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Beyond The Time Vice Captain
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 Posted: Sat Jun 15, 2024 4:41 pm
Characters: Alkmene and Mirabella
Prompt: After the night of the explosion, Lady Kallis and Lady Rousseau reconnect under better terms.
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Posted: Wed Nov 27, 2024 10:22 am
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Beyond The Time Vice Captain
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Posted: Sun Jan 12, 2025 10:41 pm
   In the aftermath of Menodora’s ghastly little temper tantrum, Alkmene had retired to her quarters and eventually gone to bed in the early morning with a strong, smug sense of righteous superiority.
She awoke half an hour later absolutely mortified.
What had she done?
What had she done?
She sat up, manicured nails digging into the silk sheets as her mind ran through the past several hours once, then twice, then three times, humiliation crawling up her throat to choke her and heat her face.
She had…she…had she truly? Done that? Used her magic like some insecure little cheat? And so blatantly! She had threatened to physically crush people as though she were a meatheaded savage! A cheap soldier for hire! Had been handled like some feral beast on a leash! And then returned fire on the princess!
Faux pas could not begin to encapsulate the errors she had committed last night! She had been lucky Rousseau hadn’t yanked her head right off her skull!
Goddess damned ******** that in front of a woman with one of the loudest mouths conceived! In front of the princess! To the princess! Who else had been–oh, of all the useless peons, plain jane Charlotte, too!
No, not Charlotte. Charlize? Charisse. Charia. No, that felt really wrong. Charlea. Charlene–Charlene!
Instructor Ded Morzo, who ran the one class Alkmene simply could not be bothered to attend.
Okay, what did she know about him? He was a decorated war veteran from Hyouden, which was notorious for their strict patriarchal values. Men were the worst gossips, but she felt there was a high chance he would keep her part in things confidential; Menodora had been the bigger offender, enough so that he had clapped her magic in chains. That was deserving of more attention. She didn’t believe he had any obvious connections in Luna anyway. No, Alkmene couldn’t imagine he would ******** her over in the Lunan way.
Had there been anyone else who had seen her? Who had seen what she did? Who could sully her reputation with but a few words? No faces came to mind. At the very least Menodora couldn’t speak out, she had used her powers even more flagrantly than Alkmene had, and so it was mutually assured destruction if word of last night slipped past Utopia’s dull walls.
Charlene…the most exciting thing she had ever done was beget some whelp out of wedlock, which by Lunan standards was low on the scale of scandal. Or, well, the Kallis scale. Anyone who spread their legs so easily was liable to spread their mouth, too. She was a risk…but perhaps her loyalty to Menodora would keep those lips shut. Surely there were enough brains in that vacant head of hers to realize the mutually assured destruction bit of flapping her face hole. Surely Balim wouldn’t be able to convince her to spread both legs and mouth for him with a bat of his hawkish eyes.
All right, she might be ******** there. The only way he’d ever ******** her. ******** control. She would have a word with Charlene. Maybe threaten her a little if need be, though nothing too obvious. Just a reminder of the mutually assured destruction bit, since Alkmene had no compunctions with dragging the Rowley heir down with her, too. Her child…was a daughter, wasn’t it? She hadn’t brought the girl to Utopia with her, but it wasn’t difficult to see that she adored the creature. Foolish of her to express any fondness for her at all when it could be exploited.
Which left Rousseau. Alkmene would have put her face in her hands if it would not have ruined her makeup. Just thinking of how she had acted around the woman…she wanted to shrivel up like a raisin. What had possessed her to lower herself to Rousseau’s level? To have expressed her anger so publicly, so physically? She should have ignored her, shown in her silence how much better than her she was! She should not have had to push even a pound of pressure upon her to best her!
And the worst, most frightening part was that the woman hadn’t buckled even beneath the weight of her magic. Had dipped her in some farcical recreation of a dance between two heavenly bodies. Had grasped her wrist like a manacle, her braids like a leash. Why had Alkmene thought she could take her on in a display of force? The tactile sense of her grip remained a brand on her skin. She mimicked the hold Rousseau had had upon her, hoping it would chase the feeling away, but her fingers were too long, too dagger pointed, too soft. She closed her eyes, remembering a gaze full of such potent rage that she could have burned. Should have burned.
