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Topics - Wren Cloverbridge

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Little Terreille Archives / released from winter
« on: May 09, 2018, 10:29:19 PM »

A wash of Gray probes filled her small section of the hallway. Hovering along the walls and across the floor. So that she would know if anyone came near. Reflection in the closed window appearing far less perturbed than her soul did. Wren was confused. She didn’t know if she should round the corner into the infirmary hall or go back to her room. Yes, she needed answers!

No, no she had changed her mind.

Back and forth a few steps in one direction before her resolve would firm and she’d turn again. Only to have it fail once more. Leaving her to slink back in the opposite direction. So frustrated she was very nearly wearing holes into the carpet. Sparks of rage and sorrow turning her footsteps into weapons.

One hand rested on her stomach, because it writhed and twisted. Fingers curled into the front of her nightgown. The same one she had worn the day before. A thick cotton robe hanging haphazardly from her shoulders as she paced. Hair a loose braid that seemed ready to unwind any moment. She didn’t care. Feet bare on the carpet as she tried to make up her mind.

Torn! Torn as her damned heart felt. She stopped to stare out of the window. Frustrated to find it was a bright, warm day. The snow beginning to melt. The sort of day for lovers to stroll and children to play. It seemed a mockery to all she felt. Wanted, very much, for the weather to reflect her sadness. Wished dark rain clouds would fill the sky and thunder shake the floorboards.

It wasn’t a storm that came though. Her probes tingled as a now familiar figure crossed them. Too late to scamper off. River would surely have felt her presence already. Instead she swept the blonde plait of hair over her shoulder so it appeared less an incidental mess and more a purposeful styling. At least she hoped. Robe shrugged up over her bare shoulder just as he came around the corner.

She sucked her bottom lip and hoped he would keep going. In no mood to share her... moodiness. Not with an Ebon-gray warlord prince. She could barely contain herself, River would be too much. He was almost always too much. Wren had just learned that too much didn’t always mean bad or wrong.

Little Terreille Archives / Stuck With Me
« on: March 06, 2018, 11:04:41 PM »

It was very quiet in the carriage. Had been for a while now. Only the weight of thinly stretched silence to fill the space. An occasional giggle from her companion. Or the sound of her heels tapping the floorboards when she switched one foot for the other.

Unspoken things heavier in the air than River’s body had been covering her own. Biting at her thumb nail Wren cast the memory away. The same sort of thoughts that had made her put two different books away. Instead she stared out of the window at nothing. Eyes turned inward at all that had passed in the previous week.

Knees crossed she tried not to look without looking. Her mind slipping, over and over again, to the man at her side. Boy? Man. She wasn’t sure. Wasn’t sure about anything anymore. She struggled to stifle a sigh. Failed. The sound loud in the confines of her traveling prison.

Exchanging nervous biting for a hand over her mouth she curled her shoulders in. ”Sorry.” Not sure what for. All of it maybe? The strangeness. Her awkwardness and mistrust. That she still, after their... shared moment of intensity, didn’t completely trust him.

”Have you, um, heard from Prince Willowbanks? Is he alright?” Last update he had been missing. Left the big manor house without a word. If River was worried he had not told Wren. So she didn’t worry either. But it occurred to her now that he might pretend, to spare her feelings or some such nonsense. She didn’t know yet if he was that sort of warlord prince.

Or if there was such a thing as not being that sort of warlord prince. ”Are you alright?” She had done as much to him, she thought, as he had done back.

Little Terreille Archives / [M] When You Need Me
« on: February 10, 2018, 06:13:04 PM »

Stifling a sigh Wren tried not to fidget in her seat. A leather bound book sat open on the desk. Pen in hand, tapping idly against the glass inkwell. Her fat round script marked the previous days date at the top of the otherwise blank page. Stupid, stubbornly blank page.

tap, tap, tap Her pen spout rang out. Leg ready to tap out the same beat.

The diary had been with her a long time. Pages refilled countless times. Journals dating back to the beginning of her black widow training. A natural hobby for someone so reticent and reserved. The perfect, safe outlet. There had never been a day when it wasn’t easily written in. Except the day before. The last visit with her mother.

An evening of awkward silence had followed. Another meal shared with River while others sat across the hall trying not to watch them. Occasional brushing of hands to ease the tension. Wren’s temper having peeked to find only one room had been reserved for the pair. River too had things on his mind. He did not say what, and she did not ask. Both grappling with their innermost thoughts.

Wren was nervous it would only stir her sorrow or temper to force conversation. Worse even if his were riled. She didn’t know how to help him, or how to help herself! Miserable, stupid girl playing at queening.

