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The fine-drawn footfalls of the Barbanov echoed throughout the halls; she of course walked in stride besides the company of her venerated brother, flailing arms seemingly trembling in a methodical manner of uneasiness. Countenance struck forth unto that foreign landscape ahead of her, the youthful lady’s blood red dress trailing behind her like an evangelical shadow. Soothingly did her merlot stained jewels bounce upon her nape and atramentous locks of her kin. The surroundings of her orbs were fathoms deep, yet they carried the warmth and life of the sunlit surface. Elizaveta donned a thousand hues of ultramarine radiating in softly swooping arcs, only further accentuating the distinguishable bags of her visage. She felt the need to move almost without end; locked fingers embracing to squirm and wiggle with one another as the teenager came to a sudden halt. A gulp escaped from the depths of Elizaveta’s quivering jaw, knees descending down into a deferential curtsey before the Queen.
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