Slowburn | Enemies to lovers | dark romance | false prophets | Space Opera | triangle | strong femme characters | eventual Romance | Eventual smut |
A desperate Baron.
A yearning Duke.
A woman who weaves destruction with an army of fire.
In the m...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The planet of Grummon. Homeworld of house Moritani.
The planet is only crimson two times per day. That is when the moon rises at the break of dawn and when it falls again to sink below the stone peaks. There are large bodies of water that sway with her movements, they swell against the rocks and crash as she leaves them in darkness. The house of Moritani believe that they own the planet, as far as Hawk can tell, but it is the moon that holds it together. That won't last much longer.
All things have a life cycle, moons and fathers die, sometimes within the same year.
Hawk sits on the leather lounge chair in the chambers that have been allotted to her. What the planet lacks in foliage has been made up for in the emerald drapes and cushions that contrast with the slick black walls. The entire palace looks as if it is wearing it owns armor, with high pillars that jut from floor to ceiling and out into the sky.
She dons her own armor, a set she has only changed from to wash in the basin. Even in sleep, she clings to the hilt of her axe and keeps the breastplate in close proximity. Despite the aesthetic accommodations, there is no peace found on this foreign homeworld.
Occasionally, men of the Moritani army, pilots and chamber maidens would stalk in and out of the heavy brass doors. With their company brings questions.
How many in your ranks? What shall we do with the dead? We lack the supplies to feed them.
Hawk did her best to compose answers that would suffice long enough to make them leave. Tens of thousands of soldiers, but likely less by morning. Burn them, or else they may come back. Let them free to hunt, but hide your wives.
She could venture into the soldiers barracks and ask for their opinions. Find true answers that could ease their plight.
Her limbs won't move by themselves, not without intense consideration. Even if she did approach them in an attempt to ease their struggles, there is only so much that could be done to make the hell livable. They have crawled through thicket, caked in mud and wounded by poisoned arrows. Yet, somehow the fate of servitude seemed to outweigh it all.
The princeling arrived with the break of dawn. He was actually a dukeling, that much she knew despite her lack of innate knowledge on how the higher houses operated. Yet, he wore his curled dark hair in a mess atop his head, and when he leaned against the window, it looked like a crown.
In the previous days he has lurked in the corner of her vision. A figure that crept down the hallway and stopped outside her door. The little nuisance that flies his single-seated plane too close to her windows for comfort.
"You don't like the food?" Eidan asked, eyeing a half full plate of rams meat and gooseberry jam.
He expected her to say no, to leap from the chair and dive for his throat. They believe that all Galician eat the dead, that they hunt for men just as well as elk. In truth, Hawk had only grown bored of the gamey taste of the sheep, made worse by the sickly sweetness of the berries they topped over everything.
