11-13-2020, 06:02 PM
If Lilliana had any doubts about Leilan, she never revealed any in the presence of their twins. Their mother was as friendly and cordial with Leilan as she was with any other resident of Taiga or the North and Roselin never thought anything of the relationship her parents did (or did not) have.
They were just her parents; her mother and father as just Oren and Nash and Yan were her brothers.
Their bedtime routine is more or less the same as it is every night. Lilliana wove tales about fantastical things. She would smile and tell them about the places her family had once called home: an ancient valley where the breezes were so warm and welcoming that winter could never touch.
(Roselin wasn't sure what she thought of that. She didn't mind the cold. There was a part of her that enjoyed it. She never shivered when winter came blowing through the North.) She told them stories about noble kings, regal queens, gallant knights, and a place so bright and golden that even Evil couldn't tarnish. For Oren, there were stories about wars and dragons and quests. For Roselin, Lilliana conjured every borrowed memory she had of Carwen, an ancestor that Rosey closely resembled with her dark coloring and piercing blue eyes.
There were many nights that the twins fell asleep this way: with Lilliana telling her stories and @[Leilan] and his shadows keeping watch over them during the deep, dark hours.
But every so often, Rosey broke habit and a blue eye would open to spy her father. The other eye would follow and soon the silver-black filly would rise quietly to greet her sire while Lilliana would bed down with their roan son. His shadows are a welcome banner to the little girl and she smiles as she comes closer to Leilan. "Papa," she murmurs softly with a voice that was still drowsy with sleep. "You're late," she chides him, trying to use the same voice Mama did when Oren ran too fast or both twins roamed too far. But she fails and the little voice that floats across the darkness is affectionate instead of cross. Rosey presses her slender head into her father's broad chest and asks, "where have you been?"
They were just her parents; her mother and father as just Oren and Nash and Yan were her brothers.
Their bedtime routine is more or less the same as it is every night. Lilliana wove tales about fantastical things. She would smile and tell them about the places her family had once called home: an ancient valley where the breezes were so warm and welcoming that winter could never touch.
(Roselin wasn't sure what she thought of that. She didn't mind the cold. There was a part of her that enjoyed it. She never shivered when winter came blowing through the North.) She told them stories about noble kings, regal queens, gallant knights, and a place so bright and golden that even Evil couldn't tarnish. For Oren, there were stories about wars and dragons and quests. For Roselin, Lilliana conjured every borrowed memory she had of Carwen, an ancestor that Rosey closely resembled with her dark coloring and piercing blue eyes.
There were many nights that the twins fell asleep this way: with Lilliana telling her stories and @[Leilan] and his shadows keeping watch over them during the deep, dark hours.
But every so often, Rosey broke habit and a blue eye would open to spy her father. The other eye would follow and soon the silver-black filly would rise quietly to greet her sire while Lilliana would bed down with their roan son. His shadows are a welcome banner to the little girl and she smiles as she comes closer to Leilan. "Papa," she murmurs softly with a voice that was still drowsy with sleep. "You're late," she chides him, trying to use the same voice Mama did when Oren ran too fast or both twins roamed too far. But she fails and the little voice that floats across the darkness is affectionate instead of cross. Rosey presses her slender head into her father's broad chest and asks, "where have you been?"
ROSELIN
html by castlegraphics; art by Calcifer