daughter of the revolution

Nevaeh Tyce. Sixteen springs at Queensgarden. Let me love what I do not know.

[7evendevils]

amazing

[son-of-fervention]

to stray from the beaten path ;;

The sun hung low in the western sky. A hearth all its own from whence molten gold poured in great, lurching stretches. The horizon rippled and seethed, encased in the heavy gleam of the sunset’s foment. It had never surrendered to the night without a fight and thus the comely war was fought and the brilliant colours of a stubborn sun’s defeat and a humbling moon’s triumph painted the sky at their right. Fervention’s guardsmen marched stoically, their eyes turned southward in indifference, but they all felt the warmth of the dying sun’s glare upon their cheek. It served as a constant reminder of their own coming insurrection against the blistering North. The heat of Fervention was not lost, even to the cosmos, and it would soon thaw even the most frostbitten lands with its fervor.

Jonaethen cast his steel gaze to his queen, his Saviour. She sat high upon her mare amongst a clutch of guardsmen and despite their approach upon familiar, but desolate southern plains, she did not wilt in the heat. Miles back, Sophrionia had relieved her stallion and retreated into the heavy, shielding curtains of their humble caravan. Stark differences like these made him consider his foolish loyalty to the elder sister. Aelorene swung the heavy sword. Her sister wore the gilded mask.

In a quiet akin to that of the high, whistling peaks that stand lonesome in the desert ranges, they kept a tempered pace and walked onward. All else but the scrape of heavy armour, the sighs of idle, young men, the clatter of hooves and the unmusical rattle of a cart went unspoken. The red dust of his homeland had begun to rise in great, pluming clouds. This was the mark of Fervention. No matter how far from these plains Jonaethen travelled, this red dirt clung to his skin, sunk into the deep ridges of his weathered hands and spoiled the fabric of his rough, desert clothes. Even the luster of his pauldrons had begun to fade, victim to the unforgiving abrasion of harsh, impregnable red dirt. Jonaethen wore it proudly.

The soldier assumed they would soon stop for camp, but it was not his call. He had traded many of his responsibilities as head of the guard to watch over the Princess of Queensgarden, Nevaeh Tyce. To him, she was a sylph, a sprig of delicate fern daring to uncoil itself and reach blindly into the savage south with willowy fingers and a breakable courage. For that reason, he accepted his responsibilities without question. If he were not a shield for something precious, something worth protecting, he was nothing at all.

Ahead, he heard the bellowing call of their Queen. They would travel west from the southern road and find fresh water and tree cover by dusk. Jonaethen turned to his western flower, his charge. His dried lips split painfully as he spoke. “We are heading for Swindler’s Oasis where we can make camp for the night,” he said, expounding upon the company’s venture and reaching over to guide her horse to the right in tandem with his own. The path was mostly clean, but it was obvious from the rustle of undergrowth and the angry lash of dead switches against their thighs that it wasn’t often traveled.

“There’s a stream there for the horses. I’ll tend to them once we’ve fixed your tent.”

"Are you faring well, Princess? The road south is a long one, even for those accustomed to the swelter."

[daughtertothewest]

She had been reminded of who she was without feel, as if her name had been stitched unto every corner of the world: the Tyce Princess, the blind wanderer, the prophetess, the beloved Rose of Queensgarden. Even those who had not glanced upon her face or known her favor regarded her as the Daughter to the West, the only female blood of House Tyce and Beauroza. She was the greatest flower of her kingdom flora, and had been tended to with gentle hands all her life. The sun had nourished Nevaeh and encouraged her to grow, stretching out so that she might one day touch the sky. But flowers could do nothing but wilt in unforgiving heat, or meet a frozen death in merciless snow. The argument to allow herself to uproot and follow with the Lady Aeolorene's company had been as harsh as the trials she would face, a battle not easily won.

But she had grown tired of gilding the lily, and become disdainful for the liquid gold they had molted and coated her in. She no longer wished to be plated in gold, but steel. Impervious to blow, heat, or ice, she would shed her name and her gilt skin to become something greater; a woman perhaps not like Aeolorene (could anyone be as the rebel queen was?), but still a new, reckoning breed of rose. One who retained both thorns and beauty, but became impervious to any hardships the sky unleashed. 

