- Posting Speed
- Multiple posts per day
- Online Availability
- 8:00 AM - 4:00 PM
- Writing Levels
- Prestige
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Primarily Prefer Female
- Genres
- Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
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The Night of Roselyn's Kidnapping || NPCS: Elsabet Warwick | King Cristof | Rickard Egan
Once upon a time... They say that's how all the greatest stories begin. But sometimes the best tales begin where you least expect. The pricking of a finger, the shattering of glass… or a cry in the still of a cold, dark.night. Fog rolled in thick and low, across the cool, damp grounds outside the palace wall, a looming phantom of mist. The air smelled clear and crisp, the first notes of winter lingering like tannins in wine. For all they could see through the swirling grey mass, the heavy footed tracks wound in circles, a nonsensical pattern, suggesting ultimately that the abductors had cleverly disguised their trail. Roslyn was gone without a trace.
“Anything?” Rickard Egan had been King Cristof’s personal guard for well over a decade, and through thick and thin, he served with passion and focus. There was little, however, that could make a man feel his lack of worth than the failure to protect those things which are most precious.
“Nothing, sir. Not a damn thing.” Kicking at the dirt, sweeping his foot across the flattened pathway, Mason Clemmons shook his head. He was young, but ambitious, a knight befitting the context of such a title. Slapping a hand to the boy’s shoulder, Rickard nodded in sympathy.
“Keep looking. We’ll find something.”
“Sire! Look here!” The eager voice belonged to Hammond Gelb, another new recruit. His armor still shone, glistening in the pale light of the moon, fresh as the day it was hammered out. He was an overachiever with an ego too big for his helmet, but he was green. Too green for this sort of mess. It was difficult to see in the darkness, but Rick knew from all too many years of experience, the kid was wearing his shoulder plates backwards. Normally, he would have been inclined to reprimand the recruit, but judging from his disheveled state, he had been woken by the warning bell... Rick was not so old that he could not remember the fear that sound instilled, the way it twisted the mind.
Moving swiftly, Rickard joined Hammond, who was clutching something in his hand. He held it out as the older man approached, his gauntlets rattling as his quivering arm extended. Catching the arm, steadying it, Rick took the proffered item. It was a scrap of cloth, no bigger than a saucer. His breath escaped in a plume of vapor and looking up, his expression folded into severity, “Tell no one you saw this. I must speak with the king, immediately…”
It was difficult to make out, unless one knew exactly what they were looking at. Fortunately, or perhaps less fortunately, Rickard had already born his suspicions. It was only the corner most portion, torn free, likely by the frantic, clawing hands of their dear princess, but the shield crossed by two swords was unmistakable. By all appearances, it looked like Mulgrave was responsible for the atrocity.
And if Rickard knew the king as he imagined he did, Mulgrave would soon pay.
“Anything?” Rickard Egan had been King Cristof’s personal guard for well over a decade, and through thick and thin, he served with passion and focus. There was little, however, that could make a man feel his lack of worth than the failure to protect those things which are most precious.
“Nothing, sir. Not a damn thing.” Kicking at the dirt, sweeping his foot across the flattened pathway, Mason Clemmons shook his head. He was young, but ambitious, a knight befitting the context of such a title. Slapping a hand to the boy’s shoulder, Rickard nodded in sympathy.
“Keep looking. We’ll find something.”
“Sire! Look here!” The eager voice belonged to Hammond Gelb, another new recruit. His armor still shone, glistening in the pale light of the moon, fresh as the day it was hammered out. He was an overachiever with an ego too big for his helmet, but he was green. Too green for this sort of mess. It was difficult to see in the darkness, but Rick knew from all too many years of experience, the kid was wearing his shoulder plates backwards. Normally, he would have been inclined to reprimand the recruit, but judging from his disheveled state, he had been woken by the warning bell... Rick was not so old that he could not remember the fear that sound instilled, the way it twisted the mind.
Moving swiftly, Rickard joined Hammond, who was clutching something in his hand. He held it out as the older man approached, his gauntlets rattling as his quivering arm extended. Catching the arm, steadying it, Rick took the proffered item. It was a scrap of cloth, no bigger than a saucer. His breath escaped in a plume of vapor and looking up, his expression folded into severity, “Tell no one you saw this. I must speak with the king, immediately…”
It was difficult to make out, unless one knew exactly what they were looking at. Fortunately, or perhaps less fortunately, Rickard had already born his suspicions. It was only the corner most portion, torn free, likely by the frantic, clawing hands of their dear princess, but the shield crossed by two swords was unmistakable. By all appearances, it looked like Mulgrave was responsible for the atrocity.
And if Rickard knew the king as he imagined he did, Mulgrave would soon pay.
