(ossoraca) 😱 it's Ronda. It's definitely Ronda.
a continuation from here
There were no seasons in Valinor. That was one of the things Ranyasúre had not expected to struggle with adapting to. It was in a perpetual flourishing bloom, a paradise, perfect, ever-caught in spring's grandeur. She didn't care for it. It made time feel stretched, or perhaps compacted. What she measured by seasons and years, was now difficult to tell.
Many ages ago, she had promised her husband something very simple. For long nights passed, where his dreams were darkened by the shadow of his father. When his anger at last had surfaced, and she had known of his hurts, then-- then she had come to understand.
She had promised to help him kill his father.
Of course, they could not do such a thing right away, but there was some strategic advantage on their side; both of them now unfortunately knew the way to navigate his home, knew how and whom he was.
It was a very odd feeling. Being excited for something like this-- Rani was not a violent woman anymore. Yet there she stood in her kitchen, deciding exactly which cooking knife would serve her best if needed. They had said if the weather held, this would be the night, and Rani had even pulled out breeches and a tunic for the occasion; usually they were much too uncomfortable and difficult to get on, to bother, but in this instance, it was wiser. The door opened, and Rani turned to look at her husband.
"How is it?" she asked calmly.
