_CraftyFox_

While his elder relatives argued below, Alexei var Ruthern was narrowing his eyes at the tiny character sprawled across his phonics handbook, studying with grave concentration. From time to time his lips moved in silence as he tested a vowel or consonant: "Three vhite volves... fled dyeh vorm vea-ther." A terrible attempt. The ends of his lips curled downwards slightly, the sound of a fist hitting tabletop somewhere downstairs. He began again, his tongue to let go of the old Raevir weight of speech.

Katerina stares at the declaration in her hands, her fingers, long and pale, turning to claws as she grips it tighter and tighter. A sharp breath, a hiss, and she gracelessly collapses backwards onto the fur-draped bed. Her limbs splay slightly, her wiry frame tense. The declaration falls over her face like a funerary shroud, enveloping her gaunt countenance in a thin layer of ivory parchment. A voice rises from beneath the paper, a half-groan, half-moan, all venomous despair: "A stupid, stubborn old ghost of a man, mea papej! Alvays making mea life so difficult!" She rips the parchment from her face in a fast, frenzied motion, her sallow cheeks warm and reddened by rushing blood.

Katerina merely held the fated invitation in her slender fingers, her touch careful. With a slow inhale, she lifted it to her chest, holding it close to her, a swell of pride filling her heart. Her cousin, a bride. A future secured. Her boney fingers tightened ever so slightly. She smoothed the parchment against her chest, letting the quiet swell of pride settle over the gnawing fear of spinsterdom creeping closer to her day by day. Not yet.

Katerina stood in the dim candlelight of her cavernous chamber in Vidaus, casting a long, flickering shadow over the cold stone walls. Her pale blue eyes drift over to a gleaming trophy on the shelf. WINNER OF THE TWILIGHT FAIRE DANCE CONTEST 568 E.S. She stepped over to it, her spider like fingers grazing the engraved text carefully. The memory felt as fresh as new fallen snow, even as the gold and glass star collected a thin layer of dust. She let her hand fall away, swiftly pivoting and gliding over to the tiny desk in the corner of the room. A blank sheet and an inkwell. She thought back to simpler times, gliding over the ice on skates. OOC:

Darius Dy’Squith glances over to the wooden tailoring mannequin beside him, the sartorial wheels and cogs in his head already thinking up a new frock. He looks across a few rather garish fabric samples, running his hands across their shiny surfaces. “I must put on a few ornaments now and again. It is, after all, expected.”

Darius Dy’Squith would skim through the parchment, disapprovingly rolling his eyes at the sight of the 1809 fashion plate. He crumples the paper into a tight ball, tossing it onto the floor. “Sack back dresses? Is this the best they could come up with? Sack back dresses? What is this, the 1790’s?”

It would definitely be nice to get some new and unusual fantasy races.

Thanks! Fixing it right now.