(In process of join Vermeda - February Y13)

The last time the Executioner had graced this forsaken ground, she had worn the glorious mantle of High Queen. The brutal scars of war, those cruel reminders of her battles fought, had tragically led to her downfall. Yet, strangely, she felt no sorrow for her shattered crown. No, her spirit soared, liberated from the very shores that had once cradled her reign.

With a passionate flick of her tongue against her battered lips, she lingered just beyond the shadowy embrace of the swamp, where the air thickened with the scent of Vermeda—a scent that had woven itself into her pelt, erasing the familiar tang of salty brine that had once defined her essence. In the depths of her thoughts, a spark ignited, and she released a low, resonant chuff, beckoning the white Tyrant that was @Luther ♔. It was time to weave her intricate tapestry of plans, with each thread spun silently, carefully, and with fierce intent.

table code by daanyen

Tapestries. Plans. Schemes. He was a man of the arts if one asked. He adored a good little lie, a complicated not-so-little scheme. Well, things sometimes happened out of his control (unfortunately, truly), just like when @Miaran lost the shiny crown and tumbled into total obscurity, forgotten by the world or, at least, by Luther.

After all, why would he give two fucks about a nobody?

And yet here she was, gracing his borders with her mundane presence. No shiny crown, no High Queen mantle hitched around her old shoulders. Only the scars and her nasty little temper. He wondered why he should even answer her call. Why should he take from his precious time to entertain a mere commoner, a cast-out with the whole valley for an enemy and no power to offer? But curiosity got the better of him - she had no use, did she? Unless...

Well, he was never one to make rash decisions, but if it came to it he would gladly serve Miaran's head on a platter if it meant gaining something in return.

"Miaran!" he swaggered out of his gates with unmatched confidence, but friendliness too. As if they were still allies. "Unfortunate news I heard through the grapevine." It was unfortunate that he'd lost an ally, and yet by the looks of it her own pride had not obeyed her even during the war. Was it truly a loss, then? She was a weak ruler, and a weaker woman yet.

Even without that gleaming, albeit blood-stained crown adorning her head, she was far from powerless. Stripped of her esteemed title, it offered her the perfect cover, allowing her to slip seamlessly back into the shadows—where whispers and secrets thrived—gathering every shred of information she could wield against their foes, twisting the truth until it cut like a knife. The memory of that boy, his desperate hands reaching for her crown while Miaran was still reeling from her brutal death match against Reti just weeks ago, burned in her mind. @Luther ♔ had faltered in his duty to stop Khadija’s audacious theft in the War, but that was nothing more than a fleeting glitch in her grand design. A flicker of her tongue against her ragged lips accompanied the Tyrant’s approach, a silent testament to her resolve.

The stench of saltwater was replaced by the intoxicating aroma of Vermeda, mingled with the scent of her husband—each breath a reminder what she carried amidst this chaos. She flicked her tattered ear back at his words, and shook her head, slowly, defiantly. Non, it’s not unfortunate. Caladan ceased to feel like home the moment Avril and Khadija were ripped from me. I seized that crown purely because of Aphrodite’s vulnerability, a means to secure her own fate. I held onto it for Khadija, her voice trembled with raw emotion as she took a breath, For now, I dwell in Vermeda, but make no mistake—I will claim a new crown when they least anticipate my rise.

table code by daanyen

Luther’s lips curled, the barest trace of a smile dancing across them as @Miaran's words drifted to him like the scent of spoiled fruit. She was nothing more than a ghost now. A bat-shit crazy one, at that. A relic that had lost its luster. But Luther didn’t speak of queens anymore—not to her. No, he was a man who dealt with facts, not with fantasies of crowns and thrones lost. And Miaran? She had learned too late that crowns weren’t simply taken—they were earned, carved with blood and bone, and held with the strength to crush anyone who dared challenge.

"I seized that crown purely because of Aphrodite’s vulnerability, a means to secure her own fate. I held onto it for Khadija," Ah! There it was! Weakness of the heart! For such an insane creature, Miaran was no less woman than the next.

"Ah, Miaran," he mused aloud, a note of dark amusement threading through his voice. "it’s not the crown that makes the ruler, but the will behind it." he said, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. And why had she come? To spew pointless sob stories? What did she seek from him - pity? Aid? A shoulder to cry on? Ha!

He stepped closer, his gait deliberate, each movement purposeful as he took in the woman before him. Stripped of her power, of her influence, she was still a force, but a fractured one. "The world has a way of forgetting those who falter," he continued, the words weighing on the marsh wind, "and your crown? It was lost the moment you let yourself be too soft, too distracted." And now she came with schemes and whispers of her future rise. Please! He chuckled lowly. Luther studied her for a long, unreadable moment. "But, do go on. Tell me more of your plans." If only to amuse me.

The Executioner could hardly suppress a disdainful roll of her eyes at the narrow-minded blathering of the man before her. How tragically simplistic to believe that a crown was the sole emblem of power! True power, she knew, blossomed only when there was no challenger to contest it—a truth that screamed from her very core. Miaran was driven by something deeper, something more profound than mere dominion. A flicker of irritation danced in the tip of her tail as she bared her fangs, a tangible warning against his insufferable taunts aimed at riling her.

Non, @Luther ♔, she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. A crown is not everything. It merely casts a spotlight upon me, but without it, I am all the more lethal. Each word reverberated with a fierce intensity, a promise forged in the fires of her revenge, of her pure toxins. Then, an utterly sinister grin bloomed across her face, a reflection of the darkness that enveloped her soul. I will hunt down every single name on my hit list. The War by Icefang was fought in blood—Morrigan's eye was claimed as she claimed mine. In your war, I toppled Reti, only to be assailed by four Savantes, mere puppets of that miserable Alexander. Time and again, that bâtard has crossed the sacred line of my patience. I will exact my vengeance upon someone dear to him, or I will breathe my last in the attempt. But if I manage to win once again, I will forge onward with relentless fury.

A grim determination etched itself into Miaran's features; nothing and no one would ever bind her will. With Reti calling for her own demise, all pacts made were shattered—the path to revenge against Obsidian now lay bare, awaiting her wrath. Alexander dared to dismantle every agreement that once held her back from his call for War. Indeed, War shall come, and Death will follow in her wake.

table code by daanyen