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diveronarpg · 5 years

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Congratulations, KYLIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of RICHARD III. Admin Rosey: My favorite thing is when a line from the character’s biography is highlighted -- especially that singular line because it was one of my favorite that demonstrated Ronan’s humanity, like you noted. Yes, he’s a terrible, awful human being but the nature of his corruption is something so centrally highlighted in the play -- and now in the way that you write him. Kylie, you have no idea how absolutely over-the-moon I am that you decided to apply, and for Richard III no less! Your writing is so refreshing in its cadence and beat, it perfectly accents Ronan and what he has to offer. Truly. Absolutely. Ecstatic. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | kylie

Age | 25

Preferred Pronouns | she/her

Activity Level | I would say I’m about a 5-6, I’m currently finishing up my schooling so I’m not taking as many course hours.

Timezone | MST

How did you find the rp? | i’ve been stalking for a while now, finally worked up the courage!

Current/Past RP Accounts | n/a

IN CHARACTER

Character | Richard III / Ronan Ivarsson

What drew you to this character? | When I first read Ronan’s bio I was reminded of a quote from Les MIserables, that I thought summed up my thoughts about him pretty well–”He was a charming young man, who was capable of being terrible.” I was really attracted to the dichotomy that exists within him–the difference between his public face, the face of the politician, and who he really is, the darkness of his true self. I liked that he seemed capable of moving between the two with ease–that he could placate a crowd of people with only his words and force of personality, and keep the fact that he is capable of doing terrible things for the sake of his own advancement hidden from the people he supposedly “serves”.

I was also really interested in this particular line--”It was not because his heart was made of stone, though, it was because he enjoyed, far too much, how the dilapidated organ seemed to squeeze merrily when they said his name.” I liked that there was a human element to him–that there’s an element of himself that he has a hard time controlling. That despite being cold and intimately familiar with his own darkest instincts, he has a heart that still beats wildly and craves the attention of other human beings, that at one time, for a brief fraction of a second, felt something akin to love for someone else.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

AND SEEM A SAINT, WHEN MOST I PLAY THE DEVIL

Ronan has no interest in being subservient to anyone, but he’s also aware of the fact that in order to make any kind of advancement within the Montague ranks, he’s going to have to play their game to a certain extent. I’m interested in how his two faces would work within the context of the Montagues–How long will he be able to play at being the loyal soldier before the enormity of his ambition starts to get in the way? Has he ever really been good at hiding his true nature? Being in the mob would be an interesting litmus test for how well his carefully crafted facades would stand up against real and intense scrutiny.

SINCE I CANNOT PROVE A LOVER

I’d love for Ronan to have to reckon with the fact that his heart isn’t made of stone, and that for a half second he believed that he could have actually been in love with someone else. What was it about Lucien that caught Ronan, whose heart is so firmly fixed on himself, off guard in that moment? There’s clearly something about him that Ronan can’t let go of–why is he so intent on keeping the man that could so easily destroy him so close to his chest? I’d love to explore the mutual destruction of their relationship further, because I feel like it’s the one area of his life where Ronan actually feels really vulnerable. It’s the thing in his life he has the least control over, no real contingency plan for–ever since their eyes locked across that room, he’s never been able to plan for Lucien’s role in his life.

THIS GLORIOUS SUN OF YORK

I’d like to see how Ronan would react if he faced some kind of concequences for his past actions–specifically the murders of his parents, which set him on his fated path. I think that Ronan only belives in real religion when it’s convienent for him, but the belief that he has been set on some kind of divine path since he was young is a fundemental part of his being–if an obstruction appeared on that path, would it shake his faith in both a religious sense, and his faith in himself? I’d love to explore the relationship–or lack thereof–he has with his family, how the way his parents views of him might have shaped how he views himself with regards to his disability, or how he might have strived to overcome their views of him. His name is the reason he is able to get his foot inside of so many doors, the reason he is able to dress his body in the finest fabrics, the reason he is able to walk his divine path–and yet he hated the two people who gave it to him. How does he feel about that legacy?

