Private Tales The Calm

[Arctus Valerian]

With heavy, sure steps did Arctus stride toward the Ōmeyōcān. Nor was he the only one this day to do so. For today was a special occasion among the nobility of Thanasis. An elderly Ascended of House Saella was holding a ceremony to pass the bond of his dragon, Guanadowyr, to his eldest son. As such many other Ascended, and many more members of the nobility besides, were invited to attend the ceremony upon one of the weathered, venerated training grounds that numerous generations of Ascended past, and many more to come, had and would train upon for the safety of their people.

Arctus himself was no Ascended, no rider, and as such his glimpses into the Ōmeyōcān had been brief, formal things. Much like today. But the returned head of House Valerian, pariah and exemplar both, never failed to be impressed by the ancient structure. The sheer, momentous history that seemed to pour from every crack in the ancient stone, every whisper of triumph that flowed along every trickle of water that escaped entrapment in the stone, all of it felt almost like home to him. Though he had never, and by some whispers would never, trained there. Those whispers he paid no mind beyond recognizing their existence, weighing and measuring the lips that spoke them, before moving along with the flowing flock of nobility.

The training ground chosen was, apparently, a half-circle whose missing half ended in an open, natural arch out into the very skies themselves. Allowing one to take flight before, during or after training at their heart's content. This fact allowed a fresh breeze to spill upon the gathering crowds, sending his ashen hair whipping in a controlled braid. The half-uniform half-ceremonial armor he wore tinkling gently as loose bits of ancient stone sounded against the bits of metal fastened to his frame. That same wind carrying rumors that Gaunadowyr and their rider had plans to make an elegant entrance through the natural arch into the Ōmeyōcān. Elegance, control and fanfare all displayed in one motion before the bond was passed. To show the value of the dragon, so heavily precious to their House, and impress upon the son just what it was they were inheriting.

Arctus, eyes upon that arch, mind wandering to the feel of air whipping through his hair, what it would be like to take the saddle upon dragonback, only paused when something impacted the firm frame of his chest. He froze, body tense, an apology on his lips before he flicked golden eyes over.... no.... down.... to a small, red-headed woman who may as well have run into the stone of the mountain for all she did to move him. However, unlike the stone, Arctus would apologize.

"Forgive me, My Lady."

He offered nothing by way of explanation as to why he had ran into her. He did not have any that he thought would be satisfactory for her. Nor did he recognize the crest of her House and so he did not have any idea as to the temperament of the beautiful storm of ice-blue eyes and fire-red hair of a woman he had just ran into. Once again unlike the mountain Arctus would step aside, bowing respectfully, before he ventured to offer her an arm.

"Should it make amends for my ill manners I would escort you to wherever it is you are going, of course."

Finally, like the mountain, his voice though low, polite and little more than a murmur.... was a deep, throaty rumble like the grinding of stone tinged with just enough air and masculinity to confirm he was, in fact, human.

Vivien Damaris​

 

[Vivien Damaris]

A visit with her sister had left Vivien perilously late. It was the sort of lateness that made her chest tighten, cheeks flushed with fluster and restrained urgency as she moved briskly across the training grounds, intent on reclaiming her place at her betrothed’s side before Carsan Sahar noticed her absence and chose to comment on it publicly. She did not yet bear his name, and so some allowances were made - but only just. Once vows were spoken, once she was his wife in truth, there would be no room for such errors. He would ensure she was a very well polished possession.

She wore emerald velvet, the gown heavy with fine gold embroidery worked into starburst patterns that caught the light when she moved. Her shoulders were bare, pale skin freckled softly, her hair swept back and pinned with deliberate care. She was elegance, even in haste, but she was not looking where she was going as her eyes frantically scanned for the Sahar household.

The impact was sudden and absolute. She collided with something solid, unyielding, the sound of it punctuated by the soft clatter of metal and a quiet, undignified oof forced from her lungs.

Vivien looked up sharply, breath catching in her throat.
“Shit,” she swore before she could stop herself.

Mortification followed instantly, She closed her mouth, smoothed her skirts, and drew herself upright, schooling her expression into something cool and composed as her gaze travelled upward, over a broad chest, powerful shoulders, and finally a strong, severe jawline. The man before her looked less like a person and more like a fixture of the mountain temple itself, as though the world might break around him before he ever gave ground.

