"You cannot mend what's broken with false promises and pretty words," I retort, my grip tightening on the dagger that rests at my hip. "You claim to be a man now; then prove it to me."
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Stjarna is a passionate Dane woman born during a ra...
Please leave comments and feedback/suggestions below!! 🥰 i've attached the inspiration for Stjarna's dress and a pic of what I imagine Aelwyn to look like—she would just be a bit more aged considering her character is around 35. Enjoy pumpkins ❤️
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"I hope you are quite fond of the dress." Gold tinkles at Aelwyns wrists—so like the iron of the shackles bound to me in the cellar.
She watches intently as I smooth the gown over my frame, readying myself in a foreign room that seems to be fit-out for no other purpose than dressing and drinking. The same light polished wood spans the floor as in the rest of the manor, with accenting azure hued sofas of velvet and a black stone hearth cracking softly. An opulent wooden vanity table at the opposite wall adorns a large mirror, with a matching little blue cushioned stool tucked between the legs.
My eyes flitter to the bracelets and bangles encircling her wrists, and I wonder if delicate skin like hers has ever felt horror like what has marred my flesh permanently. I lower my gaze to my own scarred hands and wrists noticing now more than ever how deformed and hideous they have become, even despite the accenting golden rings they now dawn.
It's an effort not to tuck my hands under my arms.
"It's really an unnecessary gift, Lady," I admit.
"Well, I can't have you attending a dinner as my guest in that drab gown can I? Now you look splendid." Aelwyn says, carefully adjusting the gold and emerald circlet atop her head.
That drab gown.
The gift from Sihtric, being the one item of clothing I have ever liked. The one I feel has been made by the gods entirely for me–that has no impact at all in comparison to the dress currently suffocating my too-slender frame.
This gown is an expertly crafted velvet crimson that flows to my feet and cuts deeply at my chest. An intricate detailed vest swirling with wine and gold embroidery sits just below my breasts and sinches in my waist, pushing them up to an uncomfortable height to be on full display–to be gawked at just like a worthless plaything should be. A gossamer cape of the same reddish hue is stitched into the vest itself and flows gracefully down my back and over my exposed arms, allowing a repreaving breeze to flow around me.
