A Rose Withered [PK]

[livrose 1594]

 

A ROSE WITHERED

The Death of Rosalind Amador de Astrea

 

The distant creaks of brittle bones no longer resonated in the palace halls of Karosgrad. 

 

High-pitched squawks, akin to a yelping crow, no longer sounded in the morning. Cobbles of dust lined the handle to the office of the Grand Lady. Dwelling inside were vast webs spanning left to right and the light of any lantern dwindled to nil. The constant and spotless reflection of her mirror no longer shined into the eyes of the courtiers. That famous fraud for a dulcet titter masked by inner envy was heard by no more. It was only a few weeks since her high-heeled tapping echoed against palace flooring, as she sought out her unlucky palace sod of the day. Her servants alas had soothed ears. They found they had more time. No longer did the Grand Lady yap and yelp and order them about for her own trivial conveniences.

 

Was the city quieter, more peaceful, perhaps? Or was it just… aching without her presence. That’s what Lady Rosalind would’ve thought at least. It begged the question; where is the Grand Lady?

 

Or better put - Where is Rosalind de Astrea?

Her bones creaked at every pace, but somehow and for some reason, a face of one of her old friends sought that she hike out into the woods of the eastern parts of Hanseti-Ruska. Witnesses spied the pair leave, and neither one of them were not known to be the most demure of figures. So not a word else was thought of it, save for a spry arch of a curious brow. Nothing more, nothing less. Into the woods they delved regardless, the Grand Lady and her cynical ambivalence caught at least one concerned memory. Something was off, she knew it, and despite her ambivalence she carried on her trek, while a memory fluttered her mind;

 

Time passed too quickly for her liking. She would give anything to return to her youth - oh! To be sixteen years old again; lithe and glowing with burgeoning adolescence. Rosalind recalled those initial weeks, having returned to New Reza... the prattling box of a carriage that brought her home, the uproarious tavern she took pains to avoid, and the first friend she found in Prince Franz Leopold. He was untroubled, then. Much like herself. 

 

Her thoughts ordered themselves as the memory of his room assembled in their swimming shapes; the wooden curve of his desk, the corners of his bedsheets. Franz had donned one of her old dresses, pairing it with sparkling jewellery and a few pumps of perfume. There he stood, admiring himself in the large mirror. Rosalind collapsed into a fit of giggles upon seeing the strange sight, and promptly declared him the prettiest girl in the world. Indeed, the dress was too small for the taller boy and tugged and pulled taut in all the wrong places, yet it became him still. His youthful visage had grinned back, retorting with a witty remark that seemed oh-so-foggy to her now. Perhaps her memory was failing her. 

Her pensive frame passed. It was just a memory. They traipsed out of the woods, past vast Haeseni farms and to a towering keep, which beheld her admiring eye over a second. She had expected at least a glass of wine from the keep’s confines; it was right, so she knew. Instead, her skirts remained hiked as her to-be adversary brought her along to a lakeside just over the horizon of the holding. They had stopped at the bitter lakeside, from where they were at the mercy of the winds of the waters. Their talk turned from idle gossip to that of grave depth. At the dawn of that latter depth, cracked a smile from his seemingly warmed lips. It took her back;

 

The shrieking wind morphed into a distant lilt of ballroom music, as a mirroring smile graced the lips of Ser Alric in his youthful form. She remembered the exact dress she was wearing - seeing as she’d selected it especially for such an occasion. Layers of silk and chiffon in that beautiful blue shade, matched precisely to the brocade shawl she had slipped off upon entering. It was their moment, the turning point of time. Their eyes had caught for years prior to that dance, but nothing had ever sparked from their initial desire. Still, it felt to be sickly, as their special moment was enshrouded by the unfaithfulness of the pair; Visant was away, and Alric’s wife, Vespira, gawked from the sidelines, eyes staring a hole into the dancing duo. 

 

Rosalind, basking in such attention, tilted her upwards and flashed those pearled whites of hers. Alric was hers - an accessory to wear on her arm - parading him and herself to crowds of gossip. Even now, once recalling his smile, she supposed it was of the above average sort. Not as nice as hers, naturally. Rosalind soon found herself lamenting, scrutinising such a memory... if only his face could have been preserved in that instant, during a particularly raucous bout of laughter. Then, perhaps, her last memories of the man wouldn’t be so spoiled.