After the long hours they had already spent in travel, it had become clear the armor she sought to varnish herself with would be slow coming. Although she had anticipated a swelter, with no barometer of experience to prepare or imagine with, the fierceness with which the once-kind sun beat down upon Nevaeh and the surrounding company was far beyond her comprehension. It was unimaginable to her that the same sustaining warmth that had once encouraged her kingdom's gardens to grow so gently, was capable of such malicious fever. The lightest of her garments had been selected for travel into Fervention, but the luxurious cloths of Queensgarden had quickly been realized as improper. A new layer of sweat was baked dry on her pale flesh as quickly as it arrived, only for another sheen to replace it within minutes. A balm had been prepared for her lips before leaving, and while it was a comfort when administered generously, it did nothing to aid the dryness with which her throat had been plagued. Every time she freed up her mouth - opening it only the slightest of cracks, so as to prevent any dry wind entering - her palate and throat seemed to crack, having been so dried out. 

But she did not utter a complaint. Not even when the Saviour's sister sought shelter in the caravan did she accept the offer extended to her, and although her back and thighs pained her terribly, she did not dare ask for rest. The people surrounding her suffered through all she did and still laughed. So she kept her spine straight as a flower's stem and face blank, twitching only when the cadavers of ferns caught on her dress unexpectedly. The trajectory of her empty gaze turned towards the voice that broke the heat, earning a curve of her lips.

"Is it nearing dusk already? I must confess, it feels as feverish now as it did at dawn. I fear I will never learn the impressions of the changing hours when it is always so hot." Although she spoke truthfully, it was said in jest, punctuated with light laughter. "I would prefer you tend to the horses first, if it does not hinder your methods. This road is long for me, but longer yet for the nags that carry my weight and more." She gave her mare a pat on the neck, feeling her hand come away with dust. "If there is shade at this Oasis, my ladies and I will take residence in the shadow and bide our time."

She paused in her instructions only to gift her soft chuckleonce more, a sound far too comforting for so severe a place. "I have yet to wilt, Sir Jonaethen. Until such time that I do, I will consider this ride a success."

[daughtertothewest]

I believe...

[galetyce-deactivated20131117]

There is no finer dancing than that you’ll find in Queensgarden, my pretty little niece.

[daughtertothewest]

And there is no greater pleasure than learning what I otherwise could not, my teasing uncle.

[daughtertothewest]

I believe...

[etiennewhitley-blog-blog]

I f-fear I am n-not the greatest d-dancer in Winterhaven, my L-Lady, but I w-w-would be glad to t-teach you the l-little I do kn-know… if you would l-like?

[daughtertothewest]

[Her lips quirked up just barely, a slow creaking of oiled and balmed lips.] You need not be great to understand and teach. I would be delighted, Sir. [She brushes her skirts away from the tangle around her ankles and stands.] And who is it I am to take as my teacher?

[daughtertothewest]

I believe...

... I believe I should like to learn a new dance. Is anyone familiar with the courts of Fervention or Winterhaven? I should like to try a style in their manner.

[cosascool]

[hawkeye-ofatlantis-deactivated2]

The air was still. Even the dust that hung about them, illuminated by the golden light of afternoon, was unmoving. Still there was an electricity, bringing these two souls together in a palpable symphony of soundlessness. Ribbons of light steepled through the unsettled dirt, giving life where there was none recognizable, creating beauty in what seemed so ordinary. Nary a horse whimpered nor stirred to disrupt it and time stood still, observant of the wandering souls stepping onto a shared path, so different and yet so undeniably the same. It was in that moment, suspended in time’s relative window and touched by the sun’s heavy arm upon his shoulders that Jonaethen acknowledged his loneliness, for the girl before him mirrored it. Where she was robbed of the sight required to witness the enchantment lingering and stunned in the air around them, he hadn’t the strength of heart to understand its simple and perplexing beauty.

Then with her voice came the wind. The timbre reminded him of a spring rain. Though determined and unrelenting in its dance upon rooftops, it was light and spritely. It was cooling, but not cold, and refreshing to this desert man with a throat and skin ravaged by the dry heat of his home. He was slow to respond, watching as her graceful hand fell away from the tired leather held aloft. It seemed so crude to interrupt the easy rain she summoned with the threatening thunder of his voice.

"As you wish, My Lady," he said simply, turning an eye on the wary beast at her side. Black eyes followed him and strong legs twitched, ready to run if necessary. Jonaethen respected horses above all other creatures. So often were they considered mere pawns of war that their loyalty, tenderness and nobility was forgotten. As he lifted his scarred palm to the velvet muzzle bowed low, his eyes flickered toward the young, nameless girl.

