initially, she is a bud — dainty and gossamer floret — the exquisiteness never unfolds before the sights of anyone. steel coats over where delicate petals should unfold, a razor edge eviscerates where thorns mean to inflict harm.

the twilight marketplace is a place of solace for xylina, has been for years (it feels like her life restarts after the death of her mother, needs to learn to live again). she cannot count the times she's moved through the sea of souls, a specter floating over the teeming waves without any resistance since she's intangible. since the funeral, the witch has grown more palpable — a possibility she did not expect to manifest. over time the joy in everyday acts and the seemingly mundane restore her sense of self. there are even occasions where the melancholy ebbs away and for a mere moment former peace blossoms in her bosom.

Nothing but the words she continued to gnaw upon until blood dominated her palate existed presently. As if the strings of fate urged her forward, Tanith surged forward - a curious mixture of contrasting worlds, and halted closely to the Ivory Guard, sensation of peril steadily blossoming. The taunt directed itself at one individual solely: the progeny of the forsaken Meager King.