Diplomacy Shadows and Starlight; the Darkholme-Eirelunn Accord

[Farah A. Mousavi]

@Harrul Ulfbitenn​

The journey from Darkholme to Eirelunn was long and arduous, marked by a constant shift in landscapes, climates, and cultures. Farah A. Mousavi, Queen of Surnaara and the chosen diplomatic envoy of the Abyssal faction, embarked with a retinue of her most trusted advisors, warriors, and attendants. This journey was not merely a crossing of seas but an odyssey across realms, each leg testing the endurance and spirit of Farah and her people.

The voyage began under the blazing sun of Surnaara, where the horizon shimmered in waves of heat, and the sands seemed to stretch endlessly toward the edges of the world. The caravan that escorted Farah to the coast was made up of loyal Surnaaran soldiers and halfblood demon riders who wore the emblems of their provinces proudly. It was a powerful procession, a display of the strength and unity of Surnaara, with banners of green and gold fluttering in the wind as they made their way to the port city of Zephyrion. The air was filled with the rhythmic sound of hooves beating against hardened sand, a familiar cadence that kept her steady as she prepared for the journey ahead.

Once at the port, the scent of salt and sea mingled with the arid heat, a hint of the vast ocean that awaited them. Her flagship, the Ethereal Scorpion, was a majestic vessel built of dark wood, reinforced with metal salvaged from ancient Surnaaran ruins. Gilded carvings of scorpions and dunes adorned its sides, while on the prow, a bronze figurehead shaped like a scorpion with tail outstretched gleamed in the sunlight—a proud symbol of House Mousavi. The crew consisted of hardened sailors and warriors accustomed to long voyages, each carefully selected for their loyalty to the Abyssal faction and skill in the face of the unknown.

As the ship set sail, the heat of the desert began to fade, replaced by the cooler, salty winds of the open sea. Days turned into weeks as they journeyed further and further from the familiar sands of Surnaara. Each morning, Farah would stand at the prow, watching as the sun rose over the endless ocean, casting the waves in hues of rose and amber. Her thoughts often wandered to her father, King Damian, and the complex lineage that connected her to the Abyss. This journey was a testament to his faith in her, and she bore the weight of her responsibility with pride, knowing that she was paving the way for an alliance that could alter the course of history.

The crew encountered fierce storms as they passed through the Kraken Sea, where black clouds rolled across the skies, and waves towered over the deck, crashing against the hull with unrelenting force. Farah, though tested by the brutal wind and rain, stood firm, refusing to show weakness. Her presence became a source of strength for the crew, as she would offer words of encouragement, her voice steady even when the ship was tossed like a leaf upon the water. When the tempest finally subsided, a calm followed, and the stars were visible in the clear night sky, their light reflected on the calm waves—a welcome reprieve after the fury of the storm.

Finally, after months at sea, a new coastline appeared on the horizon. The lush, green hills and mist-covered cliffs of Eirelunn rose from the sea like the realm of another world, foreign yet alluring. As they neared the province of Meathyn, Farah’s heart stirred with a mix of anticipation and solemnity. Here, she would represent her father, her realm, and the Abyssal faction, each step a balance between diplomacy and the subtle assertion of Surnaara’s strength.

The Ethereal Scorpion sailed into the predetermined harbor, where ships of all sizes and colors swayed with the tides. Farah’s arrival had been anticipated, and a delegation of Eirelunn officials awaited her at the docks. The scent of foreign spices and flowers filled the air, mingling with the ever-present smell of saltwater. The city’s architecture was a blend of towering stone structures and intricate carvings, crowned by archways of ivy and moss.

As the ship’s gangplank was lowered, Farah took a deep breath, adjusting her golden sash emblazoned with her house sigil. With a final nod to her attendants, she descended onto the docks, the eyes of both her retinue and the Eirelunn onlookers upon her. Each step she took was deliberate, her posture regal, embodying the pride and resilience of Surnaara. The Queen of the Dunes had arrived on foreign soil, ready to fulfill her role as the emissary of Darkholme.

