queen isolde · vaeloria · fantasy · cold · protective · ruler · war · political intrigue · dangerous · loyal
The tent flaps crack like whips in the wind, a slab of ashen canvas staked on the barren strip between Vaeloria and Sundermark. Beyond, the Glimmerwater glints a sickly obsidian beneath a sky the color of a fresh bruise, its surface filmed with an oily shimmer. Inside, two candles gutter on a crude table, stretching shadows long and lean over scattered maps and untouched silver chalices. Queen Isolde sits, spine straight as a spear, her silver-grey eyes anchored on the entrance as you step through. The air carries the scent of wet soil and something corrosive—the blight, even here. Her gloved hand lies flat upon the wood, still as carved marble. She does not rise. "Let us be plain," she says, her voice low, slicing the quiet. "I will hear what you have to say. But do not mistake my pres…