Having been soured in that memory, it brought the Lady back to the light of reality. In turn, alike the memory, the real world around her turned embittered; sour. A smile turned to a glower. Happy memories of the two shared together turned to something far sinister. Rain as if it were called, poured down. From a high to a low in the snap of an eye, it sunk her heart to the pits. Minutes passed, the bodeful figure now un-slouched loomed over, towering above her both physically and in words; her soul was irreparable, told he. And it all clicked, for Rosalind would appear to always be in idyllic, imaginary fields of daisies. But now she was grounded in her reality and his intent. The hiss of a sheathe and a flash of a sword revealed, that hiss banging in her ears;

 

Another memory. A prolonged carriage-ride home the lady had spent hunched over, body wracked with sobs. Her bald head felt like a freshly dealt wound of the gravest kind - no, it was the worst she had suffered, she was quite sure of it. So she wept. In the carriage, up the drive, even before her own mirror. Collapsing in a heap of skirts, Rosalind, between sniffles, had stared at herself. Stared at the kohl running down her cheeks, stared at all the glaring imperfections she could now see. Forlorn tears dripped down the bridge of her nose, as the Lady locked herself away.

 

First it was Visant who came. He knocked, spoke comforts through the cracks of the door, his voice wobbly with emotion at seeing her in such a shell-like state. He was sent away. Next came her youngest, Adalia, who cried and cried. Analiesa had hit her head in the altercation and was being tended downstairs. Rosalind couldn’t comfort the girl any more than she could herself. In a fit of crescendoed rage she smashed her mirror - picking up the pieces thereafter to eye her distorted self, only to feel her heart leaden and fresh tears spring. She sobbed for hours, then days, refusing to emerge from her rooms until the wrenching grief would pass; if it ever would.  

What brought her back was the delayed pain that never quite hit. She daren’t peer at her sopping dress, dripping in her own colding blood and rain from the bleak clouds above. His whisper echoed, his sword remained stuck and the bibs of blood ruined her dress - oho - she thought, my dress! It had been one of her favourites. The gurgle of the sword’s withdrawal from her wound seemed to have come after she dropped to the ground. Words discarded, gasped through the agony, almost lost in the rain;

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s alright.”

 

Nothing made sense - it was like seeing thunder prior to its vicious snap of sound after. But there she lay, pooling blood from around her body, embedding it into the ruffled ground of mud below. She yearned for more memories to flood her mind, to drown in swimming images and happier echoes, anything to strive off the claustrophobic jaws of death, soon enclosing. 

 

It was a strange feeling that befell her next. Rosalind felt herself rise - expression frozen in anguish as she looked down, seeing herself sprawled beneath her in such an ungodly fashion. Both hands fluttered to her gut, fingers probing the smooth material for evidence of the deathly injury. There was nothing. No pain. Godani, she was never one for the sight of blood, yet there it pooled around the Rosalind beneath her. Did she really look that old, that… tired? 

 

The shrieking wind continued to bully her killer as they stood over the body, panting. Perhaps they murmured something, but it was soon swallowed by the harsh breeze. She found herself in an odd distant state from everything, an omniscient watcher, punished to remain shackled to a dreary world. Anger seethed through her at the thought. Cold didn’t prick her skin into goosebumps, nor would heat soothe her aches. Distant laughter rang within her ears, accompanied by the steady beat of a shovel digging up wet mud. Turning from the scene, her once-again youthful face crumpled. She didn’t want to listen anymore. 

That was to be the end of Rosalind. Her dreams of dying were known; to be mourned for deeply. For everybody to care about her disappearance. Yet it took weeks for anybody to even bat an eye. She wasn’t a good woman. She wasn’t a bad woman. Perhaps she’ll be stuck between the skies above and the hells below for eternity. Her end was muffled, just like the shallow and unmarked grave that her rotting pile of flesh and bones found themselves to be in. One might call it poetic, that her burial be so shallow, so insignificant, a twisted form of irony in the bitter end...

 

Even this shallow justice compares not to her killer. Much was not told in her passing. It is doubted anybody should care enough to find out. 

 

It was only Rosalind Amador, after all.