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yes! Ronan lives his life in such a way that I think he’s prepared for that eventuality.

IN DEPTH

What is your favorite place in Verona?

The smile that Ronan gives at the question is a practiced one, designed exactly for moments such as this–a small quirk at the corner of his lips, just enough teeth. Enough to give the general idea of interest and a certain level of enthusiasm, and to hide the quick shaft of iritation that shoots up the curve of his spine and into his shoulderblades. The truth of the matter is he has no favorite place in Verona–places are just vessels for people and the actions that occur within them. He’s never understood sentimentality in a larger sense, but it seems particularly like a waste of time when it’s applied to something as inconcequential as a particular arrangement of bricks or wood. However, he can’t say that to a reporter–constituents wouldn’t take kindly to their councilman brushing off their beloved city as buidlings with arbitrary meanings assigned to them.

“That’s easy,” He says with a wave of his hand and a chuckle. “The Hotel Emilia, where I met my husband Lucien. How can I answer any other place than where I met the love of my life? That’s not to say I don’t enjoy other spots in the city as well–the library has a special place in my heart as well.”

What does your typical day look like?

“Can any day ever be considered typical in Verona?” He laughs and lifts his shoulders in an attempt at a shrug–it’s a painful motion, but he does the same thing he’s done since childhood when he didn’t want to give away his position at the top of the stairs–he bites down hard on his tongue to keep the sound from escaping.

“I’m usually up before my husband.” Because he sleeps in a bed in one of six apartments scattered throughout the city on any given night, because Ronan’s bones have never known comfort, even in sleep. “I like to check the news, make sure I know what’s going on in the city and around the world. Answer emails, texts, sometimes I get so wrapped up in things that I forget breakfast entirely.” Because you cannot make plans for battle without first knowing your enemy as intimately as you know yourself, because the best performance is a well informed one. “And then depending on the day I’m either off to my weekly physical therapy appointments or straight to work. I’m a bit boring I’m afraid–always a little too focused on my work for my own good.” Because he is born to do it, because he does it better than anyone else in this city, because there is no difference between divine will and the will of Ronan Ivarsson.

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

His muscles tense for a fraction of a second as he processes the question–an imperceptible hesitation unless you knew to look for it. He makes a mental note to double check the publication this reporter claims that he works for, before leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingers idly against the arm of his chair. He doesn’t believe in mistakes, mistakes would imply wrong steps and Ronan Ivarsson does not make wrong steps–every decision he has ever made has been to serve his own purposes in the best way possible, and the fact that he is sititng in this office is proof that it has all been nessecary, that his actions have been ordained by a higher power. He resolutely does not look at the silver band on his finger, does not probe the uselessness and empty symbology of that particular object. “Any moment where my constituents have felt like I have not been representing their interests to the best of my ability could be considered a mistake, but I have to be honest with you–I see mistakes as starting points for learning, and making better decisions. All of the mistakes that I’ve made have helped me to become a better man, and a better leader for Verona.”

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

Bending the knee to Damiano Montague, without question. A necessary evil, but evil all the same.

“Making the best possible decisions for the people of Verona. The trust of the people is the most important thing an official can have, and I want to do everything in my power to prove to them that they made the correct decision when they gave it to me. It’s not a responsibility I take lightly.”

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

It’s the first question all day that has considered a real modicum of thought, that has required Ronan to choose his next words with care. He leans foward so he is better able to clasp his hands together on top of his desk, even though the motion pulls at the muscles in his shoulders in a way that is uncomfortable. “So often in these kinds of conflicts there are no real winners, are there? My only thoughts are for the people of Verona, and my sincere hope that they do not suffer the concequences of a fight they have no stakes in.” Soon enough they will both bend the knee to me. Soon enough their blood will mix as it flows through the streets, as it slips between the spaces of my fingers.

Extras: If you have anything else you’d like to include (further headcanons, an inspo tag, a mock blog, etc), feel free to share it here! This is OPTIONAL.