 

[Dreadheart]

The city of Dunwyn was a large settlement built atop and below a high cliff, remnants of an ancient height that was cut vertically by either water flow or divine wrath, in aeons long forgotten. The curtain walls were whitewashed stone structures as high as five or even six meters, half as much in depth, with blinded machiculations and simplistic battlements that hinted to the restrained sophistication of the Eirish culture.

The port was busy, beneath the high cliff, with numerous merchants, cutthroats and opportunists alike swarming the market that spanned inbetween the high buildings that formed the interior maze of the large city. There were walls behind the buildings, indicating to the old limits of the settlement that gradually expanded, perhaps in synchrony with its masters' expansion across Eirelunn. It had been, after all, barely few years since the Ulfbitenn House was one of the many in Eastern Eirelunn, having just emerged from a civil war that brought them at the verge of extinction. Ever since, under the guide of King Harrul, the Ulfbitten power spiked. Through alliances with Alblish factions, or wars with the Nordur and Eirish alike, the Ulfbitenn eventually outlived their rivals and established their bloodline as royalty.

As the ship berthed by the main port, next to the Cogs and the longships, a group of mounted knights, dressed in plate armour and decorated with feathers an fabrics of black red and gold shade approached, soon after the stevedore gang secured the ship's mooring. They all carried the sigils of the Ulfbitenn family and most renown of household troops; The Black Guard.

Due to the strange traditions adopted by the House, the family name was hard to perish before adversity or attrition of time and bloodletting, leading to hundreds of relatives that were otherwise distant to the main Ulfbitenn Royal bloodline. Alas, it was the custom that any males of the Ulfbitenn Lesser Branches join one of the three sixty-six man knightly regiments of the Black Guard, creating a ruthless force of near-legendary status, with their preservation of their numbers so consistent, many viewed the Black Guard as immortals.

What contrasted with the knights was the individual that they escorted. Her crimson hair almost the shame shade with the leather and fabrics of the dress worn. The dress itself decorated with golden thread and silver jewelry, marking her out as a royal. Her head tall, with black ink tracing around her green eyes in Goidel fashion, while her gaze quick to fixate on the newcommer ship. Her piercing glare enhanced by the dark arcane aura embracing her pale body in an invisible shroud.

One of the knights upon arriving by the berth, stepped forth to speak, yet was halted by a simple gesture of the woman's hand held aloft. He bowed, stepping back as she approached the rampart.

"I am Uallach Ulfbitenn, of House Cigoerne." she spoke in a voice of authority, tracking with the woman's royal posture. "You are expected in the Red Court."

The cold wind blowing from the North took form in the Eirish culture, manifesting in the unforgiving, cold nature of the inhabitants of Eirelunn. Uallach was a perfect example of this fact, seemingly unwilling, or even incapable of offering any warmth to her surroundings.

 

[Farah A. Mousavi]

Farah A. Mousavi stood at the head of the Ethereal Scorpion’s gangplank, her sharp eyes taking in the city of Dunwyn with a practiced gaze. The towering cliff that divided the settlement between its heights and depths seemed like a monument to the ancient forces that had shaped this land, and its whitewashed walls gleamed faintly in the pale sunlight. The bustling port below was alive with movement, a chaotic web of commerce, intrigue, and desperation that she recognized as the heartbeat of any thriving city. Yet here, in this foreign land, there was an edge to it—a sense of survival that felt as cold as the wind that whipped through the air.

Her focus shifted to the approaching retinue of knights. Their polished plate armor caught the light as they moved in disciplined formation, a spectacle of martial might. The black, red, and gold sigils of House Ulfbitenn caught her eye, as did the distinctive feathers and fabrics adorning their armor. The reputation of the Black Guard had preceded them, and Farah couldn’t help but admire the precision with which they carried themselves. These were not mere knights but warriors honed for conquest and survival, the embodiment of their house’s resilience.