"Will you be riding out alone?"

[daughtertothewest]

What had she been before this moment, when his voice had reached out like thunder parting the seas, when now she was so placid in the silence? Nay, it was not only she that was calm - it seemed that the earth had paused, stormless and unruffled; and the very idea of panic and discord, the very same demons that walked these halls, became vague and dubious. It was as if the very world had stopped and grown serene, a child posing for its portrait, halting its previous knee bouncing and blinking to allow for a moment of respite. It felt the way a raindrop might, the moment it hits the pale Earth. Not painful, but startling. This was how it should be, if only everything stopped moving, twitching, hurting, striking, pinching long enough for the air to pour sweet and thick down your throat. Strange, that she had never felt this kind of silence before, when she herself lived in a variant of eternal quiet. 

He spoke once more, quickly and without grandeur, and she was no closer to knowing him than the sea to the horizon. Gently laid next to one another, but never to meet. Even when he had finished speaking she lay quiet, turning over the smooth syllables he had dropped at her feet like polished stones. A voice that had not grown sleek with careful polishing, but repeated ware, repeated hammering; reminiscent of how the finest iron was forged. She wished to hear him speak again, to run her hands through the sound of him and divine a meaning and a motive, but in place her lithe fingers found the neck of her mare. 

At his question, she did not waver from her position, the only stirring her hand against Aurora's sinewy grey neck. 

"Not if you had arrived here with the intention to ride, Sir. Then I would be in company."

A statement, a question, an invitation; she had coloured her words with shades that were not meant for the eyes, but ears alone.

[tyceleone-deactivated20131105]

morning lilt || leone & nevaeh

[tyceleone-deactivated20131105]

"I assure you, I will make time for my little sister" he said with a grin. It was a promise he intended to keep, even if he had to manipulate time itself to have a couple of moments more with Nevaeh. The time they spent together cultivated pleasant memories to recall whenever he was away from Queengarden. They comforted him; gave him a reason to look forward to their return.

Leone remembered wanting to rid his sister of the beasts she kept as her pets. A white and a black wolf. They had even chose her themselves, insisting on spending more time with her than anyone else did. It took a lot of thinking to get used to the idea of his sister with two dangerous animals in her chambers. You can never tame a wolf, he used to think, his hand fleeing to his sword out of pure instinct. However, his sister had accomplished that task. Mara and Vitus were as obedient as hunting dogs and looked a little more lovable to Leone than they did in the beginning.

His sister’s joy whenever she refered to said beasts offered indulgence to his own spirit. His grin widened considerably, almost sharing her good mood. Booming laughter rose from his chest at the doings of his sister’s wolf. He never had pets, besides his horse. It could not even be considered a pet, since he visited him only to prepare for their battles and rode rarely.

Leone never doubted his sister’s abilities. With his own eyes he had seen her recognise people from the sound of their voice, or the feel of their hands. She recognised him, without even the necessity of a sound sometimes. It was remarkable truly, how she saw people from the inside. Leone’s eyes were only able to see the exterior; the threat. Rarely did he dig deeper into an individual out of curiosity.

A hand was raised for her to clasp onto, but she chose another way of approaching him. Olivine hues were concentrated on her, eyebrows slightly furrowed. Without doubling her guard, she was exposed. “At least keep Vitrus and Mara in your room.” He was not going to reason with her about her safety any longer.

The thin line of his lips hardened as he pressed them together with more force. Nevaeh had painted a picture of herself as an insignificant blind person, overlooking her title, beauty and importance. One might not want her for all the qualities Leone saw behind Nevaeh’s frame, but her title was also enough of a motive to bring harm to his sister. His lips had already pursed, ready to hush her, but with the gentle touch of her hand on his cheek, his eyes drifted closed. He couldn’t help but cherish the tranquil moments shared between them. They were becoming less and less.

Eyes snapping open at the briskness of her voice, Leone let is lips curl upwards, despite the feverish glow of good humor no more coating his cheeks. “Let’s.”

[daughtertothewest]

"As you wish, dearest one." She chuckled, releasing his cheek. No doubt her wolves - careful she was never to call them pets, for to do so would be an insult to their wild nature - would become excellent guards if the occasion called for it, although Nevaeh doubted they could tell the difference between Tyce and Winslow soldiers should the moment arise. Already Mara snapped at the cooks and maids that passed by when she was in a mood, causing those around her to cluck in distaste that the Daughter of the West chose to keep such tempestuous company.

