#and lancelot has green grey eyes..

[guinevere-if]

Demo: TBA

Guinevere is a text-based interactive fiction that draws inspiration from the rich tapestry of Arthurian Legends.

You will play as Guinevere and witness the journey toward gaining power and the struggles to keep your reign secure in a kingdom filled with political intrigue and external threats.

In the future, I plan to make Guinevere gender-selectable, and also make Arthur the opposite gender of the MC. However, for the time being, I would like to keep the story as it is until I can better determine the direction in which the narrative is heading.

For many years, people believed that dragons were untamable creatures until one man proved them all wrong. Armed with a mighty sword and a formidable dragon by his side, Arthur set out with his army to conquer all of Britain and bring it under his rule. Unfortunately, your kingdom has found itself standing in the way of Arthur's quest for a united Britain.

Choose Guinevere's gender (Soon!)

Customize your MC’s physical appearance.

Make tough and important decisions that affect you and everyone around you.

Four romances that the story heavily focuses on.

Have a dragon by your side and fight Arthur in the skies!

Form a family.

The fate of the realm rests on a knife's edge - it can either flourish under your leadership or crumble to its ultimate demise.

"To achieve the greater good, one must first attain the power to make it a reality."

Arthur Pendragon: King of Camelot and the founder of the Round Table Order.

He is a man of few words, with a cold and aloof demeanor that can make him seem unapproachable. He prefers to keep to himself and often retreats into his own world. Despite his reserved nature, he is a strong leader who inspires loyalty and devotion in those around him.

His golden blonde hair and piercing grey eyes add to his air of regal authority and make him a striking figure. Though he may seem distant at times, he has a deep sense of honor and duty, and will stop at nothing to protect his people and his kingdom.

Will you be able to crack his armor and discover what hides beneath?

"Your ignorance is truly awe-inspiring. I can only hope to one day reach your level of blissful unawareness."

Morgana Le Fay: She is a mysterious and intriguing woman, known for her use of sarcasm to keep others at bay. Her sharp wit and biting comments often serve as a shield, protecting her from anyone getting too close.

Despite her sarcastic demeanor, Morgana is an intelligent and perceptive individual. She has a keen sense of observation and is quick to pick up on the nuances of the people around her. Her green eyes are piercing and seem to see right through anyone who tries to deceive her.

Morgana's inky black hair is often styled in loose waves that frame her pale skin. She has an ethereal beauty that can be both captivating and intimidating. Her presence commands attention, and it's clear that she is not someone to be trifled with.

She's been hurt in the past and is hesitant to let anyone get too close to her. But for those who are willing to take the time to get to know her, Morgana can be a true and loyal friend or even something more.

"When the going gets tough, the tough get going. I don't know what that means, but I, Sir Lancelot du Lac, never back down from a challenge."

Sir Lancelot du Lac: A knight is known for his charm, boldness, and impulsive nature. He has a reputation for being a ladies' man, with many admirers who swoon at his feet. Standing tall with a strong build and chiseled jaw, he is a man who commands attention wherever he goes. His dark brown hair and deep blue eyes add to his allure, making him a true heartthrob among the ladies.

Sir Lancelot is a skilled and dedicated knight who takes his duties seriously. He is fiercely loyal to his king and the Round Table and will stop at nothing to protect the people he cares about. His impulsive nature can sometimes get him into trouble, but his quick thinking and bravery always manage to save the day. His bravery and courage have earned him respect among many.

Before meeting you, he never found duty to be burdensome. Now he feels it weight more pressing every day.

"I hate you with every fiber of my being, but I can't seem to shake the strange pull you have on me."

Hey, just so you know, you could totally have a poly thing with both her and Arthur. Just throwing it out there. 🙈

Argante: Merlin's daughter and Arthur's childhood friend.

Argante is a complex and intriguing woman, born of the union between a fae and a half-human, she possesses unique abilities that she often uses to aid Arthur on his various journeys and battles. Her loyalty to Arthur is unwavering, and she is always ready to lend her formidable powers to his cause.

Despite her fierce loyalty, Argante can be possessive and quick to anger. Her emotions often run high, and she is not one to back down from a challenge. The complete opposite of her father, Merlin.

