The sun had already begun the last tumbles of its dip toward the horizon. Gasping rays of sunlight framed the distant mountain in a crown of pinkened light. Clayent’s ambient roar was a faint thrum in the distance, and the mist of the glittering water could be seen if the man within the carriage had offered even a fleeting glance. It was reminiscent of another eve he had travelled along this road. Only then it had been winter, he had been on foot rather than in a carriage, and the dark of night had already set upon him.
That particular walk to the senescent home of his mother’s forebears had been nearly four years past. Yet, his current trek felt all too familiar. Whispers of the Mantle rumbled within the halls of Divinity and beyond. The Ministry had been suspended by royal decree, and all that had served within were under the harshest scrutiny. A sort of perusal that the Dylane knew all too keenly.
“We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service - two dishes but to one table. That’s the end.” - Hamlet (IV.iii.24-28)
character: anna jagiellonka
appearance: episode 119
type: day dress
description: two-tone dress made of satin and lace. “sleeves funnel” on the edge decorated with lace edging.
The sun had already begun its descent along the horizon as her caravan winded it’s way through the requisite trail that linked Queensdale to the rumbling hills of old Kessex. It was a narrow pass, but as luck would have it the traffic was lighter than usual. If, indeed, luck played it’s part at all. While it may have been a tight fit for the unmarked, yet well-appointed carriage, its wheels turned more easily than they had in the treacherous hills that preceded it. Detritus of the mordrem and Toxic Alliance had littered their path from one end of Viathan to the other.
It was a quiet evening with nary more than the clattering of hooves reverberating about the natural sentinels at either side. Three men on horseback and armored in nondescript plate led the carriage, while two similarly outfitted men flanked it from behind. There was no chatter or banter amongst them. Each was more focused on their surroundings and their goal: to escort their mistress to her ancestral home.
Gasping rays of sunlight silhouetted the mountainous horizon that lie betwixt Altar Brook and Shaemoor in a panoply of violet and orange. It was a stark image that came into sight as they made those last few yards out of the pass. The thundering of Clayent was a delicate thrum in the distance when Claypool, at last, came into view. Like the pass the township seemed asleep, quiet, even serene; it was as idyllic as it always seemed.
Those few farmers, and tradesman that still walked the street made way for the procession with curious eyes. It was not the sight of a carriage, or guard. Claypool played host to many families of the nobility and were used to the varied trappings that entailed. Rather it was the lack of sigil, or mark of any kind. To them most of the nobles could not help but scream their identities, or origins, in every possible way.
They did not stop, however, and soldiered on their way. Those men on horseback did not spare those few they met so much as a single glance. It was not entirely unsurprising when they turned off the main road, and began to make their way down a trail that led to some estate or other. The nosiest among them, a fishwife of fifty or so years, considered following as far as she dared but the silent guards made her think better.
Passed the wheat stalked gates of Roanwilde, passed the apple borne posts of the Naji they treaded down the winding path. Most of the roads in the region were well kept, but the one they now traveled was even more so. It welcomed the retinue as they turned upon it. A straight path forward with only a smattering of trees on either side. Clayent’s ambient roar was louder now as, at last, it came into view.
Aspenvale, the senescent estate once of the Vellinox, and now of their last daughter’s Dylane. Two years it had been since she last looked upon it. Two years almost to the very day that she, along with Captain Bishop and his men, had made a choice that set her on a path far from her home. The owl of her maiden house, wings outstretched, gazed at her retinue from its perch atop the opened gates. Only six entered through those gates, but a number just shy of twenty had left them those seasons ago.
One of the carriage’s curtains opened as they rounded the stone fountain that lay within the courtyard entrance of the home. The likeness of Aristophanes, sometimes known as the Weaver to those such as she, welcomed his descendant with the cool gaze she could remember first noting when she was only but a girl. The curtain closed as the carriage and its escort finally halted.
The statue was not the only thing to await them at the entrance of Aspenvale. A small gathering, the manor’s staff, waited diligently by the great wooden doors. Most notable among them was a grave faced elderly gentleman, and a short plump woman of middle years with tears streaming down her cheeks. The guards dismounted, removed their helms, and the youngest among them opened the door.
A demure, glove hand outstretched from the shadowed interior. The armored man who had led their small procession stepped forward and took hold of her hand. Allyria Dylane stepped down and regarded the man with the slightest hint of a nod before she released his hand. No words were necessary between them. Bishop offered her a gesture of deference and stepped off to the side. She wore dark garments of a fine make, appropriate for travel, but also suitable to her station. Her hair was still as black as it had been, and only a few more lines had begun to give way on her face. A striking, perhaps even imposing figure. Both the guards and servants straightened in her presence, as if she were austere elegance made manifest in human form.
She stepped forward and took in the view. First she looked upon her home, and then to those she had left to care for it. After a long moment the grave man, whom was the butler, broke the silence, “Welcome home my lady.” Allyria looked toward the elder man with a veil upon her features. When she gave voice to a response the echo of a smile played upon her lips.
“I am glad to be home, Mr. Baines. I trust you have kept it to standard?”
“That will be for your ladyship to judge. If we have not, then we have failed,” Baines responded in a tone to match the near static expression upon his face. The plump woman next to him had managed to gain control of herself, and shot him a reproving eye. Allyria, however, looked on with satisfaction.
“Very well,” she said, and began to make her way to the door. One of the younger retainers quickly followed suit so that he might open it for her. She stopped, midway, and looked back to Bishop. “See to it that the contents within are taken below, Captain.”
