o()xxxx[{:::::::::::::::: ( -) -V-A-I-N-G-L-O-R-Y- (-) ::::::::::::::::}]xxxx()o
o()xxxx[{::::::::::: (-T-H-E-B-E-S-T-) :::::::::::}]xxxx()o
o()xxxx[{::::::::-M-O-B-A- ::::::::}]xxxx()o
|Preface|
Lyra forces herself to get up early and make tea every morning - a habit she developed on the fields as a Gythian battlemage. She shivers and swings her legs down from her solitary bed to touch the cold floor. A quick snap of her nimble fingers is all it takes to get the candle next to her bedside burning. Sniffling, she reaches towards her rune book perched precariously on her nightstand. Ambrosius's eye blinks sleepily as Lyra passes the semi-potent spellbook in favor of a scrap of paper bearing an incomplete rune configuration from the night before. She holds it up to inspect her handiwork, eyes squinting in the candlelight, eyes searching for any small flaw in the design. The dried ink had bled and smeared across one sector of the inner circles, effectively cutting off the flow of magic to the other components, a consequence of watery tears and wavering focus.
With a sigh, she destroys the runic circle, the parchment catching fire and turning to ash. She gets dressed, pulling her well-worn mage tunic over her underclothes, being careful not to let the layered material snag on anything, and dons her red fur cape, draping it over her shoulders. She glances at herself in the mirror, taking notice of the bags under her eyes, as she fixes her dark lavender hair behind her antlers. She pauses and reaches down into the folds of the satchel tied around her waist.
The rising sun's rays provide no warmth, even less so in Trostan, but as the first rays of sunlight dance across the icy glaciers and into her room, settling on the blood-red ruby and polished gold of her half-crown; warmth floods through her cold limbs, a rekindled spark of passion as she remembers the day it was presented to her by Titus. She closes her eyes, and enjoys the memory as it lasts, desperately trying to embrace the memory further in her mind, the feeling of Titus grabbing her hand and kneeling… the gold and crimson silk banners in the hall fluttering in a sudden breeze from Bladed Bay… the magnificent shine of gold in contrast to the glowing ruby when it was unfurled by her shaking hands…
The memory fades, and she is left alone; the hymns of the Gythian Choir heard from every street corner in Gythia fade to the ever present roar of water.
A single tear finds its way down to the floor, crystallizing as it drops, only to shatter into a million pieces on the cold stone floor.
Fin