Argante's appearance is just as striking as her personality. Her snowy white hair and purple eyes create an otherworldly picture, the very air shimmering around her presence adding to the mirage. It's no wonder that many are drawn to her, be it out of fear or admiration.

Argante despises you with a fiery passion that burns deep through her every time she catches a glimpse of your face. In her eyes, you are the thief who stole the man of her dreams - the one she had loved for years.

And yet… there is another side to her that sometimes emerges whenever she catches glimpses of you. This side of her seems to yearn for your attention and affection, creating a peculiar dichotomy that is difficult to comprehend.

If you could somehow break through the wall of anger and resentment that Argante has built, and show her that you are not the enemy, there might be a chance to win her over. You might even be able to establish a relationship with both her and Arthur.

#guinevere #interactive fiction #interactive novel #choice of games #choicescript #dashingdon #hosted games #if: intro #if game #cyoa #masterpost #hg #cog

[heavy-is-the-crown-if]

Hi ! I just thought of something over there ! Do the members of mc's family have locked physical traits, not depending on MC's appearance ? If yes, what are they ? I thing Gareth has grey eyes, MC's mom blue eyes, but I'm not sure ?

Hi Fanny !

I'm always happy to see you pop up on my inbox.

Most of the true Key members have gray eyes. This is the case for Lord Gareth, Erec, Lancelot, Percival, and Lady Blanchefleur, but some members do not. Ana, Mc's mother, has blue eyes, like Tristan and Iseult (Iseult's eyes are lighter than Tristan's, though.) Gawain has hazel eyes and Laudanne has black eyes. Caelia and Vivi have green eyes. Bo has gray eyes and his big brother Leo has brown eyes, like Cara.

#heavy is the crown #mc's family

[paintedpigeon1]

I posted 16,930 times in 2022

That's 16,140 more posts than 2021!

43 posts created (0%)

16,887 posts reblogged (100%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@aeonthedimensionalgirl

@shana-rosee

@invisibility-superiority

@kickassfu

@queerofthedagger

I tagged 264 of my posts in 2022

#doctor who spoilers - 41 posts

#doctor who - 41 posts

#bbc merlin - 18 posts

#goncharov - 14 posts

#unreality - 13 posts

#fanfic - 10 posts

#febuwhump - 7 posts

#dw spoilers - 7 posts

#< prev tags - 6 posts

#merlin - 5 posts

Longest Tag: 136 characters

#but that took multiple days each time and was only possible bc i only has the room for less than a year at a time so it wasnt that messy

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Balinor really just went and healed the son of Uther Pendragon with magic, knowing who he was and likely thinking that Merlin hated magic, given that he was with the Prince of Camelot. He decided that he was worth saving despite the strong possibility he'd die for it. He really just... did that.

Balinor might say that Merlin has his mother's kindness but honestly I don't think it's just Hunith's.

14 notes - Posted April 14, 2022

#4

Artwork for Alone In The Forests Of Our Minds by stanzas

See the full post

17 notes - Posted August 21, 2022

#3

Fic masterlist

Hi! I've decided to make a list of all my fics (attempt 2. Stupid tumblr).

It's divided by fandom (Merlin and Good Omens atm). Series are at the top of the fandom lists, followed by standalones divided by ship (so far, Merlin/Leon/Arthur, Merlin/Leon, Gwen/Merlin/Arthur, Elyan/Percival, Merlin/Lancelot, Merlin/Arthur, Gen for Merlin, and Aziraphale/Crowley for Good Omens). The ship sections are ordered by length of fic, with the longest first.

Without further ado, here's the list:

Merlin

Series:

From the Sea to the Land

When he was 20, Arthur Pendragon met a selkie called Merlin in Gedref. Instead of killing him, as he should've done, he fell in love and they travelled back to Camelot together.

All works can be read as standalones.

1: First meetings

G, 778, Merlin & Arthur

Archive warnings: None

Additional tags: Protective Merlin (Merlin), Shapeshifting, Selkies, Selkie Merlin, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Canon Era, Not Canon Compliant, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Smitten Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)

Arthur jumps off his horse and looks around at the green fields, the gently lapping waves, the rocky shore. Gedref. He sighs. So this is where he's to spend the next few weeks.

Arthur meets a selkie called Merlin.