What truly drew her attention, however, was the woman who walked among them. Crimson hair framed a pale face adorned with the striking black ink of Goidel tradition, her green eyes as sharp as blades. The golden threads and silver adornments of her dress shimmered with an air of regality, but it was the aura around her—the palpable arcane energy—that caught Farah’s breath. This was no ordinary noblewoman; this was someone who wielded power, not just authority.

As the ship’s moorings were secured and the gangplank lowered, Farah adjusted her golden sash, her fingers briefly brushing the scorpion emblem stitched onto its fabric. Her own retinue stood ready behind her, their polished armor and disciplined bearing offering a mirror to the Black Guard. Though clearly not to the same extent. Surnaara’s strength would not be underestimated here, even in the face of Eirelunn’s renowned coldness.

She descended the gangplank with deliberate grace, her steps measured and unhurried. Her sandals touched the stone of the berth as the crimson-haired woman dismissed the knight who stepped forward, her voice cutting through the noise of the port like a blade.

“I am Uallach Ulfbitenn, of House Cigoerne,” the woman announced, her tone cold and unyielding. “You are expected in the Red Court.”

Farah met Uallach’s piercing gaze without flinching, her dark eyes steady, revealing no trace of discomfort beneath the weight of the arcane aura. The Queen of the Dunes had stood before demons far more formidable than this, and she would not waver now. Yet she understood the unspoken challenge in Uallach’s words and posture. Here in Eirelunn, warmth was not a currency, and respect would be hard-earned.

“I am Farah Amelia Mousavi, Queen of Surnaara, Princess of Darkholme,” she replied, her voice even, yet carrying the weight of her own authority. “I come as an envoy of the Abyssal faction, to serve as a bridge between our peoples and our powers.”

The cold northern wind tugged at her cloak, but she stood firm, her gaze unwavering. “Lead the way to the Red Court. I am eager to witness the strength and wisdom of the Ulfbitenn.”

Her words were carefully chosen—a subtle acknowledgment of Eirelunn’s resilience while placing herself as an equal in this exchange. As Uallach turned to lead, Farah followed, her retinue falling in step behind her. Each step she took on this foreign soil was deliberate, a statement of her presence and purpose. Whatever challenges lay ahead in the Red Court, she was prepared to meet them head-on, as the Queen of the Dunes, daughter of the Abyss, and bearer of her father’s trust.

 

[Dreadheart]

Uallach replied to Farah's statements with a deafening silence. She was not the one to waste words in formalities, or meaningless tugs of words. She simply turned, barely gracing her surroundings with a simplistic gesture of her pale hand, weighted with heavy precious rings. The very existence of the Princess in Dunwyn sent shockwaves across the settlement. As the two retinues made their way from the berth to the large carriage, the surrounding peoples gathered in absolute silence. Whether that behavior was driven by the fear of their masters, or the awe of the unfolding scene, was anyone's guess.

The Ulfbitenn was the first to step in the carriage. Made from delicately crafted planks of wood, laid with soft fabric internally, the cabin had linen curtains that seemed to have been permanantly drawn to deny any sunlight, or preying gazes inside. Uallach sat without saying anything, until Farah joined her inside, after the gesturing of the knights, and a gentle hand offered by one of the Black Guard, in case the Princess required assistance to step onboard. An act which was noted by a piercing black gaze by Uallach, yet she voiced no complaint.

As the carriage started the long climb up the city, Uallach became a porcelain statue filled with black ice. Her head remained tilted, her eyes fixated on Farah, with her gaze studying everything on and about the Abyssal royal.

"Do you wear that skin?" her lips finally bled the words. "The demons here are not Men, in appearance." the explained then. Her voice remained awashed in certainty and authority, even when the very sentances indicated her lack of knowledge. "They tend to detaste Men, actually. Tear the flesh when they enter oneself."

She shook her head slightly.

"Your skin doesn't seem like Faerith hide... It must be yours."

 

[Farah A. Mousavi]

When the Black Guard knight stepped forward and offered his hand to assist her into the waiting carriage, she paused, acknowledging the gesture with a respectful incline of her head.