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#accepted #accepted: richard iii

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greencrusader13 · 5 years

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All Were Innocent Once: Chapter 3 - Eonur Bogra

Well, that sure took awhile, but it’s finally done! If you’ve been enjoying this fic be sure to give it a reblog. Anyways, enjoy this chapter as we’re introduced to our little iridonian: Eonur!

The guards were always the same, regardless of the planet or owner or banner. Their eyes had been trained to watch for any signs of insubordination, and their hands equally taught to linger above whatever weapon their employer had deemed appropriate. Electroshock collars were the most common, followed only by equally painful batons. After all, any permanent damage to the goods would be detrimental for business, a waste of credits. Eonur had only felt their sting once after he’d resisted their pull as he was separated from his mother, having been sold to a new owner. The overseer in question hadn’t even hesitated.

The only thing that ever changed was the colors and emblems they associated with themselves. It hadn’t taken him long to differentiate the insignias of the Hutts or anyone else who dealt and purchased slaves. The variety of masters in his life had taught him their superficial differences.

At least, that’s what Eonur had thought; standing under the crimson and black Imperial flags was another story altogether. He’d been traded around by slavers before, and he’d known them all to put on the most intimidating posturing they were able, but with the Imperials it didn’t feel like they were posturing. Lines of soldiers guarded the ship, their faces hidden behind emotionless black visors that reflected the visages of the slaves back upon themselves. Each one held a rifle drawn across their chest, ready to fire at the slightest provocation. His three other slave tradings over the past eight years of his life had been underlined with an air of greed and tense perverted excitement from the prospective buyers, as though he and the other slaves were new ships for purchase. Here, the Imperials only exuded coldness.

He’d been lined up alongside his fellow slaves - most of whom were older than himself – inside the hanger bay of some Imperial ship while officers observed the new purchases. His former master had already departed the corvette some time ago, his deal complete and the appropriate credits now in his possession. Eonur didn’t understand why the Imperials waited before cramming them into a shuttle, but that confusion was tempered with relief. It was a rare occasion that they had open space without the expectation of strenuous work.

Eonur gently tugged at his collar as the metal pinched at his skin, but found little relief and subsequently gave up. If he pulled too harshly an overseer might think he was trying to remove it altogether. A shock would usually follow in that case, and an imperial would salivate at the chance to inflict pain on an alien such as himself, even if iridonians weren’t considered brutish like some other species. On one occasion he’d seen a fellow slave shot over it, and though he doubted that his owners would risk angering the Imperials by harming their stock.

“Just leave it be,” Jowporin said lowly in Shyriiwook. A cluster of Imperial soldiers turned their head at the sound, but made no further moves. To them Shryriiwook was just feral growling from a barely-sentient beast. Even they knew that shocking Jowporin would likely just make him angry, and the last thing they wanted was an enraged seven foot tall mass of black fur barreling towards them.

Eonur grumbled quietly to himself as he resisted scratching at the pinch. “It’s itchy,” he mumbled back, but made no further protestations. Jowporin was right; he often was. The older wookiee was the closest thing he had to a friend despite their pronounced differences in age. They’d been bought and sold in the same cluster of slaves for their past two owners, back when Eonur’s only use for his masters was for fixing faulty wiring in small machines. During one of the repairs Eonur had dropped a wrench onto the foot of another slave, who then proceeded to beat him with the same tool. Jowporin broke the man’s spine in response.

He’d been looking out for Eonur ever since.

In the years that had followed Jowporin imparted what wisdom he’d acquired from his long tenure as a slave. Don’t question the master or his overseers aloud, but never stop questioning them within. Work competently, but not too quickly as to not earn the ire of other slaves. And, most of all, not to lose his identity in the wake of everything. The last had always seemed the most important to Jowporin, though Eonur couldn’t quite understand why.