2: Beneath the waves

G, 1.3k, Merlin & Arthur

Archive warnings: None

Additional tags: Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Canon Era, Not Canon Compliant, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Shapeshifting, Selkies, Selkie Merlin, attempts at flirting

Arthur's sitting on a large rock when there's a massive splash and he's soaked with seawater.

"Merlin!"

The grey seal in front of him transforms into a grinning young man with black hair and bright, sparkling blue eyes. "Hello Arthur."

"Do you have to cover me in water every time?"

Arthur goes to Merlin's underwater cave for tea.

3: Tell me a story

G, 755, Merlin & Arthur

Archive warnings: None

Additional tags: Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Couch Cuddles, Selkies, Storytelling, Canon Era, Not Canon Compliant, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), fairytales - Freeform, Selkie Merlin

Merlin sets two mugs of kelp tea on the low table, peering over Arthur's shoulder. "What're you looking at?"

Arthur gestures to the bookshelf. "Your books. You've got so many, and I haven't seen most of them before."

See the full post

17 notes - Posted January 26, 2022

#2

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Merlin (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Leon/Merlin (Merlin) Characters: Leon (Merlin), Merlin (Merlin) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship Summary:

Merlin looks at the clothes laid out on the bed and then up at Leon, heart swelling. “You got these for me?” Leon smiles. “Of course I did. Gwen did the embroidery. Merlin, I am so proud of you.” “It’s not that much.” Leon snorts. “’Not that much’ he says. You’ll be the first court sorcerer in over two decades. You risked everything telling Arthur about your magic. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever known.”

On Merlin's appointment as court sorcerer, Leon gets him a present.

21 notes - Posted February 15, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Y'all should know this is completely @angst-buritto 's fault.

187 notes - Posted March 7, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #false #Again 0 surprise as to my most popular post #Nice to see some artwork on there too #*sputters at how much I've posted and reblogged this year*

[itonje]

i always remember how gawaine canonically has grey eyes..think ab that a lot

#finny.txt #and lancelot has green grey eyes.. #guinevere is mentioned to have grey eyes too but i cant remember uhh what text that was in

[queerofthedagger]

@kairenn-n made this post:

and it instantly gave me merthur vibes, so... have 500 words of angst I wrote in a rush, that may or may not go somewhere further at some point.

Faded

The boat grows thinner in the distance, and the colours around Merlin fade with it.

It takes him a long while to understand that it’s not merely a trick of his mind, not merely the tears obstructing his vision, not the grief pressing down on all of his senses with such vehemence that inconsequential concepts such as colour lose their meaning, too.

It’s not exactly black and white. It’s not how people used to make it sound; his mother, the one time she talked about his father. Gwen when Lancelot died, or Gwaine when Elyan was killed; it’s not the harshness of black and white and grey that they all grew up with but forgot about so quickly, that left their eyes always distant, always searching for something. Someone.

For Merlin, it’s—it’s washed out. Avalon still bears a blueish shimmer, the forest around him still has specks of green, and the sun above him still holds a taunting, horrible gold.

He wishes it didn’t, and the gratefulness for it almost brings him to his knees.

Because it means Kilgharrah was right. Kilgharrah was right and Arthur will return, and that is something to be happy about, isn’t it?

What does it matter when it will be? What does it matter if Merlin will live to see the day?

It shouldn’t matter, but the rage beneath his skin is a scathing, tangible thing that makes him want to tear the forest to shreds around him, to pour every last ounce of his magic into the Sidhe’s tower and see how long it will withstand him.

Not even in death Arthur is allowed his rest. Not even in his ultimate failure Merlin is allowed his grief.

Arthur will return, the weight of the world still on his shoulders, always. Arthur will return, and Merlin—well. Merlin might be dead by then, or he might not. He might one day see colour again; the blue of Arthur’s eyes, the gold of his hair, brighter than the sun.

He might. He might, but most likely, he will not. Albion’s greatest need, what does it have to be if not Camlann? What if not now, here, with Merlin teetering on a precipice, with only the memory of Arthur’s laughter and the love for his people keeping Merlin from tearing it down, all of it, until there is nothing left, until the void in his chest stops eating him raw?

It’s a cruel, ruthless glimpse of hope, burrowed in the faded tint of a land that was supposed to protect her king.

