ii.
what does one do when they have nowhere left to turn?
they go home.
the crimson perch was no foreigner to the agitation that rocked kul tiras; where brennadam and boralus were being sieged and razed, edmond reviers was constantly working. he hadn’t dealt with the horde conflict in years; to suddenly be thrust into working alongside the alliance and sending fleets to their deaths - it was toiling work, and kept him constantly on edge.
the crimson perch was a trading paradise; it exported luxury ore and marble minerals in exchange for knowledge, beasts and reputation. house reviers was a line of seafarers, all of which had served in the tirasian navy some point in their lives. their land, known for being trapped in eternal autumn, was untamed, much like those who spawned from there, and it wasn’t going to be tamed anytime soon. not by the alliance, and not by conflict.
---
her boots clatter against the wooden dock of bedlam’s rest as she retreats from the ferry she traveled by. her path is eminent: forward to the highest hill, then to the reviers manor at its acme. there’s little that stops her; passing looks of surprise for the red-headed reviers’ daughter to return home unannounced are greeted by stoicism, and wary greetings from those she once knew are only reciprocated in the form of curt nods.
for brevity, her visit does not go well:
“how dare you tarnish our family name?”
her father’s words bite; he’s shouting, and edmond reviers rarely became incensed. he was known to be a calm man, yet the furrow present in his brows gave her an expression that she’d only seen few times.
others are present. her mother, red-headed just as she, sits poised at her side, yet it isn’t a show of motherly solidarity - kind features were pulled into a similarly incensed look. a new man - in his fifties, undoubtedly, with hair greying to a luminescent ivory - stands to her father’s right, fur encapsulating his shoulders and hand resting idly on the gilded hilt of the sheathed sword at his left. he had been introduced as her father’s new advisor, and fawn spares him little more than a brief glance.
fawn is silent; their scolding goes unregistered in her mind, which is - instead - busy attempting to work the pieces together of how they knew. her past of piracy had been illicit; heavily concealed by those she’d trusted in the alliance intelligence division. she’d made up for those crimes, and although she’d kept them concealed from her pirate-hunting family, she hadn’t expected them to come back and bite her. not now, at least.
it had to be by communication, she surmises. some strategy by someone who wanted to knock her down – had she any enemies? plenty, as a life of devilry tends to carve out such relationships, yet there were few that knew she’d been involved in piracy. she’s certain of that.
but when her eyes land on the ebon envelope on her father’s desk, it brings her pause. there’s a golden ‘E.R.’ stitched into the parchment, undoubtedly addressed for her father, though something seemed so peculiar about it. the news came to him recently, else she would have heard his wrath much earlier, and her fingers twitch as her gaze continues to bore a pair of holes into the letter. that was it - it had to be by letter–this letter.
they banish her. revoke her nobility, her wealth, the family she knew. the vivacious fawn reviers is no more.
for the first time, fawn holmwood is the sole proprietor of her being. and for the first time, fawn holmwood is on her own.