Yet they had parted ways unharmed. Rousseau had offered one of her prized chosen to her. Had she gone to sleep thinking of Alkmene’s wrist, fragile and delicate and still unbruised?
A silly thought. Off topic. As much as she hated to admit it, Alkmene had wronged her by trying to crush her beneath her magic, and Rousseau had been in the right to defend herself. Alkmene had been a–a–a soldier in a surgical theater, wielding a sword where a scalpel would be better suited. That wasn’t her. That wasn’t what she could be.
Stars, to think Rousseau had had her questioning if grinding her mother and sister into a greasy smear would have been more satisfying than the process of slipping poison in their tea and watching every sip in mounting anticipation until their eyes bulged in realization! That was civilized! That was Alkmene!
Off topic again. Alkmene had to ensure Rousseau said nothing of what she had done in public. And she had to apologize for her behavior. Perhaps not in that order. What better way to apologize than with a formal letter and a bouquet? Perhaps even a polite turn of the head when her wretched little chosen servant botched up the task set before her. Punishing her at this point in time seemed…counterproductive. Better to praise the creature, send her scurrying off, and then toss aside whatever garbage she made.
What flowers, though? Obviously something that conveyed apology, regret…sunflowers were too on the nose, and implied that she desired reconciliation, which–what was there to reconcile? Tulips could work. Red, akin to the vibrancy of her eyes, the way her hair had glowed–but red indicated love, and, ha, that certainly wasn’t the message she wanted to intend! Alkmene pushed aside the sheer, gauzy curtains that hung around her bedside, getting up to gaze out the nearest window.
No, what seemed best suited for an apology for someone such as Rousseau were peonies. Elegant, yet bold. Red for regret, rather than love. They were out of season in Luna, but had to be in season somewhere. White diosma for the scent…pink daylilies to wish her prosperity…snapdragons to recognize her strength, and a fun little indication that the entire display was bullshit.
Would Rousseau appreciate it? Likely not, but Alkmene was no mannerless sow…not this morning.
With that decided, Alkmene took a seat at her desk, retrieving fresh paper to start drafting the perfect apology in as flowery a manner as possible. At some point Diana came to rest her head on her thigh, a silent entreaty for affection that Alkmene spared as she crumpled up another piece of paper to begin drafting anew. By the time the sun began to peek over the horizon her fingers were curled with cramps, but she had finished what she had set out to do. The envelope was sealed with a silver wax, stamped into place with an impression of her initials, and handed off to Calantha to deliver with the flowers Kacia had retrieved from the academy’s greenhouses. It was all very ostentatious, but a show had to be made, and Rousseau had yet to strike her as the sort to appreciate subtlety.
Then Rousseau had to send back a letter of her own to express a desire to speak face to face, arranging a time and place for it. Something anticipatory shivered up her spine. Something akin to dread made the small hairs on the back of her neck raise. If there was any lesson to be taken away from that night when they had cradled each other’s lives in their hands, it was that Alkmene could not back down in Rousseau’s wake, not unless it was in agreement. Mutually assured destruction. No weakness.
As soon as Alkmene had set the letter aside, she was snapping for her ladies-in-waiting to begin preparations. She was on a ten hour deadline, but they had worked under worse pressure. They undid her braids as they went through her closet for the perfect dress, and when asked how she would like to do her hair, she decided on leaving it loose. Let Rousseau see how little she feared the other woman grabbing her locks again. Dare her.
To further emphasize this point, polished moonstones were tied into her hair to catch and reflect the light, matching well with the gauzy purple gown she chose. The slit was perhaps a little high and the fabric a little thin for the cooling weather, but Alkmene was accustomed to enduring the cold in exchange for beauty. A pair of matching shoes not made by a certain fashion designer were fetched, and her makeup redone to better accent the entire look. They were done with little time to spare, and Alkmene made her way to the designated meeting place flanked by her maids.