“Where do you think we’re going?” Eonur asked, nodding towards the shuttles ahead of them. There were few military strike crafts in the hanger bay, and most of the ship designs appeared better fit for transportation than combat. Even the number of soldiers manning the cruiser seemed less than what he’d been expecting from what little he knew of the Empire. Weren’t they supposed to be at war or something?

“I don’t know, but we’ll find out soon,” Jowporin replied, “It doesn’t do us much good to speculate though. Just stand tall and don’t draw attention to yourself, like all the other times.”

Eonur glanced between Jowporin and the massive trandoshan to his left. “Easier said than done.”

A hush fell over the assembly of slaves as a thin figure approached them in long strides, his violet robes rippling like a spring in his wake. He was alien – the only non-slave alien Eonur had seen among the Imperial’s ranks – though his appearance was unlike any other alien he’d seen in his life. Smooth crimson skin accentuated the man’s angular features, stretching perfectly over ridges along his eyebrows and chin. An air of smugness followed him, not unlike his human compatriots, but far more intense and certain. The other Imperials seemed to cower in his presence as though he exuded fear itself. Eonur himself felt a wave of dread as the man stopped at the front of the rows of slaves; even then he could not stop peering through the slaves ahead of him at the enigmatic figure.

The figure unfolded his gloved hands in a benign welcoming that bordered on friendly. “I, Lord Rhoral, congratulate all you assembled here, for you have been selected for the glorious purpose of serving the Sith Empire in battle against the Republic. No more will you have to fritter about with menial tasks fit for a droid, for you have ascended to projects far greater than those assigned by your previous masters. Leave all memories of your pitiful pasts behind; they will serve you no longer in your service to the Empire.

“In three days’ time we will arrive at the planet of Ord Radama, where we are preparing for a siege on the planet led by Darth Malgus himself. You yourselves will take part in this battle, to our benefit.” A bemused, cruel smile crossed his lips. “Your... efforts will pave the way for our loyal sons and daughters to claim victory over the Jedi fools holding the planet.”

Behind him, Eonur heard a slave mutter, “What does that mean?”

“We’re being sent to our deaths,” another replied, panic evident in slightly raised voice, “They’re going to use us as cannon fodder. We’re dead. We’re dead.”

Lord Rhoral’s head snapped towards them with the alarming speed of a deadly predator. He took several silent strides towards them as the two slaves fell silent in feigned innocence. To Eonur’s surprise Lord Rhoral’s expression remained placid. While it was far from neutral or apathetic, there was a temperance about it that was unlike any master of his in the past. They would have already been spewing spittle in their orders for fresh lashings.

Then Lord Rhoral’s expression changed, slowly morphing into intrigued perplexity as his eyes instead locked upon Eonur himself. The Sith Lord’s gait slowed, and he shifted his posture to more directly approach him. Eonur tensed. Terror wrapped around his innards, and he felt as though his fear would choke the life out of him before this Imperial could have the chance. Beside him Jowporin grew rigid, glancing frantically between Eonur and Lord Rhoral in helpless fear.

Eonur closed his eyes at Lord Rhoral’s approach, too afraid to open them lest the unknown punishment follow. From what little he knew of the Sith they were not unopposed to inflicting senseless pain onto their victims in the hopes of instilling fear among those meant to serve them. But even in the darkness he could not hide, and Eonur forced his eyes open, finding Lord Rhoral’s gaunt frame standing over him. Two gloved hands gripped his chin, just under his shock collar, and tilted Eonur’s gaze to match the Sith’s.

“Fascinating; it resonates so strongly within you despite its dormancy, locked away as much as you are,” Lord Rhoral breathed, allowing his fingers to slide along the collar’s length with gravity’s natural pull. Eonur struggled against his body’s desire to recoil, too fearful of what would happen if he did so. Even then a flicker of amusement crossed Lord Rhoral’s thin lips as though he could sense the very fear that sent Eonur’s heart racing. “You’ve never seen my kind before, have you?” he asked firmly.

Eonur shook his head, averting his eyes away from Lord Rhoral’s unsettling amber irises.