Despite the hour, the palace was alive with motion, but for Elsabet Warwick the world stood still. Ella had been Rosie’s nurse since her birth, thirteen winters prior. From the moment Rosie cried herself into the world, she had been possessed of an uncommonly kind, gentle disposition. The thought that anyone would cause her harm had been as far from anyone’s mind as the east from the west. Both outwardly as well as in, she was her father in every way… the golden hair, and pale blue eyes and her indomitable spirit, her warmth and grace. It was her father’s spirit. Cristof was everything a king should be. Good and loyal, honest and fair. It was little wonder his country loved him so. But this would break him… and if Ella understood anything at all it was that this simply could not happen.
Standing in the girl’s room, Ella clutched a blanket to her chest. The edges were frayed, the small pink and blue flowers embroidered at each corner picked to pieces. It had been Rosie’s favorite from the moment she’d received it at her third nameday celebration. She had outgrown carrying it around with her, eventually, but it still lay on the end of her bed, a fond piece of nostalgia.
Three hours now, she had been missing… and no word on who had taken her or why. Ella knew that there was undoubtedly work to be done, that she was probably wanted somewhere, but she just couldn’t bring herself to move…
There was an emptiness, a bleeding hole somewhere in the very center of his being that ached, ached like nothing he’d ever felt. Cristof, King of Ethelmar, roamed Bright Hedge like a spectre of the night. Pale blue eyes were framed by dark circles riddled with guilt and confusion. A hand ran across his golden mop of hair, tangling the short curls. The crown that usually adorned his head had been left within his solar when he took to pacing about the palace after receiving the devastating news. That was hours ago. He was lost, in spirit and mind, without the light of his life, without his beautiful little Rose.
His feet traveled across stone labyrinth hallways, illuminated by braziers and sconces filled with somber torch light. He was a ghost in his own home, wandering around the palace like a blind child. It wasn’t until his arm outstretched on it’s own accord did he realize where he was and what door he was opening. He sucked in a deep, sharp breath, pain lancing through his heart. Pulling the chamber door open he stepped into his daughter’s room, alone with his thoughts -- not completely alone it seemed.
Ella stood near Rose’s bed, clutching his child’s favorite blanket to her chest as if she were instead holding Rose. His eyes pricked and he glanced away quickly, wishing the same thing. Cristof looked at the nurse who had cared for Rose since her first squawking breath, saw to her every whim and need for the past eleven springs… And wasn’t surprised to see her face a reflection of his own.
“Oh,” Cristof said after clearing his throat. “I-I wasn’t expecting… anyone to be here.”
The King glanced around his daughter’s room, letting the memories of the past fill the hole that throbbed like a fatal wound. Good and bad, bitter and sweet, they washed over him like a salve and he breathed deep, deciding to clutch onto the belief that his little Rose would be found. Found safe and whole and unmolested of danger.
“I’m sorry Ella, I realize this must be… hard for you as well.”
Ella turned at the sound of his voice, but the expression she wore was a dazed one, almost as though she hadn’t heard him. When he spoke again, however, her lip twitched down into a frown and shaking her head, she met Cristof’s gaze. He seemed hollow… like a scraped out shell, his eyes glistening in the soft glow of the candlelight.
“You… you shouldn’t apologize to me, Your Majesty. I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here. I just wanted to see to it everything was in order, before I collected my things. Ms. Rimmel suggested it would be wise to do so before I am officially dismissed, as to avoid a scene.” Ms.Rimmel was the head maid, a severe woman with a crooked nose and a distinctively high pitched voice. She was miserable and unpleasant to most, but particularly to those she deemed unworthy of their position, or those she thought had climbed too quickly through the ranks. Ella, most especially, grated on her… given she had come from nothing.
“I know you will find her, My Lord.” Her eyes fell, as she looked down at the blanket in her grasp, “You are renowned, after all, for never giving up.”
Despite all the darkness choking his heart, a surge of pity flowed through Cristof as he pondered Ella's words, mouth slightly agape. His daughter was missing and in the three hours she'd been gone, his chief maid was dismissing Rose's lifelong wet nurse? If he was capable of feeling more than he already did, he'd be angry beyond belief. The audacity of that squeaky voiced woman!
Clearing his throat, Cristof said consolingly, "Ella, please… You will not be dismissed. As you just said, she will be found. And besides, what would Rose think when she returns and you are nowhere to be found?"
"...But..." Frowning softly, she laid the blanket at the end of Rosie's bed, smoothing it out with absence, "But it's my fault, Sire. I... I should have... If I had only woken. I should have heard her. I should have been here. It's the least I deserve for failing her... for failing you."
Looking back at him again, eyes damp with tears, she shook her head, "I don't understand how I missed it. I... I should have heard something."
Cristof took a few hesitant steps toward Ella and when he was within reaching distance, wiped a falling tear and took her chin within his hand, softly, and shook his head sadly.
"There was no way you could have known, neither of us, not the entirety of Bright Hedge." Gazing into her brown eyes, Cristof could see the uncertainty lingering within, and he shook his head once more and tried to smile. "As your King, I command that you do not blame yourself."