Fashionable lateness was best suited for parties and business meetings, not for more casual arrangements, and so Alkmene made sure to arrive a few minutes early. Her ladies-in-waiting fell back when Rousseau strolled into view, and Alkmene regarded her with an arched brow as they stopped before the entryway.
"Perhaps were we not in Utopia, you would," she acknowledged. The academy was not the bustling social scene that the Kallis duchy was, particularly now that autumn was beginning to roll into winter. The feasts she was missing attending this place…
"I must say though, your uncompromising ways shined through even in your choice of stationery. The eclectic arrangement of flowers you sent were also quite lovely; I must thank you in kind for them."
Alkmene had to wonder if this meant Rousseau had any idea behind the symbolism of the entire bouquet, but nevertheless the praise settled warmly behind her chest. From anyone else, and she would have taken it as a backhanded compliment; some part of her still wished to, but the Aloran before her wore sincerity well. She regretted the snapdragons only a little.
"I did only as worth your due, but you’re quite welcome," was her gracious reply. When Rousseau offered her hand in escort, Alkmene ensured she did not hesitate to take it. The Aloran would see no fear from her this night.
Rousseau led her out to the balcony where a candlelit dinner and a good view of the moonlit grounds awaited them. Utopia’s gardens were a bit plain still, likely due to how little time was available to get the place situated for its purpose, and so its beauty was found far more in its untapped potential rather than what was directly before them. Alkmene did not mind it in this moment, not when the moon was only just waxing above them, adorned with the glittering veil of the evening.
Taking her seat while expertly arranging her skirt so that just the right amount of skin was revealed while she sat, Alkmene found herself face to face with Rousseau once more, the space between them an arm’s reach away. The atmosphere was a great deal different from what she was expecting, which put her on edge. The strange warmth on the other woman’s face reminded her of the heat of her hand, the firm grip of her fingers, now branded not just on her wrist but her palm as well. Alkmene threaded her fingers together in her lap, but her own touch again did little to erase the phantom sense.
"You’ve chosen the backdrop for our talk well. I must say, my curiosity is getting the best of me. What did you wish to discuss with me tonight?"
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬location ☾ Balcony accompanying ☾ Mirabella wearing ☾ hair is loose, Wearingooc ☾
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Posted: Sun Feb 09, 2025 1:18 pm
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Beyond The Time Vice Captain
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Posted: Mon Apr 21, 2025 9:58 pm
"Firstly, I wish to discuss our arrangement involving my Avira."
As though the strangeness of the evening thus far hadn’t been happening, Rousseau put forth business first, as straightforward as ever. Something within Alkmene relaxed a little even as she fortified herself. She had yet to meet someone who appreciated criticism when their pride was on the line, and Rousseau’s pride was shimmeringly apparent in her little Chosen. It was a weakness she bore too boastfully, and Alkmene felt some inclination to claw at it just enough to draw blood even as she knew Rousseau could easily tear her fingers off in the attempt.
Water was poured by dutiful servants from separate pitchers, and while she was aware that the woman opposite her likely would not have the stomach to poison an opponent, Alkmene still only made a show of sipping from her glass, hardly even wetting her lips before setting it down. Some things were too well ingrained, and Rousseau may still pleasantly surprise her yet.
"She's spoken well enough of her time under your servitude so far, so now I'd much like to hear your point of view. Are her services not as astounding as I claimed them to be?"
That was certainly a word she used just now. Alkmene acknowledged her with a faint smile, gaze glittering as she softened her posture the littlest bit, leaning back in her seat as a servant lifted one of the sweetly folded napkins to place it on her lap without touching her. They were well trained. More of Rousseau’s Chosen? Or in training to become one, vying for her regard? How eagerly would they step forward to fill in a slot were one of those special few to fall from grace? How would Rousseau handle such an occurrence? Would she allow it? Or would she test them first?