“I am Sith, but not as you might recognize. That name was bestowed upon an Empire that is but a shadow of what we once were, what we hope to restore. No, I am pure-” Lord Rhoral lifted Eonur’s chin once more, “-of blood. The Force runs through my very essence, untamed, unmeasured. My power is beyond compare of anyone else in this room. And want to know something child?” Eonur remained frozen, unsure if Lord Rhoral actually wished for him to respond. “Power. Recognizes. Power. The Force calls out to me from you. Can you feel it as well?”

Somehow, beyond all explanation, Eonur did feel some invisible tie to Lord Rhoral, as though he could sense a presence of his that transcended sight or touch. It was faint, but present. Strangest of all, though, was that the feeling wasn’t entirely new. A part of it, however small, felt familiar to Eonur, even close to his own heart. With even more attention Eonur’s awareness extended beyond the Sith Lord, but to Jowporin as well, his friend’s anxiety resonating as though his own. Eonur returned a cautious nod to Lord Rhoral.

“Commander, unshackle this iridonian here,” Lord Rhoral ordered, waving over a black and grey garbed Imperial. The officer – a brawny, pale-skinned human - jolted out of an apparent daze and hurried over while adjusting the cap upon his head.

“Milord, you shouldn’t bother with this alien filth. My men and I-” The Imperial stopped midsentence as Lord Rhoral extended his hand towards him. His eyes went wide with shock. His hands clawed at his throat, and he fell to his knees whilst gagging, as though he were choking on air itself. A sickly blue climbed his veins to his face, and his eyes bulged as the blood vessels within them started to burst.

All the while Lord Rhoral clicked his tongue. “Commander, I didn’t ask for your opinion. Now should we try again, or shall your subordinate take over from here? I’d think about your answer very, very carefully.” He glanced at Eonur from over his shoulder. “Sometimes you have to make points like this. Quite bothersome. What would you do with him?”

Eonur flicked his eyes between Lord Rhoral and the Imperial. What would he do? No one had ever asked him for his opinion on a matter, much less for his advice. He watched as the Imperial commander crawled along the floor as he fought for air. The pain looked unimaginable. Maybe if it were one of his old master’s the pain would be deserved, but Eonur knew nothing of this man. “Give him another chance,” Eonur said.

Lord Rhoral lowered his hand, and immediately the Imperial began gasping for air. “What are you waiting for?” he barked at a nearby soldier, “Get the damn key and unlock that boy’s collar!”

A black-helmed soldier rushed over to where Eonur stood and unlocked his collar with trembling hands before retreating as fast as he’d arrived. Just like that his bindings were undone, and for the first time in his life he stood without a slave’s denotation around his neck. Eonur rubbed at the skin along his throat. Relief overwhelmed him, as well as tremendous gratitude, and he fought back tears.

The awareness Lord Rhoral had brought him – this Force, as he called it – resonated even stronger within Eonur than before, filling his very being tenfold. It was a sensation as though he’d only ever experienced a light breeze in his lifetime, only to be now caught up in a windstorm. “The Force shall free me,” Lord Rhoral whispered, “I sense a great destiny in store for you, my apprentice.”

Before he could express his thanks, Lord Rhoral continued. “I am your master now, and you answer to none but me. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good,” Lord Rhoral said, “Now separate yourself from this… lowly ilk and-”

“Master, can my friend go too?” Eonur said, looking to Jowporin. “He’s-”

Eonur cried out in pain, doubling over as a burst of silver-blue lightning emanated from Lord Rhoral’s fingertips and wracked his body. He wrapped his arms around his chest as he’d been taught to weather the pain; however brief, it was far worse than any of the shocks he’d grown accustomed to over the years. All the other slaves’ eyes were on him, and Eonur could sense their fear. More than that, he could feel Jowporin’s rage precariously teetering on the edge of being beyond control.