At her brother's admission, her cheeks pulled tight, tugging her lips with them. In her early years, Nevaeh's tutors and the Queen's advisers had called riding too dangerous, and forebode her from more than a trot amongst only the flattest of valleys. But the call of a swift ride was too strong; the muscles flexing beneath a smooth coat, cool morning air biting exposed skin jovially, hair whipped back my speed. It had been a slow process, especially the first few years, but Nevaeh had forced herself to memorize the lands of Queensgarden so thoroughly that by now, just through concentration, she could know where she and her steed were headed at any moment in the ride. 

She learned valleys first, flat and solid, and the path to them from the stable - then the way to the forest, the outer edges of the gardens, even the hunting grounds. By taking the same routes time and time again with just one trusted steed, riding once again became a completely conceivable task. After she had memorized the paths and places, the speed came, and soon Nevaeh could ride with her brothers as if her eyes were wide open. Some areas were still dangerous, such as the forest, with its fallen stumps and logs, and a full gallop was outside of even Nevaeh's reach - but one day she hoped to learn the twisted and gnarled roots so well that even it wasn't forbidden to her.

Pulling the reins over her mare's head, she received only a snort in protest until she clamped on the bit with her teeth, hooves now stamping in excitement of a ride. Pacing carefully back to the bench where her riding staples lay, she heaved the light saddle up in her own arms, returning it back to her horse. She found mounting and tightening her own saddle was crucial to bound with her horse, as was learning every aspect of riding. She refused stable boys and hands time and time again, much to her mother's dismay as it was unbecoming of a Lady of her stature. But her arms were tough with muscle and sinew now, stronger than the fragile bird she looked. Tightening the leather around the belly of the mare, she felt around so that every lock and piece was in place. When she was sure, she led her beast out of its stable, cooing gently to it all the while. At the edge of the barn, she stopped, turning to where she heard her brother.

"Ready?" She grinned, petting the nose of her mare. Knowing there was a stool sitting at the very entrance of the stables, positioned to the left, her horse dutifully made its way over there so she could step upon it and mount her without help. Her stomach seemed to leap happily like a frog once she was upon the horse. "I seem to be in the mood for a race..." She began playfully. "Make sure to keep up, brother!" Her heel kicked into her horse, shooting off into the lands of their home.

[gardenfullof-lilys]

Letters || Elizaebeth&Nevaeh

Dear Nevaeh, 

I would first like to express how truly sorry I am for not being able to stay in Queensgarden with you and your family. It saddens me greatly not only that I could not stay in your beautiful home but also that I couldn’t have the  pleasure of your company. My uncle did not think it was wise for me to be too far from his side, I oh so wish my cousins were enough for him. 

But I do so hope with all my heart that we could still be friends however and that if we can not keep each others company in person we could in our words. I have never had many friends besides my cousins before and to call you a kin would be a honor and a true gift from The Three. I could never be able to thank you for the kindness you showed me in Queensgarden. Words from you would surely lighten my grey world here and perhaps soften the blow of returning to Winterhaven. 

I anxiously await your reply, Elizaebeth Winslow.

[daughtertothewest]

Dearest Elizaebeth,

Before you commence reading this, I should have you know that because I am a wanderer on this earth moving blind, writing is nary within my skills. I may attempt it, but never should I know if I so jumble the letters and lines so that they could never be read. In place, my handmaiden has lent me her slim hand while I speak what is to be written. She is fiercely loyal and honest, so do not worry about her tongue turning to the wrong place. Now --

It is only right that the King should have kept you for yourself at Winterhaven, as your presence is one that alights in the same way a candle does. I should imagine they need all the warmth they can garner at your home, among the snow and wind. Nonetheless, I should have liked to keep you here, in Queensgarden. The gardens fit you in a way I had not seen before. I truly believe, one day, you shall make your final nest here, as a dove returning home. And perhaps then we may spend our days together in laughter and sunshine.

