𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙱𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚊𝚕 (Kiie & Flex)

[Kiie]

Flex

˚✩
☪ . ˚
┊
-ˋˏ ༻♡༺ ˎˊ-
°.✩┈┈∘*┈┈*∘┈┈✩.°

𝒱𝓎𝓇𝒶 𝒜𝒶𝓇𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓃​

╭┈ .★ˋ .*ೃ✧₊ ˚ ༘♡══════════════════════════════╗

╰➢ ꒥꒷꒥꒷꒷꒷꒷꒥꒷꒥꒷꒷꒷꒷꒥꒷꒥꒷꒥꒷꒥꒥꒷꒥꒷꒷꒷꒷꒥꒷꒥꒥꒷꒷·₊˚ˑ༄ؘ ══ .★.╝​

​

Vyra, one of the exotic beauties, found solace in the celestial sky above. The stars, diamond-bright and scattered across the dark sky, pulsed with a silent, ancient rhythm. The moon, a serene sentinel, bathed her in its ethereal glow, drawing her gaze like a whispered secret. She was a tribute, a carefully chosen offering from the dying kingdom of Aethelgard, sent to the opulent, formidable court of the most powerful kingdom.

Aethelgard, nestled in a valley rich with herbs and the scent of earth, had long thrived on its deep connection to the natural world. Its people, the Aethelari, wove their lives with the rhythms of the forest, their spirituality a living, breathing thing. But this reverence, this aversion to conflict, proved their undoing. The expansionist kingdom of Kryos, driven by a hunger for resources and territory, descended upon them like a winter storm.
Kryos, a land of iron and ice, saw Aethelgard's peaceful ways as weakness, their verdant lands as ripe for conquest. The Aethelari, skilled in healing and harmony, were ill-prepared for the brutal efficiency of Kryos's warriors. The siege was swift, the losses devastating. The king of Aethelgard, his heart heavy with the impending doom of his people, made a desperate gamble. He reached out to the most powerful kingdom, a kingdom whispered about in hushed tones, a realm of sun-drenched palaces and formidable power, a place where wealth and influence were as potent as any weapon. To everyone's astonishment, its King responded, its armies sweeping across the ravaged lands of Aethelgard, forcing Kryos to retreat, their ambitions thwarted.
Vyra, now a resident of Solara, understood the price of this salvation. She was a living symbol of Aethelgard's gratitude, one of the dancers, the carefully selected untouched beauties from the Aethelgard to please the royals. As she gazed at the stars, she wondered if she would be able to return home...The image of her home, her family seems like a distant memory.

"Vyra! Stop daydreaming and get ready! The royals will be present soon," Ela exclaimed, her voice a flurry of excited anticipation. Vyra turned, her gaze landing on her friend, a dazzling spectacle of adornment. Ela's head was a crown of intricate accessories, her neck draped in heavy gold, her hands shimmering with jeweled bracelets. Her emerald eyes, amplified by artful makeup, sparkled with an almost feverish intensity, and her lips, plump and painted, curved into a knowing smile.

​

Vyra couldn't suppress a soft chuckle.
"You'll blind the entire kingdom with your beauty, Eli," she teased, gently adjusting her headpiece, ensuring it sat securely. Ela, flitting about like a hummingbird, helped Vyra with the veils, draping them with practiced ease, adding delicate gold accents.

"Well! I have the assets… why not use them to seduce the king? We'll live in luxury, Vyra! Think about it," Ela declared, her voice laced with playful ambition as she placed a final, ornate head accessory on Vyra. A flicker of unease crossed Vyra's face. She noticed that some of her own gold accessories were missing, replaced with lesser, non-gold pieces, while Ela herself was resplendent in them---'Ah, so that's why my accessories are suddenly missing'. Vyra remained silent, a quiet disappointment settling in her heart. She understood Ela's desire for a better life, but the lack of even a whispered request for her belongings left a sour taste. 'At least ask for my permission' she thought, 'don't simply take'. She knew that the girls were all under pressure to catch once in a blue moon opportunity, but a small part of her felt betrayed. She pushed the feeling aside, focusing on preparing for the task ahead, reminding herself that she just needed to plan her way to go back home.
'it's not like the kingdom will care if I gone missing'

