Shadewood you are at war, even in your dreams

The Macedonian simpers, a tease of a smile echoing upon the lines of his lips as she repeats Tacita’s name whisper soft. It is not a seductive sound, it does not hold the enticing promise of secrets left untold as one thinks of whispers. In fact, Nero rather thought it was an ill-favored sound: like the ghastly gurgle. As of his knowledge Crete did not even have that ability: and thus the vespertine finds himself wondering what has given cause for her muteness. He sees no scars that he can discern as the cause (though that does not mean they are not there) but tucks the curiosity away. It is no use wondering — it isn’t as if she can tell him. It is a bothersome, Nero thinks, to bear the acute curiosity that has plagued the scholarly forebears of his family and to know that he will never have answer; especially when he always fancied himself a tactician, a warrior with a knack for collecting stories.

The kinglet is still as she draws nearer, summoning her courage to her breast he presumes as she seeks to diminish some of the distance between them. He feels the rake of her eyes over him, assessing, inspecting. The umbra DiSarinno is dutifully quiet which is good because just as his lips part to speak she whispers his name. Nero. She speaks it with a voice of Medusa, he imagines: eerie and yet, somehow despite the unpleasantness of her rough, whispering voice, like the rattle of a venomous snake, enchanting in it’s own way. “Tacita,” He repeats, bestowing the name of the infernal nymph upon her though it is not his place to give her such. She has offered him none in return and everyone needs a name, he thinks. Even if it is a false one. He is fortunate enough to bear three: Tiberius is his given name (but the username was taken so Torvi had to improvise), and Kinglet follows in the tradition of avian names within the Redleaf branch of their family; only to be bestowed Nero as Gaia thought it more fitting later. “little infernal nymph,” He speaks it on softened, lilting tones with deductive amusement as opposed to insult. The story is outlandish in it’s own: for did Zeus not think that Hera did not know he was consistently unfaithful to her? Did he think her so blind and naïve (clearly, the answer is yes)? But, alas it, as all mythos, makes for good stories, at the very least.