Then again, it’s only fitting; Arthur has always been the one to saturate Merlin’s world with his brightness, and maybe it would be worse if nothing had changed.

Or maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe none of it matters.

---

Over the years, decades, centuries, Merlin can never make up his mind over it, whether he’s glad that there’s still a shred, the faintest gleam of what Arthur had once made his world.

Some days, he wishes for the startling sharpness of black and white. Other days, he wishes he could see the vibrance of Arthur in something, anything.

When it comes down to it, though—when it comes right down to it, he knows it’s the only thing keeping him sane. The world is not yet black and white, and neither does it pretend that its most important part isn’t missing.

Nothing is right, but one day, it might be.

#merthur #soulmates #angst #listen i just blacked out and this happened I'm not offering compensation #ficlet #mona's writing

[goblin-writer]

Dolorous Guard and the Golden Dragon

A field of red unfurled. Their lord, Lancelot, first among the knight had returned to Joyous Guard with a Queen. Someone else’s queen. The citizens of his fief put away their arm bands of white gold and doffed their coats and shirts of blue, returning once again to their Dolorous colours. Red cloaks billowed in the wind and gleaming swords were produced.

They knew a dragon was coming. A golden dragon that would descend upon their land and upon his return leave a field of white in his wake. Already the beast was stirring at the behest of another.

While his people prepared themselves for war Lancelot stood in the crypt and the tomb with his name upon it. He had never thought it would end like this.

Agravain had tried to run to Arthur to expose Lancelot and Guinevere. Lancelot managed to strike him down but, so witnessed, fled from Camlann.

Arthur, who had watched that treason called to him to explain himself. Lancelot couldn’t without revealing his love for the Queen. Then, when Mordred appeared pulling her along Lancelot knew he was done.

“Uncle,” The dark-haired youth dared to smile, “Agravain and I discovered Guinevere in Lancelots chambers.”

A glint revealed a dagger at Guinevere’s throat. Her eyes had been wide and pleading, her face pale as a shroud. Lancelot then took his sword and with a yell struck Mordred from chin to cheek leaving him alive but wounded. Turning to his king he saw a grim countenance as he had seen so often on campaign. Arthur reached for his sword.

Lancelot had been first amongst the knights and likely could have beaten Arthur who had  lost some of his fire in recent years. Still, he’d need to kill him and escape which would not be possible. Instead, he and Guinevere fled from the castle. The only place for them was his home across the sea. Still, he was sure Arthur Pendragon was coming, under the banner he had so often fought under.

Lancelot took his necklace of the cross, given to him upon gaining his knighthood, and placed it into the tomb of his name. Then he walked to the great hall of Dolorous Guard, wreathed in red and silver and took donned a helmet made to look like a drakehound and imbued by the wizard Merlin before his disappearance. The people of the Guard would hold as long as they could.

At Camlann the knights mourned their murdered friend as Mordred was looked after by court healers. He would be scarred for life. Still, Arthur wanted to parlay with Lancelot but his court would not let him. And so they raised the Pendragon and gathered their fleet to sail to Dolorous Guard. Lancelot and Guinevere would be held to account for their actions.

“Despite all that I have given him,” Arthur said as he sat with Gawain, Galahad, and others of his most faithful knights, “He has betrayed me. Betrayed us.”

“We must make an example of him,” Sir Gareth said, “He has slain a knight and my brother.”

“And still I wish we could bring him to heel without the loss of life.”

“That would not satisfy our laws nor our honour,” Gawain opined, “He has chosen his path, and despite his good deeds he must be punished.”

And so, they reached a point from which they could not turn back. A week elapsed and ten thousand men and knights gathered under various banners. Feirifez stood amongst the foremost of the knights with his slate grey armour encrusted with jewels and his banner flying beside the Pendragon.

As the fleet set forth events beyond their knowledge began to unfold. Guinvere returned of her own free will to discover her husband gone to bring Lancelot to justice. Mordred sat beside the throne in those days passing judgement in his uncles’ stead with a black dragon on a field of green. And on the island of Avalon two ships were made ready to sail toward Camlann.

--

Thank you to @flashfictionfridayofficial​ for another lovely prompt. Was looking at my copy of Le Mort DArthur and knew exactly what I wanted to write.