The air in the chamber thrummed with a nervous energy, a palpable tension mixed with the scent of exotic perfumes and the shimmer of excitement. Each woman, a carefully cultivated bloom, had meticulously prepared herself, a living canvas of artifice and allure. They were poised, statuesque, their faces masks of practiced composure, yet beneath the surface, a whirlwind of anxieties and hopes churned. Vyra was also nervous.

Every gesture, every carefully placed accessory, every shimmering veil, was a weapon in their arsenal, a tool to amplify their natural beauty. They had rehearsed tirelessly. The dance they were about to perform was not merely a display of skill; it was a silent language, a seductive ballet of glances and movements, intended to weave a spell around the royal audience.
A hush fell over the chamber, a pregnant silence that amplified the frantic beat of their hearts. They waited for the grand entrance, the moment when the king and his court would finally take their seats. Every sense was heightened, every nerve ending tingling. Then, a fanfare echoed through the hall, signaling the arrival. With practiced grace, they moved, a fluid wave of shimmering silks and delicate limbs, gliding towards the center of the polished dance floor. It was their stage, their moment to shine. As they took their positions, the world narrowed to the rhythm of the music, the intricate choreography, and the piercing gaze of the royal audience. Their minds, honed by hours of practice, became a silent symphony of instructions. The subtle sway of the hips, the languid curve of an arm, the deliberate flicker of an eyelash – each movement was a calculated stroke, a brushstroke on the canvas of their performance.

They were a vision of ethereal beauty, moving with a hypnotic grace that held the promise of untold delights. The air crackled with unspoken desires, the silent language of seduction filling the space. Each dancer, a star in her own right, was poised on the precipice, ready to unleash the full force of their carefully cultivated charm, their focus laser-sharp, their goal unwavering: to captivate the king and his court, to etch the unforgettable image into their memories, and perhaps, to change the course of their destiny.
She was caught in a bewildering current, a conflict between her past and the uncertain future that stretched before her. 'Home' her soul whispered, but another voice, a seductive whisper of opportunity, urged her to seize the moment.

With a newfound resolve, she channeled her inner turmoil into the dance. Her movements, already graceful, gained a sharper edge, a subtle undercurrent of defiance. Her hip sway, previously fluid, now held a tantalizing tease, a silent challenge to the royal gaze. She was a paradox, a delicate flower with a core of steel, a captive who dared to command attention. Her eyes, usually filled with a quiet melancholy, now flickered with a spark of defiance, a silent declaration that she was more than just a tribute. She was a force, a presence, and she would not be ignored. The conflict within her fueled her performance, adding a layer of raw emotion, a depth that captivated the audience. She was dancing not just for the king, but for herself, for the chance to reclaim a fragment of her own destiny.

°.✩┈┈∘*┈┈*∘┈┈✩.°
-ˋˏ ༻♡༺ ˎˊ-
┊
☪ . ˚
˚✩​

 

[Flex]

Melandria. The height of civilization. A kingdom wrought in beauty, an empire founded from power and wealth. Their might touched every corner of the continent. Whether by territory or influence, there were none who’s lives weren’t effected by the Melandrian way.

For centuries, and even now its rulers had embodied the core of what Melandria was: overwhelming strength, graceful beauty, and endless wealth. King Damian Illius the III came from that bloodline. Like his forefathers, his own reign had expanded Melandria, and he wore the Melandrian legacy like a second skin.

Nearly lounging on his throne, comfortable in his power, his robe laid open. The definition of power written into every detail of his powerful frame. Dark brown eyes dimmed with satisfaction, he calmly observed his gift. Gifts. Exotic, beautiful women dancing in a way that even tugged at the needs of a man who was observed to have everything. One held his attention more than others. The movement of her hips, the subtle difference in her eyes, her lips. It challenged him. Dared him to step out from the comfort of all he’d amassed and want more. She was more.

