- Messages
- 81
- Character Biography
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Byanka had gotten the letter late the night before and she had received no sleep at all because of it. She had sat awake in her room in the monastery, reading the letter over and over until she had memorized every line, but it had not helped her great feeling of unsettlement. Worse than the confusion and desperation she had felt when dealing with the construct, now she was not sure how to feel- she could not express how she did feel in words. And even if she could, to whom would she tell all her woes? While she was not lonely or friendless by any means, she had no close friends with whom she could share anything. She could not burden her fellow knights with her woes (or whatever they were, she still wasn't sure).
She rubbed her eyes, her head throbbing faintly. The letter lay beside her; it was creased and worn smooth, the writing already smudged from being read hundreds of times throughout the night. She picked it up once more, her eyes dancing across the parchment, her mind not reading what was on the page; instead, replaying the words that had been branded inside of her mind.
Her father was dying.
Lord Valkas had sent her away to the Astenvale Monastery when she was nine after her mother's death, because she was a bastard. Though she shared his name, she would share none of his assets. Or at least that was what she had thought. Apparently her father had failed to produce a legitimate heir and his advisors were now suggesting he reach out to Byanka, his only daughter. In the letter, he was asking her to return home to help him set his affairs in order, and so that when he inevitably died (he was quite dramatic about the state of his health), she could take over and succeed him as Lady Valkas.
And once more Byanka returned to her feeling of unsettlement. She was unused to change, and this was a significant change. She did not know if she would be able to continue to serve as a Knight if she decided to accept her newfound wealth and power, nor did she know if she should grieve and be sad about her father's sickness and impending death. She had spent nine years of her life with him (though most of it was spent with her mother), but he had been so quick to give her up and continue on his privileged life with his wife, as if Byanka's mother had meant nothing to him.
Deciding she needed a strong pot of coffee, she rose from her chair, tucked the letter into the pocket of her trousers. She walked down the hall quietly; the sun was barely up, casting a pinkish gray light across the floor and walls.
Monroe
She rubbed her eyes, her head throbbing faintly. The letter lay beside her; it was creased and worn smooth, the writing already smudged from being read hundreds of times throughout the night. She picked it up once more, her eyes dancing across the parchment, her mind not reading what was on the page; instead, replaying the words that had been branded inside of her mind.
Her father was dying.
Lord Valkas had sent her away to the Astenvale Monastery when she was nine after her mother's death, because she was a bastard. Though she shared his name, she would share none of his assets. Or at least that was what she had thought. Apparently her father had failed to produce a legitimate heir and his advisors were now suggesting he reach out to Byanka, his only daughter. In the letter, he was asking her to return home to help him set his affairs in order, and so that when he inevitably died (he was quite dramatic about the state of his health), she could take over and succeed him as Lady Valkas.
And once more Byanka returned to her feeling of unsettlement. She was unused to change, and this was a significant change. She did not know if she would be able to continue to serve as a Knight if she decided to accept her newfound wealth and power, nor did she know if she should grieve and be sad about her father's sickness and impending death. She had spent nine years of her life with him (though most of it was spent with her mother), but he had been so quick to give her up and continue on his privileged life with his wife, as if Byanka's mother had meant nothing to him.
Deciding she needed a strong pot of coffee, she rose from her chair, tucked the letter into the pocket of her trousers. She walked down the hall quietly; the sun was barely up, casting a pinkish gray light across the floor and walls.
Monroe