@wielderofbreidablik​ || Starter Call

     She has never fancied herself as a particularly interesting person. A traitor, and mother of the fell dragon’s vessel, yes, but never one who would catch someone else’s attention enough to be summoned without much notice. During her time in this strange world, the sage has tried to keep to herself, avoiding those who are not her immediate family, and often retreating to isolated corners of the castle. Yet it is not any sort of disgusted feeling that compels her to act in such a way, but instead, feeling as though the woman is not fit to stand with those she has only read about in history books-- heroes and deities, who have all done things on both moral extremes far more impressive than her own accomplishments.

     The mother almost has a mind to deviate from her path, and go back into hiding-- to not speak with the Summoner, and feign ignorance to the message she had been delivered minutes ago. It would be easier than conversing with someone who holds far too much power in this world-- or, at least, that is what the woman believes. Yet Naeva finds herself without the courage to do so, especially as cautious strides bring her to the door separating the two of them, and a hand moves to rest on its handle. Hopefully, it will be quick-- a brief check-up on her wellbeing, or something along those lines--, and not anything deeper than that.       The queen consort attempts to silence her thoughts as she slowly pushes the door open.

          “...You wished to speak with me?”

@felltactic​ || Starter Call

     It seems as though with every passing day, her daughter’s features manifest into something so terrifyingly close to her own-- to the point where the sage almost fears looking at Robin for too long, in fear of seeing herself in the girl. The thought sends the mother’s blood running cold, to think that she might one day make the same mistakes-- to run away from everything in hopes of keeping someone safe, only to lose all but one thing dear to her heart. Each time brown eyes fall upon the other’s own, Naeva cannot help but silently pray that Robin will be so much smarter than that; much more capable of making sensible decisions, rather than being seized by her own fear.       Unfortunately, it seems as though time can only tell if that is the case-- if the woman’s own stupidly bleeding heart has been passed on to this child of hers as well.

          “...Forgive me, my darling. I did not mean to intrude,”

     Her voice is soft, barely above that of a mumble, as she speaks, feeling obligated to apologise before any other words could be said. Despite that, those usual, warm tones still manage to weave their way into the mother’s words-- ones she has long used to address her kin, regardless of the situation.

          “I was just... curious to know whether you would be interested in speaking with me for a moment.”

@companaich​ || Starter Call

         “Wait--”

    She hesitates for a moment, silently asking herself if it is right of her to ask this, or completely unjustified. This is bound to be a sensitive subject for her daughter-in-law-- something she most likely will not feel entirely comfortable talking about. Still, it has weighed on the sage’s mind ever since she heard of the future Cynthia and the other children originally hail from. To find out what would have actually happened when the fell dragon was revived; to see if the scriptures were true, and if her beliefs were, and still are, valid to an extent. Aside from that, there is an obligation Naeva feels to learn of what her actions with her husband-- or the Grimleal as a whole-- would have resulted in, and a sense of guilt stemming from that very thought.      Despite her desire to know, however, it is only when their latest conversation comes to a close that the mother finds herself with the courage to speak up. Even then, the sage finds herself unsure of how to phrase her question..

          “Before you take your leave, I was wondering if you would tell me about your world. Your future. I understand if it is unpleasant to speak on... yet, it has been troubling me so.”

@fateforeseen​ || Starter Call

     Lucina has never had much of an agreeable taste in fashion-- or, at least, not to the sage. Even now, even when the girl walks among those she shares thousands of years of history and culture with, there are still many questionable garments in the girl’s possession. So many, in fact, that it spurred the queen regnant not to seek out someone else to fashion a piece of clothing for the younger woman, but instead buy the fabric and sew it herself. It is not an unfamiliar form of art for the grandmother-- she has, in the past, produced many articles of clothing for her fellow Grimleal, much like her sister clerics, and the cloak Robin once wore when they were alive. A few weeks of on and off labour brought about a results the sage found herself satisfied with-- a few robes and a shawl traditionally worn in more formal settings, and quite beautiful to gaze upon.       Yet, Naeva does not dare bring the outfit straight to the other’s chambers, no-- instead, she approaches empty-handed, with it adorning a model in a room that holds a particularly special place in the sage’s heart.

          “Lucina?”

     She speaks softly, as though the woman fears startling her granddaughter more than her sudden appearance might already do. Partially gloved hands move to collect themselves in front of her stomach, hidden behind the front panel of red robes. 

          “Forgive me for intruding, however I have something that I would like to give you.”