I, too, should hope that we might continue correspondence -- we are similar in more ways than one, Elizaebeth, for I myself have few to turn to in my hours of not only need, but loneliness. Forgoing my brothers, hounds, and handmaids, heretofore I have not had the pleasure of a true friend. I would be most glad to become a silk down upon which your fall to the wintery lands could be softened, and so I entreat you to write me often and write me soon. For now, I have enclosed one of our most beautiful roses with the man who will ride out this letter - speaking to an apothecary, he has soaked the flower in a salve that should preserve it and arrive to you in perfect bloom. I would advise you place the stem in clean water upon its arrival, and lace it with more of the balm enclosed. Perhaps this way, you may still have flowers, even in your harshest winter. Should it ever die and you require another, simply tell me in your letter, and I shall send another one immediately --

With the fondest affection of a sister,

Nevaeh Tyce

[scoddystew]

[altofairbayne-deactivated201407]

Pleasantly Late | Drago & Nevaeh

[altofairbayne-deactivated201407]

Drago had noticed that he had been walking in circles for a long time, but he did not wish to return to the party. He quite enjoyed strolling along, arm in arm with his favorite niece. He didn’t stiffen as much this time about her question about Irene, but he was willing to answer. With a soft smile, he quickly looked behind him to see Nevaeh’s maids averting their eyes from his gaze. He never quite trusted them, but then again he didn’t qive a damn at the same time.

“Irene..she is beautiful yes. She’s as fair as the dew on the grass and the morning birds singing their melody. I did not choose to marry her for her beauty, but for the political power that she holds. In time, I am sure that feelings with grow between us,” Drago tried to reassure his niece. “At least that is what I am hoping for. I am not estranged to loveless marriages so I would not be too upset if it became that way.”

He gazed at her and gave a slight laugh. He knew that many people would be talking about Nevaeh in the tournament. They’ll be whispering things like ‘how could she know who is who?’ and “poor girl is probably as stupid as the smile that she puts on.” And Drago wouldn’t stand for it. So he would be sitting beside her and casting poisonous looks of his own for anyone that threatened to insult her.

“And I would avoid that incident with every fiber of my being,” Drago replied with a smile. As he spoke, he leaned in and planted a kiss on her cheek. “Alas, I must get back to my room. It was lovely walking and talking with you, my beloved Nevaeh.”

[hawkeye-ofatlantis-deactivated2]

The pause that followed his question was weighted and long, full of purpose and intent, but abandoned and directionless. The young woman seemed at once to stiffen, but it was with a curiosity that she waded through the resonances, the waves less frequent now, of his voice. As his fingers moved over cured hide, he closed his eyes if only for a moment. Though some considered her lack of sight a curse, Jonaethen could only wonder what crevices in her mind were activated to make up for it. Those without sight had to build worlds of their own imaginings, unable to conjure images from memory, but colourless sensation. 

Before his thoughts carried him further, her voice came, summoning his attentions. Over the shelf of his shoulder, he saw her lower her pointed features toward the ground, belying the strength in her voice. With her direction, he examined the finely crafted saddles, deciding upon one of a lighter, deerskin hide that matched her specifications. It was set aside upon a work table, forgotten by a hand who had begun to polish it. 

Draping it over his arm, he took steps toward her, allowing each roll of his foot to sound so that she could discern from his steady approach that he meant her no harm. To most, it might have appeared that a fallen sparrow with weak wings and opalescent eyes had been cornered by a lumbering bear with a thunderous growl, but it wasn’t that. Not at all.

Carefully, he nudged the horn of the saddle into the crook of her hand, watching. “Is this the one?”

[daughtertothewest]

Those who were allowed their sight could never imagine the hundred ways with which they betrayed themselves. This man's footsteps alone began to detail him like a portraitist does, with the basic outline first. He was light on his feet, with no dragging of heels or a limp to indicate bad health or posture. Lithe, sprightly, young. The jangle of his attire indicating someone in the Kingsguard, or perhaps a soldier. His voice singed - not her, it was too kind for that - but it told her of the people that had taught his tongue and lips to move.

She felt the cool leather prod gently into her palm, as if the nudge of a gentle mare, guided by his hand. Her fingers curled over the ridge, acknowledging the slow mountains that were stitches within the skin, the slick expanse of leather that she had worn down as the sea beats stone. Her grip tightened. "Yes." Her hand slid off the material slowly, gently, fingernails trailing over the hide a moment after her hand had fully departed. A breeze swirled through the air, and eddy of dust brushing against the back of her hand. It touched her as cautiously as the silence did/

"Would you be so kind, Sir, as to mount it on my steed?" 