…well, Alkmene was unlikely to learn the answer this night.
"A strong word for a servant with not even a drop of blue in her veins," she drawled, unable to resist poking the bear a little. "I would sooner say that her services were…adequate."
A pause. She played at drinking from her water again.
"Which is more than I expected. She has enough promise that it is a shame she is not of the gentry."
In the time since that mortifying night, the girl had repaired her heels and had even displayed how they would hold up longer and more strongly than Lady Rockford’s. For someone who had not been apprenticed under some of Luna’s best designers, it was impressive; as it was, the shoes were fit for wear outside of her homeland, but not for display within it. Any of her peers familiar with Rockford’s work would be able to make out the minute differences with the repair work, and the ensuing twittering would be a bore to deal with. Alkmene would have to foist Rockford off her lofty pedestal first, which was currently in the process of being handled.
"Moreover, I'd like to discuss to some extent that brilliant display you showed me. Genuinely, I must sing my praises. I wouldn't have thought you had it in you."
Long lashes fluttered as Alkmene blinked rapidly in shocked confusion. Her display? Rousseau couldn’t mean what Alkmene thought she meant. Surely she was speaking of the bouquet Alkmene had gifted her, or her impeccable shows of fashion!
"Surely I don’t know what you mean," she demurred, tilting her head and sending ripples through her curls, jewels winking and glinting in the candlelight.
"Is the masquerade really that much more enticing? Or whatever it is that actually goes on in the courts of night."
Alkmene’s breath was arrested when Rousseau’s scarlet gaze met her own, that same blazing sincerity simmering within their depths. Or perhaps it was just the candlelight.
Let it just be the candlelight.
"I'd like to be better acquainted with you, Lady Kallis. Of the moon you see and how it differs from my own. If not for my own curiosity, then for my chosen's sake. In exchange, I offer Alore's finest in her entirety. Speak openly, and you shall receive open responses."
It was a trap, baited and ready to spring, to cut into her hand the moment she reached out to touch it. She knew it with every beat of her pulse, and yet she desired to do so anyway, if only to see how she would bleed. The memory of the heat under her palm, around her wrist…if she reached out to snatch the wine glass from Rousseau’s grasp, would the brush of their fingertips be just as hot?
Ridiculous.
Ridiculous.
Ridiculous how the delight that came alive upon the other woman’s face when she drank from her glass almost made the wine seem palatable. Ridiculous that it moved Alkmene to sip from her own even when she knew, she knew every bottle of wine she’s ever had has tasted the exact same as the last. Ridiculous that she still drank from it even when her experience proved itself correct once more.
Well, this was just…social mores. The heavens alone knew how many times she had partaken in wine simply to appease those around her over the years.
"I've acquired the best chefs this shithole has to offer for tonight, so here's hoping it rises above the usual slop."
The outright abrasiveness shocked a chuckle out of her, and her mind swirled with half formed thoughts as she ordered something fitting for the autumnal season: seared venison backstrap. With the Kallis duchy’s proximity to the sea, game meat was not as readily available as seafood, so it was nice to indulge. She also, quite simply, did not trust Utopia’s staff to handle seafood as expertly as her personal chefs at home did.
"A finger of the brandy, as well," she added, the liquor catching her eye among the offered bottles.
As she accepted a new glass, she settled further into her seat, the carefully sewn slit in her dress rising higher up her thigh. She had yet to find a chair in the academy that properly accommodated her towering height, but she had learned how to sit as elegantly as one could with such limitations even when the indignity threatened to tear at her restraint. Catching Rousseau’s eye, she sipped from her glass, enjoying the strong notes of vanilla that met her tongue.
Speak openly, hm?
Hm.
Ha.
"You confound me," she admitted, taking a break from the intensity of Rousseau’s gaze to catch her breath and regain control of her thoughts. "I can see clearly now how Luna and Alore could have engaged in such long warfare with one another if you are the typical example of your country. Yet, having observed who else was sent, I must believe you are not so typical even amongst your countrywomen."