“Your courtesy is noted and appreciated,” she said, her tone warm yet resolute, “but unnecessary.”

She placed a deliberate hand on the polished wood of the carriage frame and stepped inside unassisted, the strength of her movements a quiet declaration of her independence. Once seated, Farah adjusted the hem of her robes, the gold thread shimmering faintly in the dim interior. The air within the carriage felt colder, though whether it was the northern wind or the icy presence of Uallach, it was difficult to tell.

Uallach followed in silence, settling across from her like a figure carved from marble. Her unflinching gaze, sharpened by years of command, roved over Farah with cold curiosity, assessing every detail of the warrior queen’s form. The sway of the carriage as it began its ascent up the cliff seemed almost inconsequential beneath the weight of the silence that filled the space.

Finally, Uallach broke the stillness, her voice steady and imperious.

“Do you wear that skin?” she asked bluntly, her green eyes narrowing slightly. “The demons here are not Men, in appearance. They tend to detest Men, actually. Tear the flesh when they enter oneself.”

She paused briefly, her head tilting ever so slightly as she added, “Your skin doesn’t seem like Faerith hide… it must be yours.”

Farah allowed the corners of her lips to curve into the faintest smile, a gesture not quite warm but devoid of offense. The question, direct and probing as it was, had its place in such a meeting of powerful figures.

“It is mine,” she replied calmly, her voice steady and laced with quiet authority. “I wear no mask, nor do I cloak myself in false skin. What you see is the truth of my lineage.”

Leaning back slightly, she continued, her tone becoming measured and precise. “My bloodline is unlike most among demonkind. My father, King Damian, was not born a demon. He began his life as a man—human, like the mortals who walk these lands. Through means known only to him, he ascended—or perhaps descended—into the ranks of the Abyss. His transformation reshaped him entirely, yet it left the mark of his humanity upon his blood.”

She gestured briefly to herself, the golden sash across her chest glinting faintly in the carriage’s dim light. “As his daughter, I am a halfblood—half demon, half human. My appearance reflects this duality. While my form may seem familiar to mortal eyes, the power within me is wholly Abyssal.”

Farah’s dark eyes locked onto Uallach’s with unwavering intensity, her expression calm but firm. “I do not shy from this truth, nor do I hide it. My form has served me well, as both my inheritance and my weapon. Those who see only my humanity often learn the cost of underestimating me.”

The carriage jolted slightly as it climbed higher, but Farah remained composed, her voice softening slightly as she acknowledged Uallach’s curiosity.

“Your question is an honest one, and I understand it. In my father’s domain, demons take many forms—some monstrous, others deceptive in their elegance. Yet in all cases, it is not the form that defines them, but the strength of their will. That, I suspect, is a truth shared between our peoples.”

She allowed a brief pause, the creak of the carriage wheels filling the silence. Then, her voice turned inquisitive, her dark eyes meeting Uallach’s with sharp intrigue.

“Tell me, Uallach of House Cigoerne. Do the demons of your land tear the flesh of all men—or only those who enter unwelcome?”

Her tone carried no malice, only the weight of a genuine question veiled in careful words. It was a test, a measured probing of Uallach’s perspective, one queen to another.

Tag; @Dreadheart

 

[Dreadheart]

The air was heavy. The swelling of her chest minimum, barely hinting to her breath as a mere reminder of her human, at least in appearance, nature. Uallach could see herself through Farah's words, as she described Damian's ascension into demonhood. There were many legends across Eirelunn, about mortals who delved too deep in the Dark Arts, until they eventually became part of the shadow. Some, like Saoirce, never recovered... Others, like Harrul-
Oh, yes...

The thought of the King quickly returned her mind to focus.

Farah presented herself as a rather formidable individual. Uallach had lived long enough in Heithhenn to not truly value physical strength, but the ability to use those who possessed it. Farah seemed like a character sharing such traits. Though Uallach knew to appreciate such, she could not help but perceive her as a rival. A threat, to the House of Ulfbitenn.