Whatever argument she had worked together in her mind against his reassurance fled as his thumb brushed across her cheekbone, a strong hand gently clasped beneath her chin.
Thirteen years was to carry a secret. Too long to fight.
"Cristof... I need to tell you--"
"My King! Thank God I've found you!" Rickard stood in the doorway, wearing an expression of urgency. Ella stepped back, away from the king, her eyes dropping to the floor.
"I'll leave you to speak, Your Majesty." Bowing her head, she slipped from the room, as Rickard stepped inside, giving her a curious glance before turning to the king.
"I know who is behind this terrible attack, My King..."
Curiosity tugged at him as Ella left the room. He wondered what she meant to tell him and he knew, without a doubt, that he'd seek her out later for the information. But when Rickard spoke again, his heart fell violently into his stomach and he wavered on the spot, clutching the bedpost for support.
"Tell me." Cristof said softly. "Tell me everything you know. Now."
Producing the small scrap of fabric, Rickard stepped forward and held it out to the king, a frown crowning his lips as he shook his head, "No mistaking it... That's Mulgrave's crest. An unprovoked act of aggression like this? It's war they're looking for..."
Wordlessly, Cristoff extended his hand and took the small piece of fabric from Rickard. His fingers rubbed circles against the linen, his eyes scanning across the length of the Mulgrave crest, unsure of how he was expected to feel. What did they expect? Anger? Happiness? All he felt was a bitter ache between his ribcage as he wondered if his Rosie had torn this off her captor...
"How do we know... that this isn't some kind of trick? Who's to say the real captors didn't leave this behind to keep us off their trail?" Cristoff shook his head in confusion and then gave an order to the Captain of his Kingsguard. "We need a spy, a loyal one. I give my leave for you to seek one out. Return to me once you've found him... or her. We'll speak more once you've found me my spy..."
With a solemn nod, Rickard took back the small scrap of fabric, “I will seek one out immediately, Sire.”
He moved to the door, but hesitating, he paused, laying a hand to the frame, “...Sire. If I may… I am sorry, about Roselyn. It is my uttermost prayer that we will find her, and if necessary, I will give my very life to see her returned safely.” He seemed to consider something for a moment, but cleared his instead and with a nod, stepped out into the hallway.
It wasn’t difficult, considering his own private notions, to decide who to seek out for the job. There was one man who Rickard could trust - a man who carried the same beliefs that the captain held. Swift feet carried him from Rosie’s chamber and back to his quarters, where he quickly composed a note. It was an old code, one never used between guardsmen anymore… but he would understand it. His next move was to the rookery, where he sent out the missive with their fastest falcon - the falcon would deliver it to a page, who would carry it by mount to the right place. With the letter handed off, he went down to the stables. It would take most of the evening, and likely into the morning to get to the falls, but with any luck the letter would arrive in a timely manner and Uther would arrive before the following afternoon.
A Collaboration with @rissa || Tags: @Toogee
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The Following Morning || NPCS: Remis Halifax
Fingertips curved around the edge of a hipbone, as Remis Hallifax opened his eyes. The woman beside him had rolled onto her side, her breathing softening again as she sank back into a slumber. She’d been prettier over the rim of his mug of mead. Kyra… or Kayla… or… something with a K. He couldn’t quite recall her name, and his head was pounding far too loud to concentrate. He needed to sleep, but something had jarred him awake. Lying there, he couldn’t quite figure out what until the knock resounded and with a groan, he pinched his forehead and rolled upright.
“Just a damn minute. Hang on…” Swinging his legs around, he reached for his pants and sliding them on, rose to his feet, moving to the door on heavy, wobbly legs. With one hand holding up his trousers, he pulled the door open, stepping back as the face of the inn proprietor appeared in the frame, frowning tightly.
“...Jim.” Remis muttered.
“...Remi. Look… I… I hate to do this to you. I know things have been rough, but… I gotta make a living, you know.”
“Hell. I’m surprised it took you this long, Mate.”
“I really am sorry.”
“Don’t be.” With a shrug, Remis looked down, knotting the string on his trousers, “You’ll uh… you’ll take care of Kara back there?”
“...Haley.”
“Oh. Damn.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he smirked, ruefully, “You servin’ Vast’s Widowmaker here, now? Cause I can’t remember anything about last night..."
“Probably better it stays that way.” chuckling dryly, Jim nodded, “Take your time, Rem. Just uh… leave your key on the bar.”
As Jim turned away, Remis closed the door and returned to the bed. Sinking down, he tugged on his boots and shirt, rubbing rough, calloused hands over his face. In the back of his mind, the nagging, sinking feeling roiled like a bad turn of the stomach. Harnick had been right when he had dismissed him from the private guard… He was a mess, and a brilliant waste of space.
Behind him came a soft purr-like murmur, and arms wrapped around his torso as his evening companion straightened upright, “Remis… You’ve dressed? What happened to us staying in bed all day?”
Gently, but firmly, he unwound her arms and rising to his feet, tugged his mantle over his head, “Jim has your money downstairs. I’ve got to get moving if I’m going to find a place to sleep tonight.” He’d worn out the entirety of Remoria, and the wharf was heading in the same direction, rapidly, “You take care, alright Kaley?”
“...Are… are you serious?” Looking back at her, he caught the deep, scowling frown and swore softly beneath his breath.
“Augh! Haley. Sorry.”
He’d already started across the threshold when she hurled the water pitcher at him, and he ducked swiftly as he closed the door, porcelain shattering against the hallway wall behind his head.
Grimacing, he made his way down the stairs to find Jim at work, cleaning tables, “Forgot her name, again, hmm? I’ll add the pitcher to your bill…” He remarked with a sly smirk, and shaking his head, Remis dropped the key to his room on the bar surface.
“Next time I see you, Jim… I’ll have what I owe you.”
“Do me a favor, Remi. You just get yourself together and that’s payment enough.”
With a dry smile, Remis shrugged his shoulders, “Then I guess I’ll pay you back… Somehow.”
He left the inn, however, with little intention of ever returning. He knew the type of man he was, and there wasn’t much of a point in trying to pretend otherwise. Moving swiftly through the street, Remis slung his arms into the front pouch of his mantle, shivering against the biting cold in the air. There was one other place he could think to go, one other refuge before he’d run out of options.
Turning down the main road, he began the climb uphill, away from the docks. It was early, yet and the streets were still dark, the thick fog that rolled in from the waters casting swirling patterns of smoke along the cobbled path. Eventually, he passed through the gates of Nemco and cobblestone turned to dirt, darkness to a wan pallor as light crept over the horizon, bleeding color into the ashen grey sky. As dawn awoke, so too did a brutal northern wind, and pulling his hood up over his head, Remis picked up his pace, heading along the small, narrow route that would take him to the Ruins of Gant. In his bag, wrapped in a scrap of linen, he had a small circulate amulet, inscribed around the rim with an old forgotten language. It belonged to his mother, or had at least. It was the only thing that had survived the fire, and it was the only thing he had kept after leaving Ethelemar for the Western shores.
As he walked, he fished it out and slipped it around his neck. To the naked eye, it was little more than a gemless piece of jewelry, but in the Ruins it had a greater purpose. It was a sign of magic, familiar only to those who understood its meaning, and it would, he hoped, guarantee him at least one night of safety and rest.
Tags: @BearEnthusiast (Briar), @AceSorcerer
“Just a damn minute. Hang on…” Swinging his legs around, he reached for his pants and sliding them on, rose to his feet, moving to the door on heavy, wobbly legs. With one hand holding up his trousers, he pulled the door open, stepping back as the face of the inn proprietor appeared in the frame, frowning tightly.
“...Jim.” Remis muttered.
“...Remi. Look… I… I hate to do this to you. I know things have been rough, but… I gotta make a living, you know.”
“Hell. I’m surprised it took you this long, Mate.”
“I really am sorry.”
“Don’t be.” With a shrug, Remis looked down, knotting the string on his trousers, “You’ll uh… you’ll take care of Kara back there?”
“...Haley.”
“Oh. Damn.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he smirked, ruefully, “You servin’ Vast’s Widowmaker here, now? Cause I can’t remember anything about last night..."
“Probably better it stays that way.” chuckling dryly, Jim nodded, “Take your time, Rem. Just uh… leave your key on the bar.”
As Jim turned away, Remis closed the door and returned to the bed. Sinking down, he tugged on his boots and shirt, rubbing rough, calloused hands over his face. In the back of his mind, the nagging, sinking feeling roiled like a bad turn of the stomach. Harnick had been right when he had dismissed him from the private guard… He was a mess, and a brilliant waste of space.
Behind him came a soft purr-like murmur, and arms wrapped around his torso as his evening companion straightened upright, “Remis… You’ve dressed? What happened to us staying in bed all day?”
Gently, but firmly, he unwound her arms and rising to his feet, tugged his mantle over his head, “Jim has your money downstairs. I’ve got to get moving if I’m going to find a place to sleep tonight.” He’d worn out the entirety of Remoria, and the wharf was heading in the same direction, rapidly, “You take care, alright Kaley?”
“...Are… are you serious?” Looking back at her, he caught the deep, scowling frown and swore softly beneath his breath.
“Augh! Haley. Sorry.”
He’d already started across the threshold when she hurled the water pitcher at him, and he ducked swiftly as he closed the door, porcelain shattering against the hallway wall behind his head.
Grimacing, he made his way down the stairs to find Jim at work, cleaning tables, “Forgot her name, again, hmm? I’ll add the pitcher to your bill…” He remarked with a sly smirk, and shaking his head, Remis dropped the key to his room on the bar surface.
