Straia has never been edgy, particularly not within the confines of the Chamber. But she trusts her kingdom in a strange way. She trusts that should something happen to her inside these borders, it is because the kingdom wants it to happen. She trusts that this land will take care of her like a god might do. Not that it will protect her, but that every trial and tribulation that comes her way will be at the will of her home. She trusts that one day, she will lay down her life for this kingdom. Not because she necessarily must die (she has discovered that she can suck the life from her ravens and life forever), but because one day, the kingdom will need her to return to the land she came from.
So the snap of a twig has never bothered her. To her, it is a warning that something is coming, but nothing more. Perhaps a friend, perhaps an enemy, but Straia has always been content with her life. Content in her service. She doesn’t fear what that might mean, though perhaps she should. Because she knows what it might mean. It means giving your heart and soul, both literally and figuratively. This land lives with the pieces of past members. Like Frankstein’s monster, only endlessly more beautiful.
Engelsfors greets her easily, politely, thanking her. Straia rolls her shoulder in a shrug. “It is only what you make of it. The gratitude is mine.” The mare had quickly proven her worth, alongside Killdare, and Straia was glad both of them had decided to call this kingdom home. They did well, and would continue to do well.
Straia, unlike Engelsfors, can only keep herself from prying for so long. Besides, Engelsfors hints at it, and it’s like begging Straia just to ask the question. The Queen has little in the way of manners. Well, that’s not entirely true. She is fully aware of them, fully capable of using them even. She simply doesn’t, unless she feels so inclinded. “You are glowing…” Straia says with a grin, flicking her tail. It is the one habit of her mischievous childhood that has remained. That flick of her black and white tail.
Engelsfors mentions the crown, though this interests her little. However, as she speaks, she begins weaving raven feathers into the other mare’s white mane. Of course, she doesn’t have the deceny to ask Engelsfors if she minds this little addition. Straia simply assumes that her kingdom mates need only ask, and she will remove whatever she has done. But the stark black raven feathers look rather beautiful on the pristine mare, a stark contrast to the gold and white. “It is flourishing, And it seems with a new generation as well. Erebor, though he’s grown. Sayaa. And one of yours, perhaps? And Killdare’s?” Though she already knows. Of course she does.
straia
the raven queen of the chamber
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission