A girl in disguise. An heir in hunt. A world divided.
Iris Lavera is born into the civilization of the least respected ones. The lineage where it's predicted to birth a curse. A low born who will be the downfall of an entire nation if left alive.
...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
To address the old man as my tutor would be enough to bring him to life just so he could knock his knuckle atop of my head so hard that I would rectify it as a mistake in instance. A tormentor perhaps be suitable, the one who would slap a ladle on my palm and wake me up miles sooner in time before the rest of the Ivyaki did. Even the birds would be ashamed to be up at such early hours if there were any that would withstand the frost watching me sniff my little nose and scowl religiously as I shovel the snow off from the margin.
It used to pile up in an hour or two, just when I got to feel my toes again.
Hence I am not shy of effort, I have worked with the ferocity of livestock bought by miser to tend his fields beyond its stamina. I have strived to live with the belief that the old man and his twisted generosity were the sole gateways to my existence. But now I know that had I not been ridden of the basic human comfort and fatigue, it wouldn't have mattered if it was possible to flee the land of ice and disparity. My mind and body wouldn't have been strong enough to withstand the journey and nor would have i tried to punch the CrownPrince with my practiced fist the second he had let his guard slip and shed in distraction when I spoke.
Spoke in voice and words real to me.
"You bastard"
A phenomenal start to my animosity and hostility towards this man who dodged my attack with the ease Dorin swats the bugs away.
Or fries them.
"I take anything than a title anointed by historians" he touches my other hand gently while defending my other attack with a vice on my wrist. His fingers press warningly over my sleeve and the hair loosely curtains half of my face. I have never had them open, flailing and so unassured of its place. They would be mostly twisted in a braid while I slept in my quarters with a knife under my pillow in welcome for someone who saw me such.
"So the eyes are green" he notes, staring into the pit of my soul ,he locked my arms by my chest. A distinct smile tugs by his lips "Impetus?" He narrows his eyes in suggestion. I push him away as he lets me, stepping away as if allowing me to breathe and regain.
Impetus- a stimulant or force that can alter or bring slight changes into appearance. Some enhance features while others subtly reside them. They are often used by actors in a play for their roles and by undercover ventims who gather information in a blendable fashion. The only bane of its success? It gets easily worn off by water. Almost like washing the grease and soot away after a day's work.