“Next time I see you, Jim… I’ll have what I owe you.”
“Do me a favor, Remi. You just get yourself together and that’s payment enough.”
With a dry smile, Remis shrugged his shoulders, “Then I guess I’ll pay you back… Somehow.”
He left the inn, however, with little intention of ever returning. He knew the type of man he was, and there wasn’t much of a point in trying to pretend otherwise. Moving swiftly through the street, Remis slung his arms into the front pouch of his mantle, shivering against the biting cold in the air. There was one other place he could think to go, one other refuge before he’d run out of options.
Turning down the main road, he began the climb uphill, away from the docks. It was early, yet and the streets were still dark, the thick fog that rolled in from the waters casting swirling patterns of smoke along the cobbled path. Eventually, he passed through the gates of Nemco and cobblestone turned to dirt, darkness to a wan pallor as light crept over the horizon, bleeding color into the ashen grey sky. As dawn awoke, so too did a brutal northern wind, and pulling his hood up over his head, Remis picked up his pace, heading along the small, narrow route that would take him to the Ruins of Gant. In his bag, wrapped in a scrap of linen, he had a small circulate amulet, inscribed around the rim with an old forgotten language. It belonged to his mother, or had at least. It was the only thing that had survived the fire, and it was the only thing he had kept after leaving Ethelemar for the Western shores.
As he walked, he fished it out and slipped it around his neck. To the naked eye, it was little more than a gemless piece of jewelry, but in the Ruins it had a greater purpose. It was a sign of magic, familiar only to those who understood its meaning, and it would, he hoped, guarantee him at least one night of safety and rest.
Tags: @BearEnthusiast (Briar), @AceSorcerer
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The Following Morning || NPCS: Lilianna Gentry | Declan Martel
The jail in Mulgrave was not exactly known for being terribly warm or comfortable. Kept below ground they were constantly damp and musty, filled with all manner of rodent life, and that in a lot of ways included the prisoners. Lilianna Gentry had only been a guest of his majesties facilities once before and the experience had left her nearly shattered.
As she was tossed unceremoniously into her cell for a second time in her twenty-four years of life, she felt a weight of dread, like crushing oblivion come over her.
It had worked… every single time. It had worked without flaw, and she had never thought, not once, that the only time it wouldn’t might be with a disgraced guard with a mule of a horse. It was supposed to be easy, and for a minute or two, it seemed like it would be, just like every time before. The set up… the timing. The tears. She'd hooked him, and judging by the look of horror he'd given when he thought he'd injured her, she had been so sure.
But chivalry, it seemed, did not trump simple paranoia. She'd reached… swore up and down that she only reached for the thin stiletto at her hip when he had lunged, overpowering her.
It was entirely unjustified, and despicable… and everything she'd come to expect from the famed Mulgrave guard.
And now she was stuck. Back in that terrible place, and once they figured out who she was, it would be the stocks for her. Or the noose. Panic ate at her, her chest tightening as she paced back and forth, mind reeling from anxiety. She needed a plan, she needed to get out…
The thought occurred then, a conversation returning to her mind, like a sudden burst of light. At the time she hadn't really known what she was hearing, but there in that miserable cell the words returned with profound impact. In a world where you had literally nothing to go into battle with, sometimes leverage was the best weaponry. She could see him… disappearing of into the distance, the guard who had arrested her, and moving to the bars, Lilianna called out after him, “Oi! You ignorant lump of tin! Unless you wanna be personally responsible for a dead princess, you best let me out of this rat infested hell hole!”
Tags: @rissa (Alfeus), @Nav
It was a simple enough task. Taking supplies from the stockade to the Upper District garrison. It was something he’d done more times than he could count - not exactly a task suited to the captain of the Echelon, yet somehow Declan still found himself stranded in the middle of a field with a splintered wagon axle and no back up to speak of. It was, for all intents and purposes, embarrassing and in no ways how he had seen his morning going.
It was early yet, dawn barely a crack on the horizon, the pale grey sky only just beginning to shade with color and the winter air was biting, cool against his ears and face. Breathing warmth into his hands, wishing intensely that he had thought to wear his gloves, he gave the wheel a stern scowl before shaking his head. It was a seven mile walk back to town, Uphill. Graciously, there were farms scattered here and there on the outskirts, and with some luck he hoped to find what he needed to make the repairs… Luck, however, had not exactly been his companion that day.
Rolling his eyes and tucking his hood up over his head, Declan began the trek, brittle, frost tipped grass crunching underfoot. The first farm he came across, roughly a mile away from the wagon appeared abandoned - not at all unusual for Mulgrave, though tragic for his current circumstances. The second had burned down. By the time he reached the third, a three mile hike from his quarry, Declan felt frozen to the bones and less than enthusiastic about his chances of finding a helping hand. Still, it couldn’t hurt to try.
Approaching the door of the farmhouse door, Declan furled a fist and knocked.
Tags: @Effervescent
As she was tossed unceremoniously into her cell for a second time in her twenty-four years of life, she felt a weight of dread, like crushing oblivion come over her.
It had worked… every single time. It had worked without flaw, and she had never thought, not once, that the only time it wouldn’t might be with a disgraced guard with a mule of a horse. It was supposed to be easy, and for a minute or two, it seemed like it would be, just like every time before. The set up… the timing. The tears. She'd hooked him, and judging by the look of horror he'd given when he thought he'd injured her, she had been so sure.
But chivalry, it seemed, did not trump simple paranoia. She'd reached… swore up and down that she only reached for the thin stiletto at her hip when he had lunged, overpowering her.
It was entirely unjustified, and despicable… and everything she'd come to expect from the famed Mulgrave guard.
And now she was stuck. Back in that terrible place, and once they figured out who she was, it would be the stocks for her. Or the noose. Panic ate at her, her chest tightening as she paced back and forth, mind reeling from anxiety. She needed a plan, she needed to get out…
The thought occurred then, a conversation returning to her mind, like a sudden burst of light. At the time she hadn't really known what she was hearing, but there in that miserable cell the words returned with profound impact. In a world where you had literally nothing to go into battle with, sometimes leverage was the best weaponry. She could see him… disappearing of into the distance, the guard who had arrested her, and moving to the bars, Lilianna called out after him, “Oi! You ignorant lump of tin! Unless you wanna be personally responsible for a dead princess, you best let me out of this rat infested hell hole!”
Tags: @rissa (Alfeus), @Nav
It was a simple enough task. Taking supplies from the stockade to the Upper District garrison. It was something he’d done more times than he could count - not exactly a task suited to the captain of the Echelon, yet somehow Declan still found himself stranded in the middle of a field with a splintered wagon axle and no back up to speak of. It was, for all intents and purposes, embarrassing and in no ways how he had seen his morning going.
It was early yet, dawn barely a crack on the horizon, the pale grey sky only just beginning to shade with color and the winter air was biting, cool against his ears and face. Breathing warmth into his hands, wishing intensely that he had thought to wear his gloves, he gave the wheel a stern scowl before shaking his head. It was a seven mile walk back to town, Uphill. Graciously, there were farms scattered here and there on the outskirts, and with some luck he hoped to find what he needed to make the repairs… Luck, however, had not exactly been his companion that day.
Rolling his eyes and tucking his hood up over his head, Declan began the trek, brittle, frost tipped grass crunching underfoot. The first farm he came across, roughly a mile away from the wagon appeared abandoned - not at all unusual for Mulgrave, though tragic for his current circumstances. The second had burned down. By the time he reached the third, a three mile hike from his quarry, Declan felt frozen to the bones and less than enthusiastic about his chances of finding a helping hand. Still, it couldn’t hurt to try.
Approaching the door of the farmhouse door, Declan furled a fist and knocked.
Tags: @Effervescent
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The Following Morning || NPCS: Merek Loren
Thomas Loren was a soul freed of the burdens of responsibility. At least, that’s what he would have liked to think. Unfortunately, life rarely ever occurs the way that we expect, and so when he found himself on his brother’s doorstep, a pool of blood collecting beneath him, his solitary thought was how things had gone so wrong. It was all so quick, and even now, in retrospect, he wasn’t entirely sure how he had come to be where he was.
What he did know was no one that he knew of had survived quite such an injury, and if he was going to die, he was going to make sure it was for something. At least, this was the vein of thinking he clung to, as his vision began to blur, his chest tightening with every painful pulse.
Luckily, though perhaps not so luckily for his brother, he didn’t have to wait long. Merek had worked late into the evening and spent the night curled beneath the roots of a poplar tree. His back ached and his fingertips and toes were half frozen and in dire need of a warm soak, but as he approached his cottage there was a brief moment when he spotted Thomas that his heart swelled with a certain unquestionable gladness.
It was a moment brief as a gust of wind, for as he neared, Merek saw the state of Thomas and his heart plummeted to his frigid feet as he raced forward, skidding to a stop and crumpling to his knees before him.
“Hey, Mer…” Thomas coughed out, flashing a weary, dry smile, “Been a while…”
“Tom! What..” Pulling free the vest he wore over his shirt, Merek pressed it against the wound in Thomas’s side, his brother flinching at the sudden pressure. It was deep, rimmed in raw, red patches, “What happened??”
“No, stop. It’s too late. Just… just listen, Merek. I… I need you to listen.” Catching Merek’s hands, Thomas frowned, meeting his brother’s gaze, “It’s not… it’s not too late to stop it. Just listen.”
Sinking deeper into his crouched position, Merek nodded, though he continued to keep pressure on the wound, “I’m listening.”
“I was… I was down in Ethelemar, looking for work and I overheard something… I wasn’t supposed to. There… there’s a plot, Merek… But it’s not too late…” Grimacing, Thomas dropped his head back against the door post, his eyes falling shut for a moment.
“What plot? Tom?? Tom, stay with me…”
Cracking his eyes open, Thomas reached up, patting a hand to the pocket of his coat, “I wrote it down… In case… in case I didn’t make it. You have to bring it to Bright Hedge. You have to warn… to warn the--” A hacking cough stole his voice and sucking in a breath, he caught Merek’s arms, his gaze wide and naked, “.... Mer… Mer, I’m scared.”
“I’m here, Tom. It’s alright, I’m right here.”
“You always were, Mer. Sorry I never… never appreciated it.”
“Shh...Tom. That doesn’t matter, now.”
“Promise me Mer… that you’ll take it to Bright Hedge.”
“I promise, Tom.”
“...It… it’s not too late.” A shiver rolled through him and his eyes rolled as he sucked in a breath. A moment passed and he was gone.
Several hours later, dawn found Merek with dirt on his hands and red rimmed eyes, a letter clutched in his grasp as he sat at the table by the fire, reading his brother's last written words.
@Red Thunder, @CloudyBlueDay
What he did know was no one that he knew of had survived quite such an injury, and if he was going to die, he was going to make sure it was for something. At least, this was the vein of thinking he clung to, as his vision began to blur, his chest tightening with every painful pulse.
Luckily, though perhaps not so luckily for his brother, he didn’t have to wait long. Merek had worked late into the evening and spent the night curled beneath the roots of a poplar tree. His back ached and his fingertips and toes were half frozen and in dire need of a warm soak, but as he approached his cottage there was a brief moment when he spotted Thomas that his heart swelled with a certain unquestionable gladness.
It was a moment brief as a gust of wind, for as he neared, Merek saw the state of Thomas and his heart plummeted to his frigid feet as he raced forward, skidding to a stop and crumpling to his knees before him.
“Hey, Mer…” Thomas coughed out, flashing a weary, dry smile, “Been a while…”
“Tom! What..” Pulling free the vest he wore over his shirt, Merek pressed it against the wound in Thomas’s side, his brother flinching at the sudden pressure. It was deep, rimmed in raw, red patches, “What happened??”
“No, stop. It’s too late. Just… just listen, Merek. I… I need you to listen.” Catching Merek’s hands, Thomas frowned, meeting his brother’s gaze, “It’s not… it’s not too late to stop it. Just listen.”
Sinking deeper into his crouched position, Merek nodded, though he continued to keep pressure on the wound, “I’m listening.”
“I was… I was down in Ethelemar, looking for work and I overheard something… I wasn’t supposed to. There… there’s a plot, Merek… But it’s not too late…” Grimacing, Thomas dropped his head back against the door post, his eyes falling shut for a moment.
“What plot? Tom?? Tom, stay with me…”
Cracking his eyes open, Thomas reached up, patting a hand to the pocket of his coat, “I wrote it down… In case… in case I didn’t make it. You have to bring it to Bright Hedge. You have to warn… to warn the--” A hacking cough stole his voice and sucking in a breath, he caught Merek’s arms, his gaze wide and naked, “.... Mer… Mer, I’m scared.”
“I’m here, Tom. It’s alright, I’m right here.”
“You always were, Mer. Sorry I never… never appreciated it.”
“Shh...Tom. That doesn’t matter, now.”
“Promise me Mer… that you’ll take it to Bright Hedge.”
“I promise, Tom.”
“...It… it’s not too late.” A shiver rolled through him and his eyes rolled as he sucked in a breath. A moment passed and he was gone.
Several hours later, dawn found Merek with dirt on his hands and red rimmed eyes, a letter clutched in his grasp as he sat at the table by the fire, reading his brother's last written words.
@Red Thunder, @CloudyBlueDay
.
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The Following Morning || NPCS: Fiora Remel | Eirlys Vance
Something was stirring in Ethelemar. Overnight, the city had filled with guards, the likes of whom were surly and anxious, When inquiries were made as to their presence, their response was less than informative and a few troublemakers even claimed that threats had been made. Whether or not this was true, no one could say, but there was little denying the tension in the air that morning. Fiora moved through the streets of the city with a twinge of discomfort, her hands tucked carefully into the folds of her cloak. So rarely did she venture so far from her home, but she had run out of salve and there was only one apothecary she trusted…
The pace of travel slowed as Fiora reached the center of the city, a bottleneck of citizens blocking the path, their angry shouts rising above the general level of noise. From their aggravated complaints, she surmised that the road to Bright Hedge had been sealed off.
Pulling her hands free from her cloak, she glanced down at the red striations with a soft frown. She wasn’t getting the salve today, it seemed.
