DEATHBEDS

As the silence consumes her surroundings, the wraith finds herself ravaged with a concoction of apprehension and impatience, weight shifting anxiously between sinewy limbs as her hungry gaze scans the queen?s frozen keep in search of life. After what feels like hours and yet is only a few minutes, eager pupils devour the familiar physique of the Armada sovereign as she emerges from her icy crypt like a beacon of prosperity, bearing the potential solution to the Elysius? ailments upon proud shoulders. Briefly, the phantom scrutinizes the woman during her hasty approach ( or as hasty as a pregnant woman could manage to travel ), recognition striking her as she observes the intricate markings adorning the woman?s face--this was Roman Armada, a woman she had had the pleasure of acquainting herself with during her reign as Glaciem?s Overseer. The ghost of a smile encases her porcelain countenance as the queen addresses her politely, and yet, her problems are too great to maintain the benevolent facade she wishes to portray and vanishes almost as quickly as it had manifested. ?Same to you, your grace,? the phantom murmurs with as much warmth as she can muster, respect evident in her choice of title. She was hardly a submissive creature, and yet, she understood that she needed to get upon the queen?s good graces if she were to offer help, so certain changes were necessary. ?do you have a moment to talk about our lord and savior jesus christ Do you know of the illness that has infiltrated these lands?? she inquires, her tone harboring the faintest trace of the distress she faced.