“Beautiful.” The word, his decision on what he was watching. They all were. It was the one, however, who’d brought the word to mind as he sat, arms along the rests of his throne.

“Indeed.” The voice of his brother, Prince Darius who lounged in cushioned seating beside the throne. White trousers, like the king’s, all that he wore. The royal Melandrian way, flaunting their aesthetically pleasing figures.

Missed by most was the malcontented side eye from Darius before his light brown eyes returned to the dancing women. It was he who’d crushed the forces of Kryos. Now, as in all things, his brother received everything. All for simply being born first.

Damien leaned to the side opposite where Darius sat, gesturing for the Aethelgard emissary who’d presented the dancers to lean down to him. Pointing towards Vyra, the dancer who’d held his eye more than the others, he turned his head towards the emissary. “I want her brought before me. Tell your leader, I find his offering pleasing.” Damien motioned lazily with a hand for the man to do as he said before he settled back against his throne.

 

[Kiie]

˚✩
☪ . ˚
┊
-ˋˏ ༻♡༺ ˎˊ-
°.✩┈┈∘*┈┈*∘┈┈✩.°
𝒱𝓎𝓇𝒶 𝒜𝒶𝓇𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓃
╭┈ .★ˋ .*ೃ✧₊ ˚ ༘♡═════════════════════════════════╗

╰➢ ꒥꒷꒥꒷꒷꒷꒷꒥꒷꒥꒷꒷꒷꒷꒥꒷꒥꒷꒷꒷꒷꒷꒷꒷꒥꒷꒷꒷꒷꒥꒷꒥꒥꒷꒷·₊˚ˑ༄ؘ ══ .★.╝​

​

The spotlight, once diffused across the entire ensemble, seemed to coalesce around a single point: the King. Ela, her senses sharpened by ambition, registered the shift in the royal gaze with a jolt of alarm. It wasn't her, his gaze wasn't on her but on someone else. A tremor of frustration tightened her features, and she frantically searched for a way to reclaim the attention she craved.

In a flurry of calculated movements, she subtly altered the choreography, disrupting the carefully rehearsed patterns. The other dancers, caught off guard, stumbled momentarily, their expressions a mixture of confusion and suppressed panic and anger. They quickly recovered, smoothing over the disruption, but the ripple of unease remained. Ela, undeterred, maneuvered herself to the front line, repeatedly stealing positions, ensuring she remained directly in the King's line of sight. She offered playful, fleeting eye contact, a shy smile that belied her brazen actions, ignoring the unspoken rules of the court. Her movements became exaggerated, her body bending and swaying to showcase her form, a deliberate display of her most alluring assets.

Vyra, however, remained focused, her attention drawn to the subtle undercurrents of the court. She noticed Ela's disruptive tactics, the brazen attempts to steal the spotlight. When Ela usurped her position during the rotational shift, Vyra responded with a quiet, decisive move, stepping into the space beside her, directly facing the Prince.

The music shifted, the vibrant tempo fading into a slow, romantic melody, signaling the closing performance. The dancers moved with deliberate grace, their movements now infused with a languid sensuality. As the music swelled, golden mugs filled with rich, ruby wine were presented. Ela, ever vigilant for a chance to elevate her position, saw her opportunity. The golden mug, intended for Vyra's service to the King, was within reach. With a swift, almost imperceptible movement, she intercepted it, her fingers closing around the ornate handle. She would serve the King, she decided, claiming the privilege for herself when she should have not done that.

Meanwhile, Vyra, unfazed by Ela's maneuver, simply shifted her focus. She recognized the other golden mug, the one designated for the Prince, one that was supposed for Ela to take, and with a quiet grace, took possession of it. There was no outward sign of annoyance, no flicker of resentment. Her actions were deliberate, a silent assertion of her own agency. She would not be deterred, nor would she engage in petty squabbles. She had her own path, her own purpose, and she would pursue it with unwavering resolve.. The two women, designated to serve the King and Prince, approached their royal patrons with graceful dance.