Her voice was soft, but no longer timid. Supple and small in the way a rose was, rising tall on its bush, petals unfurling to reveal splendor better than silk or spiced wine - unafraid of the world, for it had its thorn should the unwanted hand seek to pluck it. 

[elisabethhewer]

I stole an apple some time after I was born. Do you think of me when you eat crumble? I think God probably does. It’s quite funny, really. He had the perfect world and he let me and a snake and an apple uproot it in a single day.

I opened a box they’d told me not to. To be fair to myself, they gave me to a man I’d never met. I’d never really met myself. (My lungs and blood and hair were clay, once.) That box was the only sort of history I had. Wouldn’t you want to know your own story?

I abandoned a daughter and a kingdom and ran away with a Trojan man.  It has been decided that I wanted to go. Even I’m not sure if I did anymore. They sent a thousand ships and said they were for me. (Secret: Troy was the only woman they wanted.)

The moral they intend us to take away is that women are responsible for all the evils in the world. I’d suggest you make your own moral instead.

Mine is that a single woman can uproot an entire world of men with the simple act of eating an apple, opening a box, loving a prince. 

No wonder they use everything they’ve got to keep us soft and pliant. 

[elisabethhewer]

— elisabeth hewer

[daughtertothewest]

death hath no dominion over her

[daughtertothewest]

If I were a vain girl,

[the-lion-errant-deactivated2013]

The comment about vanity makes a great deal more sense—Oh, and now that I think on it you look just as the songs say you do, my lady. 

But! Back to that scoundrel. Yes, I found him, up to his same trick. Lucky for me, the rain that night kept my hood over my face and he hadn’t yet seen me. Aha, thought I. Now, being a stranger, I could hardly call out a man, two days befriended to all his company, for a swindler. Not if I want a roof over my head in that town! So I pull aside a barmaid, a sprightly girl about your size, and I say, “Now, miss—see that man? I saw him ride in on a horse—and just now I have seen that horse ride out with another, just now. Best to warn him.” A deception, true, but a milder one, and it served its purpose. The barmaid delivered my message. Naturally, he went straight away to the hitching post—and naturally, I followed.

[daughtertothewest]

[One side of her lip turns up] Poets and bards always gild the truth; I cannot imagine I am anything like the words they spin. 

[Her pale lids slid over her clouded eyes; useless anyway. He breathed life into the story with every word, and she sketched the tale on the back of her eyelids. When he stopped, her breath hitched once, eyes lurching open. Her hand fell upon his arm, urgent.] You tease me so! Tell me what happened, or I shall swoon of impatience.

[hawkeye-ofatlantis-deactivated2]

Their company had lost a horse to injury and one to theft on their Westward fare. Fortunately, the ailing stallion had evaded infection if barely and the open sore on its hip was sealing beautifully. It had been his hope to arrive in Queensgarden in much better repair and with a full count of their company, but alas, the stolen horse had only just now been returned. Though it was dehydrated and exhausted to the point of collapse, it had not suffered the sting of arrow nor the slice of sword. 

Jonaethen had come as soon as duty relieved him to inspect the beast and to spend a little time with his own mare. The stables were silent save for the rustle of hay or a snort of equine dismay, so it caught him off-guard when a voice like a ringing bell sounded. In response, he lowered Blackbird’s hoof to the earthen floor and rounded the corner toward it. He had seen the girl at the party, clinging to the arms of those that would escort her. The paleness of her unseeing eyes was noticeable despite the distance between them and he had felt a pang of pity for her. Not for the fact she was blind, because it had often been his understanding that the wisest of people could see much more without the sense sight, but for the fact that there were times, despite any determination, that she had to ask for help. "Is there a brand or distinguishing characteristic that might set it aside from the others?" he asked, his back to her as he ran his hands along the saddles hung in neat rows along the walls.

[daughtertothewest]

His voice felt as a root does; thick and winding, capable of putting a man on his stomach, rocks embedded in his bones, and sheltering small creatures from the rain. It was unfamiliar to her, and as all new aspects of the world were to a girl who was simultaneously hiding from the world and being seen, to a girl whose ears were her eyes, it stirred her blood. Akin to a gown maker pulling an exotic new silk beneath their fingers, a voyeur among sunsets, so she tasted his voice to learn what it was made of.

Steel and dirt, she decided.