The pen was set aside slowly as something in the air caught her notice. A feeling. A tingle. Around her finger the Sapphire reached out to the land. Strengthening the natural connection that always existed between it and the queen. Here, in Rodgau the link was most intense. Mira was like a thrumming pulse she had to close out or risk drowning in. Home and familiar. Now, though, she sought the link on purpose.

Felt something strange. The chair scraped against the wooden floor as she stood. Half crossing the sitting room, hands curled over themselves and tucked over her heart. Reading the land with foggy eyes that stared in River’s direction without seeing his form. She felt it. The pouring of a strong offering into her land. Too strong. Too much to be natural. Only an unholy amount of queen’s blood could cause such a stir. ”River.” Her voice sounded breathless. Calling though she didn't realize she had.

Then there was a vibration. A jolt in the Abyss, below her Grey. She wanted to move closer, but fear held her in place. ”Something’s wrong.”

Little Terreille Archives / A Last Visit
« on: February 03, 2018, 02:36:18 AM »

A sharp eyed maid had helped Wren put together her outfits for the trip. Each carefully planned out so that she wouldn’t have to waste time sorting through blouses and skirts to dress. She didn’t want to get caught with her pants around her ankles again. Not in such close quarters with River.

At least the actual journeying portion was brief. Only one night spent in a roadside inn. No one had bothered them. The Gray jeweled queen more than enough warning to keep trouble at bay. Her Ebon-Gray shadow, smirking boy that he might have been, sent even the good willed scurrying away. Some queens, Wren knew, might have minded. Might have reached out to ease the general public. She had other worries to fill her time. So they had taken their meal alone and been left in peace.

Relative peace, anyway. Wren was still uneasy with her new companion- escort she supposed was the proper term. There were no contracts to label them yet, but Willbe and River had decided their own places. Which was all the better for her. If she had to have bonded boys then at least they were friendly. Not squabbling over rank or position.

By the second day of traveling they were safely arrived in Mira. Another inn, this one more upscale since it was in the heart of the busy little city. A stone’s throw from the temple where her mother waited.

No. Where her mother was. Not waited. Barbra never anticipated anything beyond her next meal. This visit should have been unexpected, even though she had written ahead to let the priestesses know. In the seventeen years they had lived apart Wren’s mother had not once remembered a visit was planned.

At least this time her arrival in the humble temple garden was received with the sharp interest of recognition. For a shining moment Wren thought it a good sign. ”Little Bird. You’re here.” Barbra greeted without turning to face them. Wrinkled hands busily tending hibernating shrub. When she did turn the striking likeness between mother and daughter was made clear. The same blue eyes; Wren’s sharp but emotionless, Barbra’s slightly unfocused but cheerful.

”Mother.” Wren answered, leaning instinctively towards River. Barriers sealed but discomfort evident in the stiffness of her spine. Facing, for the very last time, that which she came from and hoped never to end up as.

The older queen had eyes only for the newcomer, though. ”Samuel you’ve gotten obnoxiously tall dear.” She shuffled forward, squinting up at River until her nose wrinkled. Wren looked up at him too. Who in Hell was Samuel?

Little Terreille Archives / One Was Enough
« on: January 19, 2018, 12:45:12 PM »

There was a soft click of metal on metal as the door latch glided into the waiting space of the strike plate. Once that sound had been a relief for Wren. Safely behind the privacy that a closed door suggested she wanted. Safe to be herself, alone at last, without eyes to watch- to judge. That was before River. Now the sound was just a sound. It did not hold the promise of solitude. Even when she strengthened the man-made lock with her Gray.

She had just begun to wonder if she would ever have a moment alone again when he finally left. Or fled. Growing increasingly bothered as the day progressed. Avoiding him had only made him take extreme measure to find time to be together. But being together had not soothed his excitability at all.

Was she a poor queen? Destined to fail? That was her worry as she stepped out of sturdy soled house shoes and into cloth slippers. The tangled web she had spent her morning weaving still shimmered in its frame. Her fingers caressed the familiar wood as she passed by the table it sat on. From inside the chest of drawers that dominated one wall of the room she lifted a well worn paperback. ‘Classical Poetry’ insisted the title.

It only took a tiny illusion web to make it say so. The actual title, ‘Escorted by Fate’, was far too implicating for her to walk around with. Now, though, the boys were gone. Not gone, gone of course. Wren didn’t think she would like that. This was perfect, though. Their scent barely lingering in the room, their actual bodies far removed from the house. Quiet. Peace. Solitude. A cozy chair that she sank into, heels pressed at her bum and toes curling over the cushion. Book cradled against one forearm as she used Craft to turn the pages forward to her favorite part.

Then it happened: a sound like wind rushing through a crack.

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