Vyra, her gaze unwavering, moved towards the Prince with her slow dance. Ignoring the hushed warnings and the unspoken rules of the court,she refused to break eye contact. It was a bold move, a silent declaration of her presence, a challenge to the rigid formality of the court. Instead of kneeling in subservience, she ascended onto the Prince's seat, her hand lightly resting on his arm, her knee positioned between his legs. The court held its breath, a collective gasp echoing through the hall. Ela, along with the other dancers, watched in stunned silence, their blood running cold.

Vyra's movements were fluid, almost ethereal, a blend of grace and audacity. Her smile was subtle, a mere curve of her lips, yet her eyes held a depth that seemed to penetrate the Prince's very soul. She raised the golden mug to his lips, allowing him a delicate sip of the wine. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she ran her hand down along his arm, gently guiding his hand to grasp the mug. It was a gesture that was both intimate and commanding, a silent assertion of her own agency.

Her departure was as swift and graceful as her approach. As the final notes of the melody faded, the dancers were cued to exit the dance floor. Vyra, with a final, lingering glance at the Prince, turned and glided away, her movements a symphony of controlled elegance.

The air in the chamber crackled with unspoken tension. The court, still reeling from Vyra's audacious display, watched as she retreated, leaving behind a trail of stunned silence. She had broken the mold, defied expectations, and in doing so, had etched herself into the memory of the court. Her movements were not merely a dance; they were a performance, a carefully orchestrated act of defiance, a reclaiming of her own narrative. She was no longer just a tribute, a pawn in the game of courtly politics. She was a force, a presence, a woman who dared to challenge the very foundations of the Melandria court.

°.✩┈┈∘*┈┈*∘┈┈✩.°.✩┈┈∘*┈┈*∘┈┈✩.°°.✩┈┈∘*┈┈*∘┈┈✩.°°.✩┈┈∘*┈┈*∘┈┈✩.°°.✩┈┈∘*┈┈*∘┈┈✩.°

The moment the heavy doors of the dancers' chamber slammed shut, the carefully constructed facade of composure shattered.
"Have you lost your mind?!" Ela shrieked, her voice a raw, furious sound that echoed through the room.

"You just went against the rules!" Said Ela. Vyra stood unyielding, her chin held high, her eyes cold and unwavering. She met Ela's furious gaze with a chilling stillness, offering no apology, no explanation. Ela's face, flushed crimson with rage, contorted with a mixture of disbelief and fury.

"I can't believe you're so desperate for their attention that you dared to disrespect them!" Ela continued, her voice rising to a near-hysterical pitch. She shoved Vyra, a clumsy, impulsive gesture fueled by her boiling anger. Vyra, however, was not easily moved. With a swift, decisive movement, she caught Ela's wrist, her grip surprisingly strong and unforgiving. She held Ela's arm down, her eyes boring into her with a silent intensity.

"So, you stealing others' opportunities is permissible?" Vyra snapped back, her voice low but sharp, cutting through Ela's tirade like a honed blade. Before Ela could unleash a retort, Vyra released her wrist and, with a swift, controlled movement, a slap landed on her across the face. The sound echoed through the room, a sharp, resounding crack that silenced Ela instantly while other dancers winced and gasped along with Ela. Ela's eyes wide with shock and disbelief. She stumbled backward, clutching her stinging cheek, her face contorted with a mixture of pain and outrage.

"You… how dare you—" she stammered, her voice choked with emotion. Before she could finish her sentence, a series of loud, insistent knocks reverberated through the room, cutting through the charged atmosphere like a thunderclap. The sudden intrusion silenced them, their anger momentarily suspended as they waited.


°.✩┈┈∘*┈┈*∘┈┈✩.°
-ˋˏ ༻♡༺ ˎˊ-
┊
☪ . ˚
˚✩​