@leiiptr​ || Starter Call

     To say that the past few months have been stressful would be naught but an understatement. Complete with being in a world still so foreign to her, and the constant thought of her husband suddenly appearing here looming in the back of the mother’s mind, it is unsurprising that Naeva has found herself slipping away to collect her thoughts. Thankfully, the palace is vast, and there happen to be many places one can hide themselves away for an hour or two-- one of which is one of the land’s smaller gardens. It is a quaint place overrun by flowers-- all of which are unknown to the woman, and certainly would not be suited to Plegia’s climate--, providing cover from those that would pass either inside the castle’s walls, or nearby. From her first day here, it has been her haven-- a place she would tell only her children and grandchildren she was vanishing to in case if her skills were needed.      Never once did the mother anticipate accidentally running into another soul who would think of visiting this place as well.

          “My apologies, your highness. I did not know you would be here,”

     It is odd, to refer to a princess in that way when she, herself, is a queen, but Naeva deems it the polite thing to do. This is, after all, a whole different world-- one here her authority and status means very little, much like the other royalty and nobility roaming Askr’s halls. Her gaze flickers off to the side for a brief moment, uncertain as to how she should proceed, but knowing turning on her heel and leaving would come off as quite rude.

          “...Are you faring well?”

@beloved-death​ || Starter Call

     If there is one thing the sage has learnt during her time teaching in this academy, it is that the children here tend to leave the strangest of personal items laying about the monastery grounds. From pieces of clothing, to diaries, to materials for the arts-- it seems as though nothing is too precious or cared for to avoid such a horrible fate at some point in time. A burnt painting is the newest addition to the gremory’s list-- one that seems too deliberately sabotaged for this to simply be something that the owner desired to erase from existence. It is an item none have admitted to owning or ever seeing in their lifetime, and Naeva finds her list growing frustratingly short. If it does not belong to this child-- to Klaus--, the woman has resigned to simply placing it with the other unclaimed objects cluttering the faculty’s storage rooms.      As she speaks, her tone is flat-- defeated and tired of asking the same question to yet another careless student.

          “I believe this might be yours,”

     Naeva does not dare to say how or why she knows this-- it is much better if she pretends to have narrowed it down at this point, rather than giving anyone the opportunity to claim that the painting is not theirs.

          “A word of advice, my child-- it is neither acceptable nor wise to set fire to a painting. Even if you loathe its existence.”

@darkxfalcons​ || Starter Call

     How Naeva has grown to loathe the path she took upon first landing in this cursed land. It was wrong of her, to earn coin by aiding individuals with her magic. It was wrong of her to follow through on darker and grander requests. It was even worse of her to allow the villagers and nobility alike to refer to her as an otherworldly arcanist-- a witch capable of grand magic. The only silver lining has been the handful of sorcerers brave enough to ask for her protection and aid the woman not just in her desire to return home, but keep these ruins free of any trespassers. There is blood on all of their hands, certainly, but such extreme measures had to be taken-- too many people would disturb her, and just as many would grow terribly angry at the rejection of their request.      This boy, however, has somehow managed to make it here, seemingly unscathed. How vexing.

          “What is it that you could possibly want from me?”

     The tips of nails drum against the side of her features, the witch not draped over the makeshift throne at the back of the room, but instead lounging in the air, if only as a quiet display of her power.

          “A curse? Riches? Power? Revenge? I grow tire of your ilk disturbing me and my sorcerers. State your purpose before I burn you where you stand.”

@exalted--zealotry​ || Starter Call

     She should never have come to the Exalt’s palace. She should never have concocted that false story just to buy herself and her baby a day or two of protection.

     From a strategic standpoint, the queen consort’s move is logical-- to take shelter in the last place someone would expect her to go, even under the most dire of circumstances. The home of the monster that slaughtered her people-- the man she loathes more than anyone else in this wretched world-- would be the very last place Validar would send his Grimleal to at the moment. He knows of her hatred, and how the sage would sooner die than accept his help, and for that reason alone, Naeva deemed it a smart move for now. And with her lies believed, all she has to do is wait until Anri orders her to leave the castle-- when her sanctuary is over.

     The room she sits in is horrific-- an empty storage room, with little more than a pile of hay to serve as a bed. To the Exalt, she is a poor, unfortunate Ylissean woman who was kidnapped at a young age and forced to bear Validar’s child but escaped, and the mother assumes that is the only reason he has given her this much. So when the door to her makeshift room is suddenly opened, her first response, of all things, is to pull her swaddled child closer to her chest; for fingers to spread themselves out in a possessive hold.

          “What is it?”

     The mother corrects herself before the words escape from her lips, changing a more aggressive question into one less demanding, and covers any underlying acidity with a fearful sort of voice fitting for the character she has forced upon herself. It is demeaning, disgusting, but if it shall guarantee Robin a chance to grow up and carve their own path, Naeva thinks, then so be it. Her revenge shall come later-- for now, she shall comply until their safety is guaranteed.

