she was powerful not because she wasn't scared,
but because she went on strongly despite her fear.
but because she went on strongly despite her fear.
He apologized (for what, Maerys truly did not know). The boy claimed he didn't mean it in that way and Maerys simply smiled down on the child, with his eyes so doe-like and his heart so pure. He'd been untouched by the tragedies of the world thus far and his childish innocence transmitted off of him in eddies of palatableness. She grinned for there was a variety of happiness in children that existed nowhere else. One could dare adults to encourage that very delight in, but it would be for nothing, for there was a tempest in the sky some days and the sun in its place others, but the grown would never appreciate it as the children did. The gift of joy was sentient, a pulsating beacon of wholesomeness, and in the children, it arose powerfully.
If Maerys could've surrendered her soul to the sky and had robust wings thrust outwards from her flesh in a show of power and liberation, she would've done it without a second thought. There was a sort of... lighthearted independence in wings that she believed she would cherish, though such a projection was not in the fortune of this existence. Her soil-bound heels were her fate, and though she did not take her life for granted, she always wondered if there was more out there - more she could experience. "'Tis true - I've heard six eyes are grander than four," came her acknowledgment with a prompt wink as her eyes traveled between Milo and Regis.
When he consented to take her on a tour, he began to depart and she followed freely, fascinated to learn of her homestead. The silver-haired maiden knew how castles were erected but quivered with excitement to learn about her new home regardless. From towers persisted watchmen, spear equipped to slice and arrow unhesitant to shuttle. The walls were formulated for protection in this age that was characterized by resentment, avarice and the concupiscence for control in even pieces as faith, dignity, and devotion to the hierarchy. In the vaults, there would be bars with captured detainees just beyond the chilled metal - spies, war criminals, assassins, dictators, any crime worthy of shackles - safe from sword and ballista alike, but so close to execution or a lifetime in a cell. This castle persisted to spark reverence in a continent run on deference to rank and influence, however, it succeeded well beyond that. As it invigorated, it shielded. The children of Oriens were perpetually fulfilled within the castle walls and even winter could not cut them here with its braided whip. "I cannot wait," she claimed before he continued after a brief pause, asking the girl where she is from.
And though it isn't meant to be, the question feels like a heavy bullet.
"I hail from an area known as Varak, but more specifically -" Her heart begins to stammer; to ache. She didn't know what to say. She was born in one area and relocated to another when her family was butchered. She had been a girl with no home and only a blemish as a history. "Ragnarysa - 'tis a beautiful desert region," she recalls and though it was not where her family welcomed her into their lives, she retains fond memories of the area and the merchant who raised her when her true family no longer could.
And then her eyes befell the grandeur of the weather-beaten walls.
Whispering in the grasses were tales of men and women who craved wisdom and honesty, who had been set against others but remained - a testament to their values.
The Dawn Court.
She swore it gave her chills, it always would.
If Maerys could've surrendered her soul to the sky and had robust wings thrust outwards from her flesh in a show of power and liberation, she would've done it without a second thought. There was a sort of... lighthearted independence in wings that she believed she would cherish, though such a projection was not in the fortune of this existence. Her soil-bound heels were her fate, and though she did not take her life for granted, she always wondered if there was more out there - more she could experience. "'Tis true - I've heard six eyes are grander than four," came her acknowledgment with a prompt wink as her eyes traveled between Milo and Regis.
When he consented to take her on a tour, he began to depart and she followed freely, fascinated to learn of her homestead. The silver-haired maiden knew how castles were erected but quivered with excitement to learn about her new home regardless. From towers persisted watchmen, spear equipped to slice and arrow unhesitant to shuttle. The walls were formulated for protection in this age that was characterized by resentment, avarice and the concupiscence for control in even pieces as faith, dignity, and devotion to the hierarchy. In the vaults, there would be bars with captured detainees just beyond the chilled metal - spies, war criminals, assassins, dictators, any crime worthy of shackles - safe from sword and ballista alike, but so close to execution or a lifetime in a cell. This castle persisted to spark reverence in a continent run on deference to rank and influence, however, it succeeded well beyond that. As it invigorated, it shielded. The children of Oriens were perpetually fulfilled within the castle walls and even winter could not cut them here with its braided whip. "I cannot wait," she claimed before he continued after a brief pause, asking the girl where she is from.
And though it isn't meant to be, the question feels like a heavy bullet.
"I hail from an area known as Varak, but more specifically -" Her heart begins to stammer; to ache. She didn't know what to say. She was born in one area and relocated to another when her family was butchered. She had been a girl with no home and only a blemish as a history. "Ragnarysa - 'tis a beautiful desert region," she recalls and though it was not where her family welcomed her into their lives, she retains fond memories of the area and the merchant who raised her when her true family no longer could.
And then her eyes befell the grandeur of the weather-beaten walls.
Whispering in the grasses were tales of men and women who craved wisdom and honesty, who had been set against others but remained - a testament to their values.
The Dawn Court.
She swore it gave her chills, it always would.
M A E R Y S
