the other consorts' machinations. In social circles, it appears she has been mostly shunned by the other consorts. You don't know her as well as you'd perhaps like to, having been away from the palace for a long time. It seems Farah has taken a liking to her, however, and Nour has been making an effort to include Lady Helia where $they can since your return. <<if visited("Lady Helia") >= 2>><<button "Back">><<run Engine.backward()>><</button>><</if>> <<button "Return" $return>><</button>>

<<set $grandmother to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-2.5FarahRumorsAloof") <= 1>>\ <<notify 3s>>+ Aloof, Grandmother Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <<set $aloof += 1>>\ <</if>>\ "...Oh?" you say. She hurries on. "B-but you said Grandmother never drained //family.// She only did so with those Maia-worshipping Starfellans. To get stronger. To protect us." You nod. "He said that you and Nour…that you…" She makes a gesture like drawing a dagger over her wrist before bringing it to her mouth. "...from Parim. A-and Aurora, and Castor, and Ember." Her voice fades out to a whisper and she is silent a moment before vigorously shaking her head. "He’s a //liar,//" she seethes. She still stubbornly refuses to meet your gaze, crossing her arms over her crouched knees. "So I told him to shut up or I’d punch him," she says. "He didn’t shut up." You pause at that. You know the boy was likely only repeating what his father told him. You’ve heard the nobles gossiping yourself. It was one of the more relentless and unsavory rumors, whispered behind hands in hushed conversations as you passed by gawking courtiers who must surely think themselves clandestine—in the following stares, even, of your own soldiers, an unspoken question in their eyes. It was always something along the same vein. After all, until your grandmother’s death, she had been nearly akin to a God-Empress, supping on stolen ichor, her aura alone enough to drive men to their knees. And so, surely, it stands to reason you and Nour would not let your slain siblings’ precious ichor go to waste, even if it meant taking it from their corpses. Waste not, want not. Or worse still—an uglier rumor: some illicit plot, a deal made between you and Nour or you and your mothers. Four bodies in your way to the throne, four obstacles to be removed. You could so easily blame their deaths on the war—it had taken so many lives already. What were four more? And each corpse you climbed atop would only make felling the next easier, your appetite sated on the prior’s ichor. An illicit deal, yes, between you and Nour—$them, the $dynast, and you, $their right hand. Or! Perhaps an unfinished sinister plot on your part—one more $sibling standing between you and the throne. One more body to remove. Nour did not often get angry. But even your taciturn $sibling could not hold $their tongue when such rumors fell upon $their ears. It was one of the only times you had seen $them get truly furious, head snapping towards a pair of tittering, gawping courtiers, their scandalized whispers not nearly so covert as they had thought. You had not thought Nour’s soft face capable of such a wrathful scowl, nor $their gentle fingertips of such blistering heat. The court gossips had made sure to keep a greater distance after that. It isn’t the first time you have heard such rumors and you doubt it will be the last. Though, you are unsurprised that through a child’s imagination, your grandmother’s holy culling of Maian cultists from Starfell has become twisted into a picture of sanguinary appetite. There was, of course, no blood-drinking involved. Your grandmother’s methods for extracting ichor were, as your mother had explained to you, far more delicate and refined. Still, such comments about your $sibling grate at you. <div class="choice">[[You don’t hold your tongue when it comes to chastising gossipy nobles.|Chp1-2.5chastise]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Despite your anger, you hold your tongue when it comes to the nobles. You don’t want to make things harder for Nour.|Chp1-2.5holdtongue]]</div>

<<set $grandmother to true>>\ <<if visited("Chp1-2.5FarahRumorsSincere") <= 1>>\ <<notify 3s>>+ Sincere, Grandmother Added to Characters<</notify>>\ <<set $sincere += 1>>\ <</if>>\ Farah swallows. "...Oh?" you say. She hurries on. "B-but you said Grandmother never drained //family.// She only did so with those Maia-worshipping Starfellans. To get stronger. To protect us." You nod. "He said that you and Nour…that you…" She makes a gesture like drawing a dagger over her wrist before bringing it to her mouth. "...from Parim. A-and Aurora, and Castor, and Ember." Her voice fades out to a whisper and she is silent a moment before vigorously shaking her head. "He’s a //liar,//" she seethes. She still stubbornly refuses to meet your gaze, crossing her arms over her crouched knees. "So I told him to shut up or I’d punch him," she says. "He didn’t shut up." You pause at that. You know the boy was likely only repeating what his father told him. You’ve heard the nobles gossiping yourself. It was one of the more relentless and unsavory rumors, whispered behind hands in hushed conversations as you passed by gawking courtiers who must surely think themselves clandestine—in the following stares, even, of your own soldiers, an unspoken question in their eyes. It was always something along the same vein. After all, until your grandmother’s death, she had been nearly akin to a God-Empress, supping on stolen ichor, her aura alone enough to drive men to their knees. And so, surely, it stands to reason you and Nour would not let your slain siblings’ precious ichor go to waste, even if it meant taking it from their corpses. Waste not, want not. Or worse still—an uglier rumor: some illicit plot, a deal made between you and Nour or you and your mothers. Four bodies in your way to the throne, four obstacles to be removed. You could so easily blame their deaths on the war—it had taken so many lives already. What were four more? And each corpse you climbed atop would only make felling the next easier, your appetite sated on the prior’s ichor. An illicit deal, yes, between you and Nour—$them, the $dynast, and you, $their right hand. Or! Perhaps an unfinished sinister plot on your part—one more $sibling standing between you and the throne. One more body to remove. Nour did not often get angry. But even your taciturn $sibling could not hold $their tongue when such rumors fell upon $their ears. It was one of the only times you had seen $them get truly furious, head snapping towards a pair of tittering, gawping courtiers, their scandalized whispers not nearly so covert as they had thought. You had not thought Nour’s soft face capable of such a wrathful scowl, nor $their gentle fingertips of such blistering heat. The court gossips had made sure to keep a greater distance after that. It isn’t the first time you have heard such rumors and you doubt it will be the last. Though, you are unsurprised that through a child’s imagination, your grandmother’s holy culling of Maian cultists from Starfell has become twisted into a picture of sanguinary appetite. There was, of course, no blood-drinking involved. Your grandmother’s methods for extracting ichor were, as your mother had explained to you, far more delicate and refined. Still, such comments about your $sibling grate at you. <div class="choice">[[You don’t hold your tongue when it comes to chastising gossipy nobles.|Chp1-2.5chastise]]</div> <div class="choice">[[Despite your anger, you hold your tongue when it comes to the nobles. You don’t want to make things harder for Nour.|Chp1-2.5holdtongue]]</div>