“I will do so at once, my lady.”
Allyria turned back, and walked through the now open door. Upon crossing the threshold she let out a heavy breath, and a feeling of nostalgia blossomed in her chest. She removed her gloves and scarf to hand to the awaiting boy before making her way deeper inside.
Her footsteps echoed faintly as she made her way through the large hall. The lady paused only when she made her way mid way up the steps to the second floor. It was an imperial staircase that split one wing from the other. On the wall of the landing midway was a large, intricate portrait, and it was this that halted her steps. The portrait had been commissioned over a decade before. It as she, Rhade and all seven of their children. The twins, Noah and Artaen, her eldest sons, had been drawing on their seventeenth year.
She was not sure how long she stood there taking it in with memories flitting in and out of the forefront of her mind. Some time later Baines walked up slowly from behind. Like her he too paused and looked toward the portrait. “I remember it as it were yesterday,” he said. His tone was still respectful, but yet slightly more familiar. An elder servant speaking with a woman whom had been master to him all her life.
“So do I,” she said distantly, her eyes blinking before looking toward him. When she spoke again her voice had hardened a fraction, “Is it ready?”
Baines closed his eyes, folded his hands behind his back, and nodded. “The masons brought it only this morning. I instructed them see it to the lord’s study as you requested.”
“Excellent,” she said, offering a final glance to the portrait before turning to make her way up the rest of the stairs. “Have tea sent to my solar. I shall be along shortly.” Allyria did not await confirmation of her order as she continued on her way.
Lord Rhade’s study had been on the second floor, and it did not take her long to reach it. She may have spared a fleeting glance to this room, or that, as she passed but nothing gave her pause as the portrait had done. Not until she came to his door. Much as when she entered the house she took in a heavy breath. Her hand was steady when she reached forward to turn the knob, and push it open.
The room was much as it had been when last she had entered it. As if time had stood still in this room supremely unconcerned with the goings-on without it. Her hand ran along the edge of his desk as she circled the room. One marked difference was what lay in the center. The object was almost the same height as she and draped in black cloth. She reached forward and pulled upon it.
It fell to the ground in a heap and revealed what had lain beneath. A marble bust intricately carved in the likeness of her late husband and father of her children. She took a step forward as her breath caught in her throat. Its creation had been an arduous ordeal. Using varied portraits, pictures and personal accounts the mason had captured almost every line, every feature of the lord’s visage.
“Magnificent,” she said in a hushed tone as she reached forward. Her hand hesitated, but only for a second, until she brushed the stone cheek. “It has been a long time, but you have never been far from my thoughts.”
She took a step back as if waiting on his answer. It had been over two years since she had heard his voice on the afternoon of that fateful masquerade. Yet that, for her, seemed near an eternity. He had been her partner in everything. His loss a void she would never quite fill.
“Circumstances have changed,” she said, as she might have done if he truly stood before her, “I was forced to make a choice, and I had to alter our plans. Without you it has all fallen to me, and after some time it became clear that a sacrifice was to be made. It was either my career or the legacy of my blood. You would not be surprised by my choice.” Her tone had been dark, but then she laughed quietly. “It is as you often said, after all. Political position is little more than illusion. A potent illusion, perhaps, but one nonetheless. I did not always agree, of course, but no matter. Our son plays that game now.”
She turned upon her heel slightly, and looked down. There were so few that she allowed past the veil that she kept static upon her features. Rhade had been among them. Before his likeness was a woman who had often burdened more weight than most could even fathom. Like one true to her birth she bore that weight with all the dignity, and strength she could muster.
“A day does not go by that I do not wish you were still at my side. All too often I must remind myself that even I cannot turn back time, or summon you back into the mortal world. So here I am, returned to Aspenvale, and from here I shall carry on with our work as I have done since you left me behind.” There was the faintest glimmer in her eyes. She took in a heavy breath to steady herself cognizant of the fact that soon she would have to speak with Bishop, Baines and the others.
Allyria stood in silence for quite some time. Her pale green eyes looking first out the window on the far side wall, and then back to Rhade’s countenance. The lady’s mind wandered as it was filtering through so many memories of the past and still yet more plans for the future. Her future, Noah’s future, her other children’s future and humanity’s place in the grand game.
“There is one thing,” she began, at last giving voice to her most recent decision. “We were partners you and I. From the moment you took my hand that one Wintersday until the moment the Shadow swept you away. Throughout that time we have often agreed, and when we did not we would work together until we found a better way. Tonight, however, there is a contrivance which I fear you would never be able to forgive.” A steel had entered her voice, cold and hard. As if she was trying to convince herself she had been right no matter the anguish it would have caused him.
“When I left Kryta, your brother saw fit to challenge the claim of our children. I knew he would, and thus put into motion certain assurances. His death was not in my design, and I shall not bear the weight of a man too weak for his own failures.” Here she paused as if calculating her words, “Far more surprising was her betrayal. Your mother deemed that those of our union did not deserve all that Winghaven entailed. It was not her choice to make, but the cut was deep. My son was successful and has been forgiving in victory.” There was another pause as a cold anger set into her eyes, “I do not forgive, and I do not forget. All of us have a choice, and we must bear the consequences when we make them. Lady Rhaea will learn this before the night’s end. For that, I am sorry, but I will always do what needs to be done.”
The Lady of Aspenvale looked toward him a final time a myriad of emotions playing upon her features. When she turned upon her heel, however, the veil had been lifted, and she parted the room. There was much needed rest for the work had yet to be done.