Rosalind Amador de Astrea

[320 ES - 380 ES]
 

Spoiler

gosh! i just wanted to add a little something - a big thank you to anyone who roleplayed with rosalind!! she was super fun to play and will always be very dear to my heart. <33

 

another thank you to @biggestdonfor helping me write this fat post :*)

 

[Mady 2989]

From the Seven Skies did Analiesa de Astrea stand, the little girl, forever a depiction of youth and a reminder of those who were gone too soon. Pacing back and forth, the girl awaited her mother. She had always watched over her, judging and criticizing her mother's action, though she secretly longed for the warm embrace she rarely felt even when she was amongst the living. Alas, she would never feel such again, her mother, as dramatic as she was, would never step foot in any of the Seven Skies. "Poor Adalia." Was all she could muster up to say before her attention would drift back to the once scrawny black haired boy turned man... @Sarmadonn

 

Koenas Annika would mutter short curses under her breath. With the Grand Lady missing, she was incredibly overwhelmed with the work needed to be done. It would take days, weeks even for anyone to comment on the woman's absence, though when the time came, the news of her death would result in the Queen confining herself to her rooms. Even at her worst, Rosalind remained a mentor to Annika. "Vy are now my ward." The woman had once murmured to a younger, fresh-faced Annika, the underlying meaning of the statement as clear as a mother's yearning for her daughter to return...

 

Spoiler

Got a little teary reading this, ngl. RIP Rosalind, she will forever be one of my favorite characters that I have ever interacted with. @livrose You are a blessing and I am so happy to call you my friend <3

 

[Nolan_ 4216]

"Thank ****!" says Aleksandr var Ruthern.

[erictafoya 2302]

Everyone cheers in rejoice, particularly the Lord Speaker in his own time

[Maevlin 681]

Charlotte Baruch had spent most of her time since her own passing catching up with family long since passed. Being surrounded by family and friends she had lost along the way, she realized the final piece save her children had just showed up. Ro had shown up and Charlotte stood, pipe ever present in her hand "So you're done causing drama then? Welcome home Sister, try not to mess up anything here okay?" She jokes as she holds out her arms, welcoming her sister home for the final time.

[GMRO 5245]

Maric var Ruthern bowed his head in prayer as he heard the news of the death of the Grand Lady, murmuring. "So goes one of the longest servants to the nation in a long while. The lack of her presence will surely be felt with the hard work she did and achieved. May she find some sort of peace."

[sarahbarah 5008]

Amicia de Astrea had received word of such news, her lips curling into a frown as yet another member of her Haeseni family had passed. She breathed a sigh - perhaps one of regret or maybe even relief, as she had grown so distant from her aunt over various disagreements with that side of the family. Nevertheless, she silently prayed that her aunt made it to the Seven Skies safely.

[___siren___ 441]

reserved

 

[Juli 1340]

Isabel of Valwyck was seated within the library in Karosgrad with a platter of freshly brewed teas on display infront of her. The sound of the door creaking caught her attention as a youthful Rosalind stepped inside. To much surprise, Isabel's lips wore a smile as opposed to the typical scoff that left the Queen whenever she caught sight of the Grand Lady. Isabel's lips parted first, "About time.. ye' old hag." She jest, waving her palm to motion for the Grand Lady to join her at the table, "Ye' did a fine job, Lady Rosalind, nearly as dobry as me, I'll admi'" 

[Fionn__TWG 2616]

Fionn Castaway's mouth dropped open "All those years I could've dragged her to a field and stabbed her then?!"

[Herod 802]

Kaustantin wasn't struck with grief up until this moment, he shed a tear after hearing of his mentor's death, he hoped he served her well as a ward. The boy also silently swore to never allow a close friend of his to perform a backflip, as he saw how an unsuccessful one fatally damaged Rosalind's health

Aaron scratched his beard after hearing the news. "Ye should've taken the offer of that mage, Ledi." He commented with a sharp sigh.

Edited July 2, 2021 by Herod

[Enyahs V. 173]

Agmaer was saddened at the news of his cousin's passing. The barely heard from man retired even more to his bed, writing and scrapping dozens of condolence letters to his previous family. As he sat back in bed against the wall with his wife, he was glad that his Rosalind was growing strong.