Truth be told, Basil was adjusting to their status with more alacrity than they thought they'd possessed. It was difficult, of course, to remember that they were no longer the shrinking violet who prayed their presence went unnoticed; every habit was hard to break, and this was no different. Each step was a lesson in projecting poise, but now it become a lesson in command while poised. It felt akin to balancing on a tightrope — too callous and they would face the same violence their parents and cousins had met; too soft and their remaining family members would devour them alive.
Perhaps some day, in the distant future, there would come a day when Basileios held more pride in their status and less constrained dread. It might be a long ways off, obscured by the clouds of uncertainty, but it was there alongside it's faithful steed, Hope.
For now, Basil hefts their heavy load of scrolls, some of them flecked with unsavory brownish stains, towards the Court's libraries. The scrolls are some of Azhade's oldest and, though their stories are likely duplicates, Basil would rather the historians have a chance to search through them than condemn useful information to the sands of time. It is good luck, or poor luck, that as Basil is trotting along, head down to make sure they don't lose any of their precious cargo, that dark, striped legs swim into view— their abrupt skid to a halt tumbles several scrolls from their grasp.
"Sorry—" they sputter, narrowly missing colliding with the legs' owner, as they scramble to pick up the dusty tomes. "Oh— I was so worried— No, they're okay," they nervously reassure themself before their brain catches up with them. "O-oh. Seraphina. Um, good afternoon," they manage, after a moment spent gaping, ears sinking as they sketch out a bow before their sovereign. Seraphina elicits more than just nervous awe from them— her silver collar evokes that particular shame that surrounds their family's part in the regime that strangled so many young lives. Looking like a blundering idiot in front of the person they so desperately wanted to impress was only half their flustered state.
Basileous shyly looks down, away, at the tile that is suddenly more interesting than Seraphina. "I'm sorry, it was rude of me to go scrambling around," they apologize again, slipping so easily back into the reserved, wallflower persona that had kept them safe from their family's notice.
@Seraphina
Perhaps some day, in the distant future, there would come a day when Basileios held more pride in their status and less constrained dread. It might be a long ways off, obscured by the clouds of uncertainty, but it was there alongside it's faithful steed, Hope.
For now, Basil hefts their heavy load of scrolls, some of them flecked with unsavory brownish stains, towards the Court's libraries. The scrolls are some of Azhade's oldest and, though their stories are likely duplicates, Basil would rather the historians have a chance to search through them than condemn useful information to the sands of time. It is good luck, or poor luck, that as Basil is trotting along, head down to make sure they don't lose any of their precious cargo, that dark, striped legs swim into view— their abrupt skid to a halt tumbles several scrolls from their grasp.
"Sorry—" they sputter, narrowly missing colliding with the legs' owner, as they scramble to pick up the dusty tomes. "Oh— I was so worried— No, they're okay," they nervously reassure themself before their brain catches up with them. "O-oh. Seraphina. Um, good afternoon," they manage, after a moment spent gaping, ears sinking as they sketch out a bow before their sovereign. Seraphina elicits more than just nervous awe from them— her silver collar evokes that particular shame that surrounds their family's part in the regime that strangled so many young lives. Looking like a blundering idiot in front of the person they so desperately wanted to impress was only half their flustered state.
Basileous shyly looks down, away, at the tile that is suddenly more interesting than Seraphina. "I'm sorry, it was rude of me to go scrambling around," they apologize again, slipping so easily back into the reserved, wallflower persona that had kept them safe from their family's notice.
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