“Do not presume to think you can speak out of turn, or that you regard me as owing you anything. You follow my prerogative, not your own. In fact, for even so much as raising the question…” Lord Rhoral reached to his side, where he then extracted a cylindrical piece of metal resembling a baton, only thicker. He flicked a switch, and a brilliant scarlet beam came to life at its end with a fleeting screech, and it hummed as he held it there. Eonur could feel the power radiating from the blade.

Lord Rhoral extended the hilt to Eonur, and he took it with both hands. The weapon felt lighter than it looked, and he held it with ease. The Sith cocked his head towards Jowporin. “Strike him down.”

Eonur’s eyes went wide as horror seized him. “What? I can’t do that! He’s my friend. I can’t do that!”

A flash of anger materialized in Lord Rhoral’s amber eyes. “Either you strike him down, or I will order my men to re-collar you and put you on the front lines for this siege, beaten and starved-”

“Please!”

“Power or death! It’s your decision!” Lord Rhoral barked. He began pacing. “Do not test my patience!”

Tears streamed down Eonur’s cheeks as he recited hollow pleas. Through stinging eyes he looked upon Jowporin’s now calm face, who then nodded, encouraging as always. It wasn’t fair. It was wrong. It couldn’t be happening. All the gratitude he’d felt towards Lord Rhoral had vanished, replaced with seething hatred. Eonur’s hands shook, and he raised the blade above his head…

And swung it at Lord Rhoral.

In a single, deft movement Lord Rhoral twirled around Eonur’s clumsy strike as the blade hummed through the air, knocked the hilt free from his hands, and pinned him underfoot. Ghastly laughter rang out in the hanger. The Sith Lord smiled down at him, twisted mirth filling his expression. “Well attempted apprentice! Your hatred shines like a beacon! Feel it! Embrace it! We’ll make a Sith of you yet!”

Then, suddenly, sirens deafened the bay as red lights began flashing from the walls and ceiling. The troops assembled began moving while their commanders barked orders, some heading for the fighters docked not far away. Lord Rhoral looked up, confused, and scrambled for his holocomm. A scrambled blue figure appeared on its base, and Eonur recognized from their uniform as another Imperial. “What’s happening?” Lord Rhoral barked at the woman.

“It’s the Republic milord. They’ve ambushed us.”

Lord Rhoral pocketed his holocomm and lifted his foot off from Eonur’s chest. “Blast,” he muttered, turning to the vastness of space at the far end of the hanger bay, “Always looking to interrupt my fun, aren’t you? No matter…” He turned back to Eonur. “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this demonstration short my young apprentice. We have more pressing things to attend to.”

The Sith Lord bent down and extended his hand. Eonur stared, cautious. As much anger as he still felt towards him, he feared upsetting him further. There was no room for bargaining. He was just as trapped as he’d ever been. Reluctantly, Eonur took him in his grip and allowed himself to be hoisted up. “Please” was the only word he could muster.

“Fear not apprentice, we’ll wait somewhere safe while our troops crush the Republic. Come with me.” Lord Rhoral took a few steps, and then stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot.”

The blade sparked to life again. Lord Rhoral lunged and with a single, deadly motion, stabbed Jowporin in the chest. The wookiee crumpled without a sound. Just fell. Like that the presence Eonur had felt in his friend vanished, smothered out. A scream tore its way from Eonur’s mouth, but he couldn’t hear it. All he could feel was the violence scraping at his throat, a sound that could barely match his horror.

Lord Rhoral then seized Eonur by the scalp and began dragging him away. “Order troops to guard them,” he said to a nearby Imperial while gesturing to the slaves, “If the Republic dogs board our ship, kill the slaves first.” Without another word he whisked Eonur away, leading him down hallway after hallway until they reached a corridor towards the back of the ship. A pair of soldiers saluted as they entered the room before entering codes into a panel by the entrance. Massive security doors folded down onto each other, sealing Eonur behind the defenses with a Sith Lord.

#swtor #SWTOR OC #my swtor #swtor fanfiction #eonur #jedi #fanfic #my writing #writers on tumblr

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