          “My child needs to rest. Surely you understand.”

@ourboncls​ || Starter Call

         “You have certainly perfected that spell, my little bird,”

     He bears an innate talent for magic-- of this, Naeva is certain. Perhaps it is to be expected, what with him capable of acting as the Fell Dragon’s vessel, and being the offspring of Plegia’s most accomplished sorcerer and a powerful sage. Still, it is not something the mother feels the need to fear or hide-- no, instead, it should be nurtured; allowed to thrive and reach its full potential not for the sake of his purpose, but for himself. She would want nothing more than for her darling child to vastly outrank her in magic if that is what he desires, too.       And so, perhaps it is to the surprise of no-one that, as she addresses Robin, the proudest, warmest of smiles remains etched onto red lips.

          “I do believe you are almost ready to move on to the next tome. At this rate, we shall have to buy more at the next market we see.”

     Of course, the time would come when she would deem it safe enough for him to try casting the spell she conjured on her own-- superior jolt, the one that constantly remains by her side--, but for now they must take small steps. It would be one thing, if a miscast accidentally lit a tree or three on fire-- it would be something else entirely if such a thing would harm her son, and without knowing what the consequences are, Naeva remains reluctant to let him try at the moment. Instead, she remains sitting on the ground, hands resting atop of a staff laid across her lap, the chirps of crickets and the fire off to the side filling the pause she takes between sentences.

          “Could you show me it again, Robin?”

@tomeofwanderers​ || Starter Call

          “If it not too bold of, Gregor, I would like to speak with you about a rumour I heard,”

     Despite her words, the sage’s tone is light and warm-- the normal sort when speaking to her partner, but not for most others. Of course, she is not here to chastise him or the like, but instead verify if a certain story happens to be true, and he still has an interest in repeating it in the near future. It would need planning, if the latter is the case, for a couple presiding over two lands may not win the favour of the people, nor the leaders of surrounding kingdoms-- even passing down the throne to Robin may backfire.

          “They say you once fought with Basilio for the title of West-Khan... Would that be true?”

     She pauses for a moment, if only to gauge Gregor’s reaction to her words-- to see if they match up with whatever his response shall be, even if the mother does not believe he would lie to her about something like that. 

          “I did not think you would be the sort wanting to rule land. I suppose I am curious as to why you did that, if it is true.”

@vallablooded​ || Starter Call

     If there is one way to instantly strike fear into the mother’s heart, it would be to sneak up on her. Be it intentional or not, a lifetime of running has left her anxious and on-edge-- prone to flinching at the smallest of sudden sounds, and jumping back at the slightest unexpected touch. The former is what happens when the woman takes note of a certain individual’s presence, yet her posture remains stiff as her head turns to properly rest her gaze upon Megan’s features. She is a puzzling being, that is for certain, and one Naeva does not know how to act around-- or, at least, not yet. How could she, when the blood she senses racing through the other’s veins is enough to send her own cold? 

          “Forgive me, child. I did not see you there,”

     A hand moves to place itself over the mother’s heart, as if to exaggerate her words in a way that her tone could not. At least it is her instead of someone more sinister or discomforting-- someone she can deal with from afar, and for the most part keep her composure around. Red lips purse themselves together, and the woman’s focus moves back out to the land before them, watching nothing in particular, but not wishing to have eye-contact with the other as of the moment.

          “...The nights are growing longer. I fear that winter shall arrive earlier this year... and that, in itself, is a bad omen. Or... that is what I have been taught.”

@drylicu​ || Starter Call

          “Morgan, my darling, I have something to ask of you,”

     The sage’s voice is soft as she speaks to her granddaughter, a single proposition burning at the back of Naeva’s mind, but one she cannot claim to know how her beloved kin will react to. On one hand, she could be overjoyed at the idea-- enthralled with the idea of doing something reserved for those deemed worthy by their mentors or superiors--, or horrified and frightened. It is something not to be taken lightly, neither by herself of the younger girl in question, but to not throw the possibility out there now would be a crime.      Thus, as she continues to speak, long fingers fiddle with priceless rings, shielded from view by the front panel of her robes.

          “Seeing as your magical prowess has grown so tremendously over the past few months... I-- Well, I was wondering if you would have any interest in conjuring a spell of your very own?”

     The type of magic does not matter-- or, at least, not to the sage. While she knows Validar would prefer one dabbling in dark magic, Naeva does not find herself envisioning anything too specific for her darling grandchild, and how could she when her own is anima-based-- thunder magic? The mother clears her throat, if only to buy herself a few more seconds, and it is only when her courage spikes once more that she continues.

          “It is tradition, you see-- to keep our land’s magic advancing. And seeing as I was your age when I made my own... I see no reason why you should wait.”