From up ahead, a trumpet broke through the noise, sharp and resonant and almost all at once, the angry chattering died down.
“Make way for Her Majesty, The Queen!” A voice, almost as loud as the trumpet had been called out over the crowd. Slowly, the people began to edge to the sides of the roads, leaving a space down the center. Where she stood, through a small break in the throng she could see her, riding high on a magnificent black steed, a circlet of silver crowning ebony hair, Beside her rode two men, her personal guard, the strength and regalia of the small party both breathtaking and terrifying.
“People of Ethelemar… Once, many years ago I asked you to stand with me, as I fought to banish from these lands the dark horror of Queen Aladria;s wicked reign. Your loyalty and willingness to sacrifice all for the sake of our proud kingdom has not been forgotten. But it is with heavy heart that I call upon you once more. Tragedy has struck…” She paused, and Fiora was certain there was not a solitary sound in the square as silence fell, “My dearest child… my darling Roselyn was stolen from us last night… Abducted by vile cowards, from Mulgrave. It is my hope… no. My prayer that you will stand with us in this, our greatest hour of need. These actions must not be allowed to go unpunished. I want my child returned to me… and I fear the only course of action is to rise against Mulgrave… My people… I ask now, I implore you…. Will you rise? Will you rise!?”
The shout that followed filled the square to such a degree that Fiora was almost certain the very ground upon which she stood quaked. Edging back away from the crowd, she frowned softly.
War.
There was no mistaking what the queen spoke of. War was coming to Ethelemar.
“Oi! Watch it, girl!” As she backed up, Fiora collided with a man more wall than person and turned, she blinked up at him, giving a small wave of pardon. The man, however, who it seemed had been stirred by the call of violence by their fair queen was none too quick to forgive and snapping out a hand, caught Fiora’s wrist in a bruising grip, “You gonna say you’re sorry, or what??”
Eyes widening, Fiora pulled back, shaking her head, but there was no easy way to convey her lack of speech and the man didn’t appear in a communicative mood either way. His fingers tightened around her wrist until she flinched, his gaze narrowing down on her, “...Someone ought to teach you some manners…”
@BearEnthusiast (Harrison), @Doctor Jax, @Glasses
The pace of travel slowed as Fiora reached the center of the city, a bottleneck of citizens blocking the path, their angry shouts rising above the general level of noise. From their aggravated complaints, she surmised that the road to Bright Hedge had been sealed off.
Pulling her hands free from her cloak, she glanced down at the red striations with a soft frown. She wasn’t getting the salve today, it seemed.
From up ahead, a trumpet broke through the noise, sharp and resonant and almost all at once, the angry chattering died down.
“Make way for Her Majesty, The Queen!” A voice, almost as loud as the trumpet had been called out over the crowd. Slowly, the people began to edge to the sides of the roads, leaving a space down the center. Where she stood, through a small break in the throng she could see her, riding high on a magnificent black steed, a circlet of silver crowning ebony hair, Beside her rode two men, her personal guard, the strength and regalia of the small party both breathtaking and terrifying.
“People of Ethelemar… Once, many years ago I asked you to stand with me, as I fought to banish from these lands the dark horror of Queen Aladria;s wicked reign. Your loyalty and willingness to sacrifice all for the sake of our proud kingdom has not been forgotten. But it is with heavy heart that I call upon you once more. Tragedy has struck…” She paused, and Fiora was certain there was not a solitary sound in the square as silence fell, “My dearest child… my darling Roselyn was stolen from us last night… Abducted by vile cowards, from Mulgrave. It is my hope… no. My prayer that you will stand with us in this, our greatest hour of need. These actions must not be allowed to go unpunished. I want my child returned to me… and I fear the only course of action is to rise against Mulgrave… My people… I ask now, I implore you…. Will you rise? Will you rise!?”
The shout that followed filled the square to such a degree that Fiora was almost certain the very ground upon which she stood quaked. Edging back away from the crowd, she frowned softly.
War.
There was no mistaking what the queen spoke of. War was coming to Ethelemar.
“Oi! Watch it, girl!” As she backed up, Fiora collided with a man more wall than person and turned, she blinked up at him, giving a small wave of pardon. The man, however, who it seemed had been stirred by the call of violence by their fair queen was none too quick to forgive and snapping out a hand, caught Fiora’s wrist in a bruising grip, “You gonna say you’re sorry, or what??”
Eyes widening, Fiora pulled back, shaking her head, but there was no easy way to convey her lack of speech and the man didn’t appear in a communicative mood either way. His fingers tightened around her wrist until she flinched, his gaze narrowing down on her, “...Someone ought to teach you some manners…”
@BearEnthusiast (Harrison), @Doctor Jax, @Glasses
Introduce your characters in the scenes they have been tagged in. If you require any sort of collaboration or you'd like to plot further, please let me know. Next GM post will be up 2/24, so please try to post before then.
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