There were times in a person's life that mark them forever. Destiny is something that tells you you've been chosen and should not change. Like being born the only daughter of a man who reigned as king, it was not a life full of options but one of dedication and service. There were many blessings in life but her's had been dealt to her like a double edged sword. Beauty that drew admiration, but accompanied by a sharp tongue with a witty mind.<br/><br/>Pale, snow covered flesh shaped like the container for the sands of time. Midnight lengths that reflected light much as the moon does on a cloudless night, flowing down below the shapely curves of her backside. Above such location that only few new of, was the serpentine figure of a birthmark to mar her skin. It was not her only unique flaw, for that small snake was more curse than blessing. No, it was the mark within her eyes. A black speck distracted focus from the pools of the coldest waters aglow. The longer you peered at them, the more their emerald hues began to shine forth. That pierce of dark color was the true mark of the royal linage to Lamenwood. Every child born to the blood possessed it. There was never mistaking an heir since the dawn of time.<br/><br/>Legends swarmed over the family of this peaceful and progressive kingdom. They were small, but mighty. Or... had been. Unable to spare her brothers for the cause of defense and weaponry, she had been the one sent to the appointed meeting place and had suffered the insults of her people's pride until she could no more. Such arrogance from such a pretty face. She had tried to deny it, possessing full confidence in the advances of their technology unlike the world had seen. Yet, their contraptions and magics had not lived up to her sworn words made on that day. That pretty face, but a painted mask it would seem, had given her a look that shook her to this day. A day when she had looked upon the deaths of her family and friends.<br/><br/>Black lace fit snug along the lengths of arms and that of her narrowed waist, covering the bodice of a corset to hide the pale skin on this somber day. Crimson skirts made of silk and plenty in folds, a color often worn by ladies in times of battle. The color would soak up any blood spilled and not stain to scare those who thought to turn their hearts in war.  Her hands were bare of gloves and any ornament. In fact, she bore no jewelry this day choosing to be humble before a people she had so cherished and given her life to. An ornate, small black hat with plumes from crows sat upon her crown less head, a small veil flowed from its brim and hid her eyes from view. The thin line of her grim lips were pale on this day of defeat, forming a frown that seemed not to touch her people.<br/><br/>He had done well to win over the mindless people of humble origin, those in a crowd who were so receptive to suggestion. He had given them entertainment, food and the promise of a better life beneath his rule. Each time a member of her father's trusted council had been brought forth, food had been flung and they had rallied begging for their heads. It had gotten worse with her brothers, each one beaten into position before their heads fell with the executioner's swing. It would not be long now, with her father and herself as last. Ilona forced herself to watch each death with her head held high and refused the tears that stung at the back of her eyes permission to fall. There would be time to weep later.<br/><br/>The rutting sounds of her friends and the wives of her advisers being used brutally by large men were but the background to this most horrendous of days.  The begging had stopped and they suffered just as those who had lost their heads had suffered. This is what losing looked like. This is what defeat reaped. This is what a pompous, disgusting man liked to use to tear nations apart and collect them like medals. Ilona fed into her hatred, allowed it to seethe and grow for it was the only thing that kept her going. Her gaze currently watched the thick drops of blood falling from the tip of the blade that had just murdered the heir apparent. A man similar in age to Aerill, but who possessed far more integrity. The color was so a keen to that of her skirts. She longed to cradle the body of her fallen brother.<br/><br/>A motion was made, somewhere on<i>his </i>'stage.' The large, armored men surrounding her began to move and she had only one of two options. Either move with them, or be forced to. Every step she chose to take, was another step closer to a man she vowed in her heart to forever hate. Her vengeance, on the day it presents itself, would be mighty. He held the upper hand today, but one day... she would make him suffer as all of her family had. Speaking of hands, her's were taken by the man whose handsome face bore down onto her. He pulled her close and set his lips to her face. Ilona's torso twisted as her face stole to bend far away from him, unable to suffer his touch much less his petty affection. The people, her former people, mocked and sneered at her. They were already so in love with their 'savior.' If only they knew what would follow for months to come. Their children would be stolen away to feed into his army. The women would also be taken to bed his soldiers. Her once beautiful land was already torn all across the kingdom and would surely crumble away and be forgotten.<br/><br/>When she turned her cheek away, he would notice it was dry and unstained as her eyes cast downward to the square splattered with the blood of such good people. There knelt her stood, holding his head up proud to gaze upon his own subjects cursing him. Her heart broke at the sight of it, when they kicked the back of his legs to force him to kneel. Aerill felt her chest heave as the sob was pressed down to be barely contained. Her vision of the man who had taught her so much, loved her so well, and had cherished her talents, was torn from her when Aerill forced her to look at him. Her breaths were warm, quick puffs as her anger could be felt even if he could not view her eyes directly. Ilona tried to pull away but his hand held her firm and she recoiled tasting bile on her tongue when his forehead touched her own.<br/><br/>He spoke of this display as a tribute to her. He blamed her for the theatrics and for the deaths of her own family, much less her people. A sharp, pairing sound flowed from her parted lips when he turned her round and had her look down upon her father. Her body began to shake in fear, in anger, and absolutely in disgust. Ilona's heart further tore to pieces for the doubt he planted within it. Had it been her mistake to defy him? Should she have sought a different course of action? The deep inhale of breath was broken as her chest swelled allowing her enough breath to speak. When she did, it was only loud enough for him to hear. Her voice dripped with the poison of malice and rancor, "You are a<i>most </i>vile man."