Indeed, the Aloran princess she had seen in class had not impressed her; few of the women here did. Chiara in particular seemed pliable, easy to manipulate. Not wonderful qualities one would desire of their next ruler unless they desired to puppet her from behind the scenes. Were they qualities Rousseau saw use in, or spurned altogether?
The view truly was lovely when one ignored the garden. She took another sip, braced herself.
She could use this. She would use this.
"I, too, would like to be better acquainted with you."
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Posted: Wed Jun 04, 2025 2:34 pm
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Beyond The Time Vice Captain
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Posted: Sat Jul 26, 2025 12:13 pm
As Rousseau expounded on her importance in the world, Alkmene felt she was beginning to better grasp who she was as a person. Her pride was something to behold, exuding from every aspect of her life she had cared to mention, which appeared to be mostly in militant terms. It was mildly fascinating. Alkmene had only ever heard of women fighting on the front lines, but had never laid eyes on one herself. Not until now. In Luna, war was primarily for men to fight in, and for women to oversee from a distance, if they participated at all. Her own mother had left military matters to Alkmene’s father until his assassination, and then had delegated his work to a high end general until her own…untimely...death. Alkmene herself had chosen another to be in charge of martial affairs, one who would listen to her desires and translate that into work she would approve of. General Chertan had proven himself an acceptable replacement for the time being.
Still, Alkmene couldn’t even begin to consider that Rousseau may be exaggerating; she had felt her strength firsthand, and could only too well imagine how that had served her in the war. Alore had produced a number of noteworthy female warriors, if her memory served, with Marie Gunter chief among them, leading the charge until she turned traitor. She had to wonder how Rousseau felt about that, but then…the answer felt terribly obvious in light of her obvious zealotry.
It did amuse her how Rousseau referred to her fellow countrymen as her peers, then all too quickly they were her lessers. Alkmene had no doubt that they were by her terms, and even by Alkmene’s own standards. None of the delegates she had been able to identify as being from Alore had impressed her, save increasingly for the woman before her.
"Now it's my turn to request information."
"So it is," Alkmene acknowledged with a raise of her glass. She met her gaze directly as she took a sip of her liquor, watching the gears turn behind her fervent red eyes.
"I'd much like to hear about your hair."
Of course, one of her more jaw-dropping features, she was well aware. It had only been a matter of when it would be brought up, not if.
"It's truly stunning...assuming we remain comrades, I'll be more mindful of it moving forward. I'm curious, though: what best describes your relation to it? Is it a source of pride? A display of your devotion?"
Alkmene took care not to be too preening over the compliment, instead taking a sip of her liquor to give herself time to think over a response. There were so many facets to consider in relation to her hair. A long history of her mother having constantly compared her night bound locks to her sister’s moonlight strands. Of the adoration afforded to those within Luna who best resembled the satellite they worshiped. All things Lady Rousseau may be incapable of understanding without context.
"Devotion is an interesting word for it," she mused aloud, slowly turning the glass in her hand to admire how it reflected the candlelight. "Lady Rousseau, you have your exalted Mother Sun, and in Luna, we have our Many Faced Goddess. The more a citizen resembles that which we worship, the closer to divinity they are. By our faith’s measure, I am the farthest creature from divine that anyone can get, and thusly…"
Her mouth curved into a smirk steeped in a bitter haughtiness.
"I must maintain my altar to display how worthy I am of worship. My hair is not just a symbol of pride or of devotion, it is rebellion, and it is perseverance. Hence, I would be appreciative if you did treat it with more care in the future, should circumstances allow."
A dark brow quirked in an amused challenge.
"On the subject of hair, yours is quite lovely as well, particularly when inflamed with your magic. Is that why you treat it so plainly? No room on the battlefield for a bit of artistry beyond what you sculpt on your armor and your weapons?"