Even as she poured over his voice like pale gold, the sudden arrival of it had startled her. She had expected the response of a stable boy or maid, not this. Not a man who had the spice of Fervention in his tone; and she was not unlike the mares in the stable at the moment - skittish, bashful, snorting towards a new intruder. Alone with a strange man without the intimacy of his face. The sighted always disregarded how much could be garnered from a look in the eyes, in the shape of a mouth.

"No," Her face dipped to the earth, unblinking. "I am - I do not know what it looks like." Cheeks burned like the heat of his voice, abashed at once for her former irritation and the vulnerability of the place. "The swell and horn are higher, I believe, the leather thinner."

Her lungs drew in a wavering, full breath, straightening out her back. She was not a babe nor sapling, nor a girl anymore. Sixteen springs and capable as any man. Fire and ice did not draw blood. The prick of a thorn did. 

[rossuet-winslow]

At the woman’s inquiry, Rossuet spared a single glance her way, immediately perplexed by her lack of comprehension on the matter. Far as he could tell, she was looking in the same direction as he. Either she was playing coy for some puerile reason he couldn’t discern, or she was so blissfully unobservant, his superficial offering went unacknowledged. Neither boded well for his continued state of contentment.

Brows furrowing, he regarded her a little more closely on his second appraisal, eyes instantly drawn to her own. She couldn’t be, surely… ‘Twas no small amount of guilt that swelled in his breast when the reality of her situation finally dawned upon him. A frown tugged at his lips of its own accord.

"The fruit, My Lady," he offered blandly. “‘Tis the finest I’ve ever had the good fortune of tasting."

What a burden it must be, he thought, to be so sorely absent one’s sight. He’d heard tales of the girl, of course. That Andromaque’s daughter had been afflicted so certainly did not lack for joy in Deston’s opinion. Rossuet knew little of the actual detail’s surrounding the girl’s lack of vision, however—and the tales that wormed their way amidst the court are never to be listened to with one’s disbelief entirely suspended, after all. He found himself vaguely curious as to how, and when, Nevaeh might have lost her sight, but such thoughts were quickly abandoned. Such things bore little importance in the larger scheme of things.

Straightening in his seat before he stood, hands trailing against the arms of the chair for support, Rossuet plucked a plum from the bowl, carefully slinging it from one hand to the next. It might have been said once or twice in passing that he were a man too light-footed for his own good, but, on this occasion, he made the effort to add some weight to his step. There’d be no good in frightening the poor girl away.

"They are familiar to you, I’ve no doubt," he said, closing the distance between them before gently clasping her hand in his and sliding the fruit into her own possession. "But one should always delight in the indulgences of home, I think."

Pursing his lips, Rossuet withdrew his hands, contemplating offering the girl some semblance of a bow before ultimately deeming the gesture futile and unnecessary. “I am Rossuet Winslow, My Lady.”

[daughtertothewest]

It was an unfamiliar voice, even upon further analysis. He held the lilt of a Northerner, undeniably, full and thick - with enough heat to crack through the icy chambers of Winterhaven. "Ah," She nodded. A slight irritation ran through her in blinking quickness. Not the man, for he had done nothing. Simply... moments like these. Being unable to touch, feel, or hear her way to the answer, left with nothing to do but ask for a description of what should be so simple. But it passed, as did all things, and as all does. "I am pleased you think it so, My Lord. I myself could dine on nothing other and live with a dreadful happiness."

She heard the creak of bone and furniture intermixing to create their own refrain. Her ears seperated the mixed sounds from around her to focus on his steps the same way a bloodhound did; detailing the echoes in her mind till she knew he was before her. Even then, she had not expected the touch on her hand - but her body remained still, calm. Her hand closed over the fruit, soft and round. "I am in agreement." Her thumb ran over the skin of the fruit, feeling the suppleness. A plum, she decided. "But what is one to do when your home in itself is the greatest indulgence?" 

A fair question, so she believed. What was there to complain of Queensgarden, who suffered not the scorching days of Fervention or the shivering nights of Winterhaven? What was her home but flowers and spring, warmth and love, birdsong and silk? 

She had not recognized his voice, but his name drew an immediate response. A nimble curtsy, as dictated the laws of hierarchy. "Lord Winslow." Brother to the King, and she third in line to a throne she would never receive, in a gender that was not acceptable. "And so you indulge upon roaring fires and the finest furs. I hope Queensgarden has proved itself an acceptable proxy for these celebrations."