"Skinwalkers had always been part of the Eirish. Some malevolent, others not so much so. Appearances are deceiving the ignorant."

The Eirish were never hospitable folk. Harsh and unyielding, like the land they lived on, they had a tendancy of seeing weakness as an anomaly, and strength as a threat...

"Truth is what remains of a broken memory."

Uallach spoke. What Farah asked right after caused the cold gaze of Uallach to instinctivelly switch to her. A clear recognition of something inbetween these words struck Uallach, glaring the she-demon with an icy gaze that sparked with lightning unseen.

"Eirelunn is as unforgiving as those who inhabit her." she replied. "None who is unwelcomed lives enough to see the dawn. Strays and Branded live in the woods, or die on pikes."

The carriage decreased its speed, as it followed a steep road within the city. Scents of myriad things invaded from the windows, be it bread, cooked fish or stew, as the city came alive.

 

[Farah A. Mousavi]

Farah listened in measured silence, the steady rhythm of the carriage barely an afterthought as she studied Uallach’s response. The shift in her posture was minuscule, but Farah caught it nonetheless—the flicker of something behind her eyes, the momentary tightening of her gaze. There was recognition in the way Uallach regarded her words, as if something within them struck a deeper chord than mere political discourse.

“Eirelunn is as unforgiving as those who inhabit her. None who is unwelcomed lives enough to see the dawn. Strays and Branded live in the woods, or die on pikes.”

Farah exhaled slowly, not in doubt nor unease, but in understanding. She had known lands like this before. Lands where the line between strength and survival blurred so deeply that weakness was not just punished but erased. Surnaara was a realm carved from war, its people forged in blood and hardship. She had led them not as a queen adorned in jewels and silks but as a warrior baptized in battle. Eirelunn, for all its unfamiliar customs, was not so different in that regard.

She turned her gaze toward the heavy linen curtains that framed the carriage’s windows, where the scents of Dunwyn’s streets bled through. Bread, fish, stews thick with meat and spice. Life carried on, indifferent to the weight of the conversation unfolding behind veiled drapery.

“Then we are alike in that,” Farah said at last, her voice measured. “Surnaara, too, does not suffer the unwelcomed to linger. Weakness is not a burden we can afford. Strays and Branded—” she echoed the terms with a slight tilt of her head, as if weighing them upon her tongue, “—exist only if permitted.”

She let the words settle between them before shifting her focus fully back to Uallach.

“But I wonder,” she continued, her tone sharpening with quiet intrigue, “who decides what makes one unwelcome in Eirelunn? Is it the land itself, or those who claim to rule it?”

It was a question meant to press without provoking, to test the undercurrents of Uallach’s authority. Farah already understood the nature of a land that devoured the weak, but she was more interested in the hands that wielded the knife.

Tag; @Dreadheart

 

[Dreadheart]

As the carriage climbed the roads of Dunwyn, the noise of the heavy wooden gates of the citadel openning overshadowed the distant market echoes. Chainmail clad household guards lined up, as the carriage went through, jolting as it crossed onto the tiled path before the keep. The surrounding knights held their stallions to a halt.

Uallach's eyes never jumped away from Farah's, preserving her glare as the final mental notes were being carved in her mind. She had time, though it might have seemed short, and had finally made her mind on the she-demon. It was her habbit, that she studied her aquitances up until she established an opinion on them, which was then hard to change, if even possible. Uallach was certain, as in all things, she had yet to misjudge a person.

"The Ulfbitenn decide all on Eirelunn." her cold words spoken in synchrony with the carriage stopping right in front of the stairs leading up to the keep. Uallach allowed few moments to pass in silence.

"Remember that."

Uallach remained motionless, as the knight openned the door and offered his gloved hand for Farah to disembark. In silence, just as she begun, Uallach concluded her interaction. She never spoke without a purpose, and usually allowed no space for doubt in her words. Whether that harshness was a characteristic, or an intensional aggression towards Farah herself was buried in layers of doubt and speculation for which she did nothing to banish.