His apologies were offered. She almost returned them. Almost admitted fault, brushed it away as nothing. But her instincts swiftly reasserted themselves. Vivien lifted her chin instead, spine straightening as ice cold composure settled over her.

“You should be more careful,” she replied coolly, glancing him up and down. “Lest you crush someone.”

Her gaze flicked to the arm he offered, assessing it with a measured, impersonal glance. Courtesy, perhaps. Or something else. She had learned long ago not to mistake politeness for purity of motive.

A faint huff of breath escaped her as she stepped back, increasing the space between them. The last thing she needed was to arrive late and on the arm of another man, especially one who looked like this.

“I am quite capable of walking on my own, thank you, Ser,” she said, the title emphasised just enough to suggest it was granted out of obligation rather than respect.

She spared him one final, unreadable look before turning away to leave him there, coppery strands of her hair whipping in the frigid breeze.

 

[Arctus Valerian]

Like the crashing of waves upon the shore her words washed over him without a mark, without so much as a twitch of the brow or much indication that he had even heard her save for the smallest, most controlled nod of the head he could give. The fault was his, after all, and he replied almost instantly as her cool, controlled strike snapped at him. Like the claw of a jungle cat swatting an irritant away, or the lunging strike of a viper with it's venom, she was precise, efficient and lethal with her words. His response would come nearly in an instant but was unhurried. As if he were a piece of the mountainside she had merely shook the loosest of stones from to clatter in response to her strike.

"Of course My Lady, I will be mindful of those more delicate in the future."

He did not shy from her gaze, her venom, the ice and judgement she levied, delivered through two teal portals to the soul that may as well have lead to the coldest depths of the sea for all the warmth they offered. As she denied his offer he would withdraw his arm, folding them over his chest merely to busy them, and watched her go for only a moment. Exactly why he did so would remain a mystery, perhaps even from himself, but only when two golden eyes met unreadable teal would he turn and begin walking again. His gait as unhurried, steady, firm as it had been before. Only now he brought his eyes forward, mastering himself so as to avoid even the chance of a repeat mistake, and found his place among those associated with House Volantaeris.

No more than a handful of minutes would pass before the young Saela heir was standing amid the training grounds, fists lightly curled at his sides, his breathing just a bit too deep, just a bit too fast, to be calm. He was nervous, that much was clear, and if any present thought lesser of him for it none dared let those emotions show upon their features for such an event. A fact that would only be further highlighted as the rumors of Gaunadowyr's arrival through the natural arch, wings casting a shadow, scaled form moving with lethal grace and a surety of motion bought with years of practice and battle. The Ascendant upon the dragon's back was a man withered by age, likely taking an effort to hold himself as proudly, as straight, in the saddle as he did. One last expression of pride and propriety, one last display for House Saella, but perhaps the most important he would ever make.

Arctus had more than a little respect for the man as he still, on his own, brought himself from the saddle in a motion that was so practiced, so ingrained, so second nature to him that even the rigors of age yielded one last time to well-earned endurance. For one single moment as the elder Ascendant landed upon the floor of the Ōmeyōcān, as his now too-large armor hung loosely around his wizened frame only to clatter more than it should, for one single moment could it be believed there was still enough of his prime left to continue his vigil. This sentiment would die, however, as he placed his hands firmly on the shoulders of his heir and gave a kind, even loving paternal smile. Words unheard by the rest of those in attendance were traded, the dragon Guanadowyr would curl with casual confidence, half-encircling the pair while also levying wizened eyes at the younger man.

The dragon saw, the dragon knew, things even their bonded Ascendant did not. The peaceful nature of the Ransa breed gleaming in harmony within the eyes of the majestic creature to it's wisdom. A low rumble, enough to sweep away idle chatter from the crowd, a proclamation of something only one bonded to the dragon could hope to decipher, left Guanadowyr after matching the gaze of the young Saela for a long, breathless moment.