I hope y’all enjoyed.

Words: 669

#flash fiction #writing #King Arthur #lancelot #writeblr #Flash Fiction Friday #first time in a while I had an idea without having to think much about it #much love delicious reader

[llamagirl28]

Hi! I Just found BOC and I've fallen in love ❤️ but since I'm very new, if it's not a problem can I ask how many RO Will BOC have and if it's possible their names and Who they are? Like if I correctly understood there are: Gawin➡️knight, Galahad➡️Lancelot's son, Nimue➡️Merlin's doughter, Isac➡️rebel...

Thank you! 💕 I know I should really make a FAQ post to make it easier for people, but I've been busy twt

Boc will have 7 ros

Gawain - Sir Kay’s son, Arthur's adoptive nephew. He’s cheerful, talkative and kind. Likes telling stories and singing. He’s a knight of the Round Table. He has rich, messy brown hair, brown eyes. He's not very tall, about 1,75. He's lithe but toned. Light complexion.

Elaine- the youngest daughter of the Duke of Astolat, and your brother’s ex betrothed. 19. She’s friendly and brave. She likes dragons and fighting. She’s a knight of the Round Table. Her wavy blonde hair reaches past her shoulders, down her back. She knows it's not very practical but she likes it. When fighting keeps it braided. Muscular. Light complexion.

Brown eyes.

Galahad- Sir Lancelot’s son. He hates you. He’s aloof and protective of his friends. He likes swordfighting, and tries to be as good as his father. He’s a knight of he Round Table. He has blonde short hair, tall and toned. Tanned complexion. Sharp jaw. Grey violet eyes.

Nimue- Merlin’s daughter and his apprentice. Dark brown hair, green eyes. She’s mysterious and devious. She likes magic, reading, spying. She has long, straight dark brown hair. Green eyes. Average weight. Oval face. Dusky complexion.

Isac- the Rebel King’s son. He’s easygoing. He likes dragons and seducing people. He has curly black hair that almost reaches his shoulders, blue eyes, pale complexion. Tall, slender

Sophie- the heir of the neighboring kindgom. She’s clever and stubborn. She wants to rule her kindgom, but her nobles want her younger brother. She likes sparring and strategy. She has curly, long brown hair, dark complexion, amber eyes. Slim

Agravain - gender flippable. Knight of the Round Table and bastard of a noble. They want revenge for the mistreatment and abuse they received. They have black eyes, brown complexion. Black hair, male short, female shoulder length. Male muscular, female muscular, hourglass shape

#the bastard of camelot

[blissfulalchemist]

OC Basics (FC5)

Tagged by @faithchel @risenlucifer @strafethesesinners @unleashedart Thank you all! Tagging: @consumedkings​ @tomexraider​ @ohfaiths​ @shellibisshe​ and anyone else that wants too! (I procrastinated on this so it made the rounds I’m sure)

name: Catlina Mariangel Rojas alias/nicknames: Mary Seed, Cat. In AUs she also has Conejito and Catnip as nicknames. gender: cis female age: 26 (c. 2018) zodiac: scorpio (I lost the image with all their rising and moon stuff so lo siento it’s not happening for these guys) abilities/talents: Cooking/baking, a sometimes unnatural amount of kindness, getting into small spaces, and fairly adept at climbing (She has to reach the top of the cabinets somehow okay) alignment: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil / true religion: Omnist, grew up Catholic sins: envy / greed / gluttony / lust / pride / sloth / wrath virtues: charity / chastity / diligence / humility / justice / kindness / patience languages: english, spanglish she’s better at understanding than speaking a lot of times family: Dominic Rojas (father), Gina Rojas (mother), Maya and Xandie Rojas (Sisters), Theo Munoz (Husband eventually deceased) friends: Lance Powell, Faith Seed, John Seed, Jax, Trey, and Darren, would totally be friends with the Ryes and Mary May if I wasn’t cruel and had her more cult affiliated.  sexuality: heterosexual / bisexual / pansexual / homosexual / demisexual / asexual / unsure / other relationship status: single / partnered / married / widowed / open relationship / divorced / not ready for dating / it’s complicated libido: sex god / very high / high / average / low / very low / non-existent build: slender / average / athletic / muscular / curvy hair: white / blonde / brunette / red / black / other eyes: brown / blue / gray / green / black / other skin: pale / fair / olive / light brown / brown / dark / other (Honestly depends on the amount of sun she gets) height: 5′ scars: Well okay she gets a lot of them due to her “confession” but prominet ones are the Lust on her right clavicle, the Pride across her lower ribs, and Wrath between her shoulder blades where her heart is. A few from her self injury but nothing more beyond that. features: TINY!, hair with some big curls in it, she does also have a tattoo on her inner right ankle that is the symbol for spirit from ATLA.  dogs or cats || birds or bugs || snakes (They are on thin ice) or spiders || coffee or tea || ice cream or cake || fruits or vegetables || sandwich or soup || magic (If only) or melee || sword or bow || summer or winter || spring or autumn || past or future five songs that remind you of them: “Foreigner’s God” by Hozier, “Flowers in Your Hair” by The Lumineers, “Happier” by Marshmello ft. Bastille, “Monster” from Frozen Broadway Musical, “Dance with the Devil (Aurora Version)” by Breaking Benjamin

