“Breaks your heart, doesn’t it?” — Aranea to Ardyn // @ithirial
"Into absolute bloody tatters."
It's been a long night. Strange dreams have tumbled through his broken mind, and that fracture is the only one that concerns him. His heart is closed to all that has come to pass in these last few days. Dead kings and fallen realms are only a holding pattern.
The presence of a mercenary, however, does throw a wrench into the operatic melodrama. Golden eyes flick over the Commodore's form, too young for this sorry lot, too promising. That idiot Ravus might be younger, but he carries himself as befitting his station. He belongs here, with demented emperors and worse monsters.
Aranea will not be an easy one to crack. Things must be reciprocal between them, information for information, blow for bow. A crystal glass fills with heady liquid, an offering to the only goddess left in the sky. He slides it towards her, drinking in the scent of his own glass.
"Now that the Lucian invasion has succeeded, I fear the blush is off the rose. It holds no allure for me. I spent years conceiving the spectacle, and like so many fathers, I find the fruits of my labor wanting. If you're seeking sordid tales of conquest, I believe Prince Ravus is the one to see." A small sip. His mouth is so damnably dry. Ardyn can feel the ichor pulsing through his gums and tongue.
A manicured nail scrapes along the side of the vessel. He turns his head to study her again.
"I thought the Emperor had banished you to patrolling the Outlands. Not that I'm not pleased as punch to see you again, Commodore... but I really do wonder about your return to the fold."
