<i>The twelve year old girl turned the key to the lower cells, trembling as she did so. It had been hard slipping past her father’s guard, but she had to do this. She needed to know what the forsaken looked like. What a Sorceress looked like. The charcoal haired girl was filled with scholarly curiosity and burning desire to know everything, and her mind would not let her pass this chance up. Slipping into the corridor beyond, she shut the door silently behind her, blinking her shifting bluegreen eyes as they adjusted to the torchlight. Moving as silently as she could, Ara made her way quickly down the hall until she came closer to the Cell at its very end, peering inside.<br/>
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The woman who lay there was nothing like what the girl had expected to see. Violet or blue hair, inhuman eyes, maybe even Fanged teeth. But instead, her heart broke site of a battered woman. Her pale blonde hair streaked with dirt and dried blood, hands bruised and fingers broken, presumably so she couldn't cast her fel magics, legs bound together so she could no more than shuffle, clothes ripped so they barely kept her warm and covered. Araminia let out a faint squeak as the woman’s eyes suddenly opened, filled with rage and a fire that could not be snuffed out. <br/>
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<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#cc99ff">“Come to gloat over your father’s handiwork, child?”</span> the raspy voice hissed from between parched lips. “<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#cc99ff">That's right. Back away. Turn tail and run. You don’t have the stomach to face what your father does.” </span>those eyes. It was the eyes that gave the forsaken woman away for what she was. Evil. that burning hatred and sarcastic snarl on her lips. <span class="fixed-color" style="color:#cc99ff">“Run far away. Out of the city; If you value your life. Because when my master comes for his revenge, he’s going to destroy everything your father loves. And he’ll enjoy every minute of it.” </span><br/>
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Araminia didn’t need to be told that included her. She spun around on her heel, caught in strong arms and lifted into the air. <span class="fixed-color" style="color:#4d4dff">“Silence, Hag.” </span>her father’s commanding voice echoed through the room as he held his daughter against him, one armed, gesturing for the two men behind him to continue back towards the cell. “What on earth were you doing down here, child?”. He murmured warmly, turning and exiting through the door she’d snuck through earlier, her view over his back of those spiteful, burning violet eyes. </i><br/><br/>~~~~~~~ 6 years later<br/><br/>A rough bump jolted Araminia Violetta Lytton from her sleep, fear filled blue green eyes flying open and blinking rapidly as she looked around as though she did not know where she was.  It took her a moment to process that she was no longer in her home  country of Whitemarsh, and that she had fallen asleep in a corner of the Ebonwood carriage that was carrying her further away with each turn of the wheels. She pulled herself rapidly back up into a sitting position, smoothing her long blue skirts so they covered even her shoes, and running her hands over her hair as though her grouchy old nursemaid was still with her, ready to smack her for anything being out of place.<br/><br/>Sleep had been rare for her in the past week, though her travel companion was nice enough; attempting to make sure she was comfortable. She didn’t trust him, or his booming voice that echoed through her very bones. He was a mage, just like the woman in her father’s prison. In fact they served the same master. A shudder ran through her, reminded once more of the woman’s final words to her. And somehow, when her father had lost the war, she, Araminia, was the only thing the Mage Lord had asked for. No…. demanded, of the other members of the alliance. The spoils were theirs to fight over, but she was apparently to be his, to what end Araminia did not know.<br/><br/>She looked out the window and let out a faint gasp, leaning closer to it as if mesmerized, straining her neck in an attempt to see behind them and in front of them. It was dark out, only the glow of the carriage lanterns and the light of the stars illuminating their surroundings. As if by magic, which presumably it was, their carriage was crossing over water, inky black and broken only by the occasional windborn ripple. A bridge seemed to be vanishing as quickly as it formed, shaped of iridescent ruby colored mist. She’d seen it before, on three different occasions, and knew it for what it was. It was the manifestation of the Enclave’s dark arts, and the calling card of their deadly enchantments.<br/><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="200" data-username="@Crazy Shady" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/200/">@Crazy Shady</a>