Seraphine's Literatures

Morrígan's life is scripted one. From the time she arises in the morning to the hour she descends to sleep, every hour is a dedication towards a singular goal: to be a paragon of ladyship, someone whom others may strive to imitate and resemble.

Every day brings her one step closer to proving herself to higher society, taking her place among them as a wealthy, wedded and (preferably) titled lady of means. One that has earned her stripes.

All according to plan. All according to script.

Until it was plucked from her delicate fingers and burned before her eyes to land in a perfect pile of ash on her lap.

And it burned.

A place where I will drop miscellaneous shorts and drabbles pertaining to Delosir and Seraphine. Sometimes these will include additional characters as well!

There was very little faith that ‘the one’ even existed for someone like Delosir. Not that he hadn’t looked. He’d been alive for nearly 400 years. He’d not only not found ‘the one’, he’d scarcely any evidence whatsoever that the concept was more than a figment of mortal imagination. Leave it to creatures of clay and dust to conjure such grandiose notions of devotion—leave it to a mortal who cannot fathom eternity to conjure a concept of something rumored to endure even death.

A great deal of deliberation crossed over Seraphine's face before she finally opened her mouth, taking great care to keep her voice even. "I thought you might like an update on the whereabouts of your paramour, the mysterious Miss Winslet."

Delosir allowed a practiced, slow smile to manipulate his lips. "I gathered as much."