name: Chance Jason Ruicknar alias/nicknames: Rook and White Knight (Faith Specific) other than that he does not like nicknames and will remind you. gender: cis male age: 25 (c. 2018) zodiac: scorpio abilities/talents: Science whiz more knowledge in Biology and BioChem, parkour, fishing, a decent musical screamer he kind of practiced a lot in high school not gonna lie. alignment: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil / true religion: Atheist sins: envy / greed / gluttony / lust / pride / sloth / wrath virtues: charity / chastity / diligence / humility / justice / kindness / patience languages: english and you could make the argument for Latin given his science knowledge, but let’s also be real in that Science is its own language. family: Mickey Ruicknar (Grandfather; Deceased), Ray Ruicknar (Father; Deceased), Andi Greene (Mother), Unknown “Sperm Donor” friends: Boomer, Nick Rye, Kim Rye, Wheaty, Faith Seed sexuality: heterosexual / bisexual(one au verse) / pansexual / homosexual / demisexual / asexual / unsure / other relationship status: single / partnered / married / widowed / open relationship / divorced / not ready for dating / it’s complicated libido: sex god / very high / high / average / low / very low / non-existent build: slender / average / athletic(towards the end of his story) / muscular / curvy hair: white / blonde / brunette / red / black / other eyes: brown / blue / gray / green / black / other skin: pale / fair / olive / light brown / brown / dark / other height: 5′ 10″ scars: 3in scar on the back of his neck just slightly to the left of his spine and then a bunch of other little scars from the Holy War and from his daredevil adventures before everything. features: Tattoo on right hand of the structural formula of acetylcholine. On the left hand he has the written formula of oxytocin and vasopressin on top of each other starting from just above his wrist to his knuckles. He also has another tattoo on his back between the shoulder blades of a rose in front of a crescent moon to slightly resemble the Moon Stick from Sailor Moon. Other than that a mess of curls, scruffy beard that he shaves once its too long because he can’t handle the upkeep, bags under his eyes from his inconsistent sleep schedule.    dogs or cats || birds or bugs || snakes or spiders || coffee or tea || ice cream or cake || fruits or vegetables || sandwich or soup || magic or melee || sword or bow || summer or winter || spring or autumn || past or future five songs that remind you of them: “Christian’s Inferno” by Green Day, “Icarus” by Bastille, “Teenagers” by My Chemical Romance, “Viva La Gloria? (Little Girl)” by Green Day, “Moonlight Densetsu (Sailor Moon Theme)” but like Specifically the Star Locket version that I can only ever find on youtube.