 

[Farah A. Mousavi]

Farah did not avert her gaze, nor did she shift in discomfort beneath Uallach’s piercing scrutiny. If anything, the silent battle of wills amused her. She had encountered such figures before—rulers who wielded their authority like a blade, carving the world into pieces that fit their design. It was a strategy, a careful performance meant to instill certainty in those who stood before them.

“The Ulfbitenn decide all on Eirelunn.”

Farah noted the finality in those words, the way Uallach delivered them with the unshaken confidence of someone who had never once questioned their place in the world.

“Remember that.”

Farah’s lips curved into the barest hint of a smile. Not mocking, not condescending—simply amused. Uallach was defensive, though she carried it well, veiling it behind that unrelenting exterior. It was an instinct Farah knew intimately, the reaction of one who saw potential threats in every shadow, who measured every presence with caution. The realization did not insult her. If anything, it was refreshing.

The carriage door swung open, and once again, a knight extended his gloved hand. As before, Farah acknowledged the gesture with a nod of polite gratitude but stepped down unassisted, her movements fluid and assured. The cold air bit at her skin, yet she welcomed it, breathing in the scent of stone and rain, iron and distant woodsmoke.

Once her boots met the tiled path, she turned slightly, casting Uallach a knowing glance.

“I will,” she murmured, her voice low yet laced with quiet amusement.

Not a challenge. Not a dismissal. Simply an acknowledgment. Farah had spent her life navigating courts and battlefields alike—she knew that power was not dictated by words alone. It was earned, tested, and sometimes, broken.

She looked up at the towering keep before her, the heart of Ulfbitenn rule. A new battlefield, of a different kind. And Farah, as always, was more than ready.

Tag; @Dreadheart

 

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

The Scent of Blood and dying embers turned the thick air into a whirl of depravity. The white linen stained with the cursed crimson, drenched even, by the many times it was used to drain off the splatters from the pale face. The chamber cold, arched and shallow, resembling the hollows of the King's soul, now a prison for the Beast Within.

His black eyes casting an unnatural taint, turning the nearby veins swelling black, like servitors pulling open the gates for the Beast to march out in His own parade of nightmares. There were many candles lit around the remnants of flesh, those few yet to be plucked out of the bones. None of the flames flickered; As if the very sight they beheld drained them any and all passion for their eternal dance of heat, now standing still, their light dwarfed by the grimness of the chamber.

He held onto his head with his hands, daring not to shut his eyes for the nightmares of Light were but a fraction when compared to those he lived each time his black eyes were curtained. A jest; A vile mockery of the mortality he once had, never to be again, Harrul Ulfbitenn knew the price of the curse he carried for decades now. It was in such moments of weakness, when he allowed himself to kneel down and weep. Weep for his demise; His fall into the path most dark. Weep for his kin, of which he mourned eternal those who died young and old alike, unlike him, who had no escape to look for in death. Weep for what had come to pass, the wicked and the attrocious memories haunting his mind until his eyes cried blood....

Weep....


For his Soul had been lost, and his mortal shell a prison for the one who sought the Night...

Weep...


Until the burning dawn cleansed the world again with flames of judgement...

Knowing full well, he would be among the first to burn...

The thought pierced through his mind, as he stepped out of the keep, in synchrony with the openning of the heavy wooden gates. His red houppelande adding to his posture, as he halted his pacing when he reached the top of the steps, leading down to the carriage. His hands were covered with leather strapped tightly fixed black leather gloves, contrasting the red of the long sleeves, as he gestured around him.

"Queen of Sarnaara; Princess of Darkholme." his sinister voice cast like a spell, silencing any and all noise that was once made by the knights or horses. The air grew cold to his presence. "Eirelunn welcomes you. And so do the Ulfbitenn, in our halls."