Finally with a slow, almost painful finality the dragon would begin to move. Long, slow strides carrying Guanadowyr around from behind the older Saela to curl in a half-circle behind their newly bonded rider. The eyes of the older man would well, wet with unshed tears, his hands shaking gently, his posture slumping, and he began to have to genuinely lean on his son in that moment. The men, young and old, one supporting and the other bequeathing would slowly turn to bow respectfully to the dragon. Who would settle upon the stone floor with a sense of finality and, flexing their mighty wings, would simply.... wait.

The older Saela, his legs quaking as other members of the family rushed to his support, would usher his son forward. Who would, in turn, climb into the saddle for the first time with slow, anxious movements. Even stumbling for a moment as his foot slipped from the stirrup but upon the second attempt, with face and ears pink with embarrassment from his mishap, he would raise a hand proudly skyward as the crowd began to applaud.

And then..... the socializing began. What had once been a dim clutter of hushed whispers, side conversations and respectful silence now boiled over into speculation, more rumors and even outright marriage offers to House Saela toward their newly bonded rider. Arctus, for his part, finished his applause and simply stood to leave. Or at the very least see what he could of the Ōmeyōcān even as his own House members joined in the social meandering.

Instead his firm, unyielding stride would lead Arctus toward more secluded sections of the room, parting the crowds like the prow of some proud, great oaken warship. The last thing he expected was to see a familiar head of fiery, beautiful hair out of the corner of his eye......

Vivien Damaris​

 

[Vivien Damaris]

Delicate.

The word scraped at her spine, causing it to stiffen. Vivien’s gaze cut back to him, sharp enough that the offense was unmistakable. Delicate, as though a woman might be reduced to fragility by the absence of height, muscle, a sword at her hip or a cock in her pants. As though strength were measured only in what could be seen.

She was strong. She had learned to be. Not in ways that earned songs or scars, but in ways that kept her standing when softer souls would have bent or broken. She did not correct him, but the look she gave him ensured that he was well aware of how it irked her.

“There you are.”

Carsan Sahar’s voice cut through the moment, cool and edged with irritation so faint it might have been missed by anyone less attuned to him than Vivien was. She stopped immediately and dipped into an apologetic curtsy..

“My apologies, my lord, I-”

“It’s fine.”

The interruption was firm and final. It was very clearly not fine, but appearances mattered more than truth. Especially today. Especially for House Sahar.

Carsan would not have it whispered that he could not command his future wife, not when his own father had failed to command his dragon, losing that bond to a woman with a soft heart. The Sahars’ reputation had been thoroughly dented, their strength in society called into question. It would be repaired. Vivien was part of that repair.

She inclined her head in gracious acceptance, her gaze lifting just long enough to meet her parents’ eyes. Her mother’s look was hard and reproachful. Her father’s, sharp with warning. Lord Celreos watched as well, along with other lords and ladies who traded glances that spoke of judgment carefully disguised as curiosity.

Vivien reached for her betrothed’s hand. He did not take hers. Instead, Carsan closed his fingers around her arm and drew her firmly to his side, grip near tight enough to bruise. The message was clear without words: Stand here. Be still. Say nothing. You have embarrassed me.

So she did. Around them, the mood had turned celebratory. Smiles bloomed. Voices lifted. A dragon should have a rider worthy of pride, not a withered old man bowing to age at last. This was progress. This was triumph.

Vivien saw only loss.

Her eyes followed the exchange between father, son, and dragon, her brow knitting faintly as she watched the elder Lord Saella lean into his heir. The bond they shared between them was profound enough that it could be severed and given as a final gift. Jealousy cut quick and sharp. Not of the dragon alone, but of the choice. Of the love implicit in the sacrifice.

She would never know such bonds. Not with her parents. Not with a dragon. Not with the man holding her arm.

Her throat tightened, but her expression did not change. She watched the elder man struggle, saw the grief the son tried and failed to hide, understood too well the shape of what was coming next. This was inheritance and mourning entwined. A celebration built atop an ending.

Carsan turned away from her then, already engaged in conversation, his interest drifting as easily as it always did. Those on her other side were no better, faces alight with excitement, voices murmuring wonderful, how proud they must be.

Vivien stood silently among them all, still watching the father, and son, and dragon, surrounded by festivity. And she had never felt more alone.