Rhoswen ►
The weak lay hand on what the strong have done ,
Ash circled in the caverns of her gaze as she glanced up at the flowers entwined between the the ombre ribbons of his hair, considering them with an unreadable expression; a sharp, angular face that revealed very little. Within, however, Rhoswen's thoughts soared: she had once worn flowers in her own hair -- efflorescent daises set against the copper of her ribbonlike mane -- but the thought now brought only low mirth, almost embittered. Her life had sprawled and warped beneath the great pressure of her troubled mind, and upon a winter noon she had torn the string from her curls and smacked the adornments down upon hard broiled earth. She remembered the petals (white as moonlight, yellow as the sun) as they danced mournfully upon the sand before catching a desert breeze up and away, never to be seen again. What use were flowers when your world was falling apart?
"Then, perhaps you are asking the lake the wrong questions?"
The red fae's dark eyes were brought back to the man's face as she chuffed at his words, a sound caught between amusement and irony; perhaps he was right. Maybe she should not be inquiring into why recent events had occurred, but instead asking just how she could move on from them -- but that was a bleakness unknown, that was the noose around her pretty little neck. With Sabine's future to deliberate as well as her own, the new mother felt herself floundering in a mire of obscure ambiguity; what was the right choice? What would a good person do? Rip her daughter away from a father who clearly adored their child if only to sate the guilt and the desire in her blood, or dwell forever in this nest of crepuscular gloom -- fated to shrivel and die without the gift of her beloved sun. Surely a good person would pick the former; but if Rhoswen was anything - it was not particularly honourable. "Maybe," she offered little in the way of disclosure; who was this man, anyway, to pick at the scabs concealing her secrets.
Renwick Theron. Lord Commander of the Brotherhood.
Ah, yes. It made sense now: the visions of infantry marching, the cheers of a feverish crowd to push them on toward their muddied graves. The Brotherhood was an ancient armed committee that Rhoswen, of course, had heard of growing up in the hills and streets of Denocte, and here she was now, meeting their very Commander. The wind toyed with her girlish auburn curls, casting them about those ruby-glass cheekbones and across that elegant nape. It was not that she was unimpressed with Renwick's title more than she was unfazed, and I suppose a little guarded: this was a man who had slit perhaps hundreds of Solterran throats -- a warboy, a bannerman for Denocte's malevolence. There was nothing romantic about war; nothing respectable about the pursuit of victory. But, who was she to judge? What had she done to stop the bloodshed and the conflict? If anything, at such a raw age, Rhoswen had dreamed of marrying a handsome lieutenant with all the glittering medals to match. How her dreams had changed.
"Rhoswen Levoire," her cool voice melted into the glory that was their morning, "a pleasure to meet you, Sir." She had followed the suit of his politeness, and though her tone was tinged with the slightest trace of satire, it was light-hearted in comparison to her usual disposition. It was not often, either, that the red woman gave her second name - it seemed heavy on her tongue now, like a steel chain she had worked hard to forget.
"The Brotherhood is still alive and kicking, then?"
@Renwick boop!