He did not walk down the stairs to Farah; Offering his hand in stead, for her to reach if only she made her way up to his level. The crimson fabric of dancing in the cold wind, as his black eyes remained fixed on her. A symbolic gesture, hinting to promises once written in parchment, of a joined venture to greatness; A path, the two could potentially walk, should their hands reached from across the abyss that once separated the two realms, drenched in the antideluvian rivalry between demons and Abhertach...

 

[Farah A. Mousavi]

Farah did not move at first.

She stood at the base of the steps, the cold air swirling around her like unseen specters whispering in the silence left in the wake of his words. The weight of the moment settled, thick and tangible, pressing against her skin like the hush before a blade was drawn.

“Queen of Surnaara; Princess of Darkholme.”

The way he spoke her titles felt almost like an incantation, an invocation of forces beyond mere politics. Power wove itself into every syllable, curling through the air like a living thing. The silence that followed was absolute. Even the wind dared not disturb it.

Her gaze lifted to meet his.

Harrul Ulfbitenn was a specter draped in crimson, a figure wreathed in shadow and suffering. The weight of years clung to him like a second skin, woven into the black taint of his eyes and the unnatural stillness of the flames within the keep. He reeked of something ancient—something cursed. And yet, for all that he was a monster, there was something human buried deep within him, however lost and fractured it had become.

Farah understood men like him.

The abyss had long since ceased to frighten her. She had been born upon its edges, molded by its hunger, tempered by its lessons. He extended his hand, not in condescension, not in command, but in invitation. A test, a promise, a challenge.

Farah ascended.

Each step was deliberate, measured. She did not hesitate, nor did she rush. She climbed as one who was not beneath him, but beside him—one who understood the weight of power and the price it demanded.

When she reached him, she did not look away. Instead, she extended her own hand, black-gloved fingers meeting his in a clasp neither submissive nor hesitant. A gesture not of fealty, but of acknowledgment.

“Eirelunn welcomes me,” she murmured, her voice low, edged with something unreadable. “But do you, King Harrul?”

A flicker of something passed through her gaze—amusement, intrigue, a knowing sharpness that cut deeper than the cold. She had not come to kneel. If he sought an ally, he would find one. If he sought a rival, she would be that, too.

But the choice was his to make.

Tag; @Harrul Ulfbitenn

 

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

The King's black eyes fixed on those of the Princess. The red fabric of the eagle banners flapping, as the wind blew strong; a divine attempt to wash away the grim thoughts that drenched the citadel, in the infernal meeting. In silence, the King extended his hand, openning the way for Farah to accompany him through the heavy gates, into the great hall.

The heat of the hearth, built in league with the ancient ways of the Eirish, surrounded by long tables under ceilings of stone and oak beams, adorned with banners of the many lords of the Eirish Empire. There was no throne, nor grande chamber, save for a highback simplistic wooden chair in the middle of the main table, opposite to the hearth, at the far back of the great hall. It was carved with druidic style designs and runes of the pagan faith.
Though capable of hosting numerous, the setting this time was meant for two. Two seats, placed in opposite sides of the long table beyond the hearth.

"The King's will is that of the Realm's, Queen of Sarnaara." King Harrul voiced, as he escorted her inside the Red Court.

"The journey was long. I am no foreign to the deck, or the salt of the Deep." he continued then. "My cousin will see you to your chambers. You are our guest. Anything desired, you need only ask. At dusk, we may dine together and speak of the many matters that concern us."

The Red Court beamed, as if an unseen flame roared through the ether, as the silent steps beneath her long dress carried Uallach into the hall. Her hands clasped before her abdomen, while her gaze, ever-frosty, remaining on Farah. Calculating perpetually, in a deafening silence even the King could not ignore.

"Cousin." he nodded. Their ways, though kin, remained in alignment with the unnerving theatrical simplicity that seemed to define those around the Eirish Crown.

Uallach spoke naught; She tilted her head and, in a flawless motion, extended her arm to the side, towards the corner of the hall, where the door to the stairway stood, turning her gaze to Farah.
She was aware of the possible rudeness of her behavior. Many could argue, she even took pleasure by the uncomfortability caused by her very presence, on others.