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Posted: Wed Aug 13, 2025 8:16 am
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Beyond The Time Vice Captain
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Posted: Mon Dec 08, 2025 7:09 pm
Alkmene did not care to have personal respect traded for a mere servant’s treatment, but it was painfully apparent that Rousseau’s servants were reflections of herself, even if their mirrors were made of mud rather than silver. She could understand to a degree. Her own personal ladies-in-waiting both served her and represented her as necessary, and if any one of them were disrespected…well, death would be kinder than the social hell she would put their assailant through. However, there was an exchange between Alkmene and her ladies that Rousseau had to lack in taking in any talented ruffian off the street. Each of Alkmene’s personal ladies were also noblewomen, often second or third daughters who could not inherit, and as such found other means of rising within the social hierarchy…their successes were her own, and vice versa. Their families would rally to her aid as necessary, and continue to keep tradition alive and thriving. Money and land stayed within worthy hands, and rewarded loyalty could mean generations of continued prosperity.
Rousseau’s peasantry may grant her temporary accolades, but beyond that? Would she elevate them to nobility for their service, hold their grateful loyalty in an iron grasp, and rid herself of the true bluebloods who would censure her for such acts? Alore could not be lacking in nobility carrying a ravenous hunger for power and control the same as Luna. It felt short sighted of the woman, and it was a surprise to find that this annoyed her rather than left her feeling smugly superior.
"As you say," she acknowledged with a raised glass.
Rousseau waxed poetic about the battlefield, a topic that was a true passion of hers, and Alkmene hummed an amused sound as she compared slaughter to art. Nearly a proper warhawk, wasn’t she? All she lacked was twenty years, and a seat in an office to bark orders from…but no, that didn’t suit the woman shaping herself before her. Her hunger for battle was a different beast than what Alkmene was familiar with. Personal, perhaps. She couldn’t put her finger on it. The Luna duchess watched as the woman’s joy faltered for a moment, and wondered what thought had struck her.
The servants’ incompetence did serve an amusing diversion. Rousseau was on them like a trainer to a poorly trained mutt, and Alkmene smiled behind her glass. It was one thing to train a servant to your preferences, and quite another to have to raise them from the ground up. Who had the time? Rousseau must have had too much of it. Perhaps such was the consequences of lowering oneself to the battlefield: too much time on it left one bereft once off of it.
"Must good help be so hard to come by these days? Then again, I really must stop getting my hopes up when it comes to this shithole," the Aloran duchess bemoaned, and Alkmene felt zero sympathy.
"It’s why I brought my own. I can’t trust another to secure it, it leaves too much to the whims of others," she pointed out, setting her glass down. "I do enjoy seeing how they fail, however."
If anything were to happen, Eleni, Calantha, and Kacia were never too far away to ensure things went more smoothly for their lady. How pitiful to have to compare them to this poor charade. It was as insects to properly bred dogs, there surely was no real point to it with the degrees of separation between them.
A dish of delicacies was set between them, and, as was the theme for the evening, Alkmene waited just long enough to be polite and to let Rousseau sample it first. Taking up one of the forks, she found the cheese cubes to be more than adequate, and she savored the flavor as the Aloran duchess declared herself an ally, eagerly offering to challenge the very Many Faced Goddess herself, and–
Alkmene couldn’t stop the snort that escaped her, but she could hide it behind one hand so that Rousseau did not catch her in an unflattering moment. She swallowed, breathed in, and absently smoothed that same hand down her front, still struggling not to break out into another undignified laugh.
"My dear Rousseau, what do the Gods care for our realities? Both our Goddesses reside far beyond our reach…the Windurians are closest to touching them, and even they cannot cross that boundary, if there even is one. No, I care not for a Goddess that has shown no care for me, nor has had the courage to show herself to me. The ones I desire to witness my majesty are the very mortals I wish to strip their worship from to lavish myself with. I will accept no less."
Alkmene drew up her glass again to sip from it once more, and then had to quickly put it back down when Rousseau dared to so brazenly bring up that topic. The one she had been waiting on with bated breath, now dragged out into the open with all the grace of a tripped giraffe. And to ask her such a…grotesque question.