name: Lancelot Powell alias/nicknames: Lance gender: cis male age: 49 (c. 2018) zodiac: Tarus abilities/talents: Mechanics, Wood Whittling, first aid, various weapon types,  alignment: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil / true religion: Agnostic, grew up around religion but was never anything significant in his life. sins: envy / greed / gluttony / lust / pride / sloth / wrath virtues: charity / chastity / diligence / humility / justice / kindness / patience languages: english family: Sage Powell (Daughter), Cat (Pseudo Child), Unnamed mother, father, and ex-wife. In an AU Wes (Pseudo Son [Sorry I don’t make the rules]) friends: Eli Palmer, Nanette (Yes she would be Nana in ND), John (He’s on thin ice though), Just plenty of people around Hope County he wasn’t the most social but friendly with everyone there for a long while. sexuality: heterosexual / bisexual / pansexual / homosexual / demisexual / asexual / unsure / other relationship status: single / partnered / married / widowed / open relationship / divorced / not ready for dating / it’s complicated libido: sex god / very high / high / average / low / very low / non-existent build: slender / average / athletic / muscular / curvy hair: white / blonde / brunette / red / black / other: He keeps his head shaved down, but it would be greying from a dirty blonde eyes: brown / blue / gray / green / black / other (hazel) skin: pale / fair / olive / light brown / brown / dark / other height: 6′3″ scars: Wrath on his Chest, Pride along his neck on the right side, small and various scars from his time in the military, the Holy War, and just life in general. features: No hair really and no beard. Has the hilt of Excalibur on his right hand with the crests of the knights of the round table encircling his arm, left shoulder has Sage’s name along with the logos of the colleges she’s attended. Looks very angry, but honestly has one of the warmest and kindest smiles. dogs or cats || birds or bugs || snakes or spiders || coffee or tea || ice cream or cake || fruits or vegetables || sandwich or soup || magic or melee || sword or bow || summer or winter || spring or autumn || past or future five songs that remind you of them: “Blackbird” by The Beatles, “7 Years” by Lukas Grahams, “Dear Daughter” by Halestorm, “Wheel in the Sky” by Journey, “Rebel Yell” by Black Veil Brides

name: Lizette Eden Rojas-Seed

alias/nicknames: Liz gender: cis female age: 16 during her story (timelines are hard sometimes) zodiac: Virgo in the old zodiac, the new one she’s a Leo abilities/talents: Guitar, singing, can survive on three cups of coffee and no sleep, Managing to make the loudest outfit possible, Rallying. alignment: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil / true religion: Unsure but she sways from Atheist to Omnist sins: envy / greed / gluttony / lust / pride / sloth / wrath virtues: charity / chastity / diligence / humility / justice / kindness / patience languages: english, spanish (Not Fluent during her story but for sure more than her mom) family: Catlina Rojas (Mother), John Seed (Father), Trey (Uncle). In AUs her father changes and in BnD verse she gains a brother Daniel. friends: Valerie. If she was in Hope County she’d be friends with Carmina but I am unkind. sexuality: heterosexual / bisexual / pansexual (the label she uses once she’s an adult) / homosexual / demisexual / asexual / unsure / other relationship status: single / partnered / married / widowed / open relationship / divorced / not ready for dating (says her parents jokingly kind of)/ it’s complicated libido: sex god / very high / high / average / low / very low / non-existent build: slender / average / athletic / muscular / curvy hair: white / blonde / brunette / red / black / other eyes: brown(other verses) / blue / gray / green / black / other skin: pale / fair / olive / light brown / brown / dark / other height: 5′6″ (Thanks for the height John!) scars: A scar on her upper lip from the bullying of kids when she was ~6-7 years old  features: Curly Hair, dimples, bright smile, dark circles under her eyes due to very little sleep (could give some of my mutuals a run for their money), Make up is always looking like it’s from the 60′s and 70′s, just the loudest prints and colors when she can. dogs or cats || birds or bugs || snakes or spiders || coffee or tea || ice cream or cake || fruits or vegetables || sandwich or soup || magic or melee || sword or bow || summer or winter || spring or autumn || past or future five songs that remind you of them: “Nina Cried Power” by Hozier ft. Mavis Staples, “Disco Medley” by Selena, “Bennie and the Jets” by Elton John, “These Boots Were Made for Walking” by Nancy Sinatra, “Cleopatra” by The Lumineers

#tag games #catlina rojas oc #chance ruicknar oc #lance powell oc #lizette eden oc #This was a lot oh my god but bloodlines is also done too in its own post

[ofcatsandstars]

pendragons! click for details :)