"I was…" all her practiced speeches failed her under the weight of her mortification. She took a breath to recenter herself. "It was a severe lapse in judgment."
There would be no second apologies, she had given all her remorse once already, and that was more than enough. Yet, there was no actual censure in Rousseau’s candlelit features when she returned her gaze. Just curiosity, with a foreign intensity nestled close behind it. It was…disarming. She leaned further back into her chair, gaze drifting away in thought. How to get a brute to understand?
"Alore may be a country that prizes physical might, but I should not have had to put even a pound of pressure upon you to show my strength," she said slowly, feeling out the words. "In Luna, if everyone used their magic to best one another in bouts of force, it would be…bedlam. Blood would run like rivers down the streets, and madness would run rampant. No, it is far more…courteous…to display our magic in other means of artistry than what you may wish to see. Magic is for the battlefield, not for the courts, and I am a duchess first and foremost, not a soldier."
There was a precedent there that an Aloran such as Rousseau may not have the context for. History, a burden the high courts of Luna were well aware of and tread carefully around. Lunarians were sometimes referred to as loony for good reason, as they were all a little mad, at least, and if they weren’t, then they simply were hiding it very successfully. To rip the whole facade away invited only chaos.
Of course, Alkmene wasn’t convinced the same couldn’t be said of any other country, but at least Luna was aware enough of it to play with it.
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Posted: Tue Jan 06, 2026 10:14 am
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Beyond The Time Vice Captain
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Posted: Tue Mar 03, 2026 10:30 am
”Do you think me a liar?”
This time Alkmene did laugh, because if there was anything the woman before her had proven in their time together, it was that she didn’t have a single deceitful bone in her body. If ever a lie was to cross those plush lips of hers, it would be out of mere ignorance rather than a desire to prevaricate. She was far too direct, far too confrontational.
"My dear Rousseau," she purred, "liar is not a word that comes to mind when I think of you."
Delusional, perhaps. Concerningly sincere, certainly.
Rousseau’s eyes were as red as a burning sunset, and equally difficult to turn away from as she continued to espouse gushing praise for battle over politics, as if Alkmene saw no use for it. If nothing else, Rousseau was certainly an excellent propagandist for violence, but she didn’t appear to understand what Alkmene was getting at. Well, the world shined brightly beneath the Aloran sun, didn’t it?
"And you speak as though Alore itself won the war," Alkmene quirked an eyebrow, biting into another bit of cheese. "I would argue the war was not won at all, but simply put on pause by one very powerful woman who…if I recall the story correctly, merely had to say it was done, and it was so."
She took another sip of her liquor, and idly tilted her glass from side to side so that the liquid within swirled.
"But I believe you misunderstand me, and I cannot blame you, only the limitations of the common tongue. In Luna, we have more than one word for magic. Or, I suppose, for how it is used. There is…the courtly magic, when it is used for ornament, or display, or for entertainment. There is the–I suppose the best I can come up with is worker’s magic, for those who use their power for their trade. Then, there is battle magic, when, predictably, soldiers use their powers in battle. There are more categories than that, but these will do for the point I’m trying to make. There are appropriate times, appropriate roles for one’s magic. I was not raised a warrior, Rousseau, that is not my place, nor do I desire for it to be. My magic is not for the battlefield, I should not be using it like a hammer to crush my enemies, but to move them like chess pieces upon a board." Alkmene lowered her hand, but her glass remained where it was, still swaying from side to side. "Like our Goddess, we do have many faces, darling, but one must be capable of seeing past the one we present, or the one you only perceive."
The smile Rousseau offered her was contagious, the candlelight casting shadows upon features that were surprisingly delicate for such a robust creature.
"I look forward to continuing to learn, then…and to teach," Alkmene murmured, reaching up to take her glass, and offer it to Rousseau's as a toast.
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬location ☾ Balcony accompanying ☾ Mirabella wearing ☾ hair is loose, Wearingooc ☾
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Posted: Tue Mar 17, 2026 9:29 pm
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Beyond The Time Vice Captain
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