[id: digital painted drawings of arthur, mordred, lancelot, and guinevere from the mechanisms’ high noon over camelot. they are dressed in (space) cowboy attire. longer id under the cut]

long id:

arthur is a dark-skinned man with brown eyes and dark, short dreadlocks. he has slight laugh lines. he is wearing a red scarf, blue chest armor, a brown duster, dark purple pants, and brown boots. in a full body portrait, he is standing, looking to his right and holding his X-caliber railgun in his left hand, pointed at the ground. in a bust portrait, he is wearing a scarf and smiling.

mordred is a light brown-skinned man with brown eyes and curly, chin-length hair. he is wearing a cowboy hat, a red bandana around his neck, an unbuttoned brown leather vest over a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, grey-blue pants and dark brown boots. in a full body portrait, he appears to be walking and speaking with a focused expression, his right hand up as if gesticulating. in a bust portrait, he is wearing a cowboy hat and smiling white looking to his left.

lancelot is a tan man with light brown eyes and short, fluffy black hair that’s long on the top. he has a slight goatee stubble. he wears a tan-grey poncho with a hood over a teal waistcoat and a white long-sleeved shirt. He wears grey-blue pants and tall brown boots. he wears a bandolier across his chest, a sniper rifle strapped to his back, and a holster strapped to his left thigh. in a full body portrait, he stands with one arm obscured by the poncho and the other on his left hip. in a bust portrait, he has his hood up and is smiling.

guinevere is a pale woman with freckles, dimples, green eyes, and shoulder length red hair with small braids. she is wearing an asymmetrical army green vest over a white button down with the sleeves rolled up. she is wearing blue pants and brown boots. she has a belt strapped to her waist with a pistol holster on her right side. in a full body portrait, she stands, grinning, holding a six-shooter pistol his her right hand and aiming at the ground. in a bust portrait, she smiles with her mouth open, as if talking.

end id.

#continuing trying to paint lol #i was thinking about doing gawain and galahad but i ran out of steam. lmao #maybe someday #the mechanisms #high noon over camelot #arthur pendragon #mordred pendragon #lancelot pendragon #guinevere pendragon #art #fanart #2020 #april 2020 #YES arthur and mordred both have red neck things #was thinking about giving mordred a seax knife. but i didnt l #painting

[sennextheassasinkingoflight]

Mornings

Cursed (Tv 2020) Fanfiction Cross posted at Ao3 Rated T and up for suggestive themes 

Lancewain 

SUMMARY:  Gawain just wants to spend the morning in bed cuddling with his lover. That shouldn't be to much to ask now that the war is over. After seven years of living with Lancelot he may just get what he's after.

CEREMONY SCRIPT PULLED FROM https://greatofficiants.com/medieval-wedding-ceremony

I

Lancelot was always awake and dressed impeccably before Gawain. Normally the man had breakfast ready, whatever form it had taken for the day. It had been this way since Lancelot had been released from the makeshift prison he had been kept in and into Gawain's custody. That had been quite the fight, but ultimately Merlin and Gawain in turn with The Red Spear had managed to get the others to agree. There simply weren’t enough fey to kill one of their own, and definitely not enough Ashfolk to go killing him either. Especially if he truly had chosen to take sides with the Fey. He had one warning though, if he started anything, finished anything, killed a Fey or caused one undo harm he was done. Executed on the spot. Thankfully it had never come to that. It may have had to do with his lack of a weapon except when training. Though they all knew he could kill them if he truly wanted to. Perhaps it had to do with Squirrel being attached to the man and looking up to him, voting that he had changed and would be a good man. Perhaps it had to do with his own fascination and attraction to the man, loath as he was initially to admit the last part. Whatever the cause or reason for his change of heart Lancelot had changed. Today was not very different in that regard. Lancelot was awake over an hour before it was strictly necessary, even despite the fact that they did not have patrols today. In fact, the only things that needed their attention today, were those things that they decided to do. It was their day to rest, among some others. It was important, with rebuilding after the official end of the war for them to remember to take proper rest. There was always work to be done, food to be grown and harvested, building and temples to be erected.

Some clans were reduced to so few that they had congregated with other clans too small to sustain themselves well. Gawain was confident with Arthur and Guinevere ruling in Uthers place and sending out word that the Fey were safe in the kingdom that those numbers would increase steadily and gradually as they proved that it was indeed safe. But as with all things it would take time. There were still bands of paladins and those loyal to Cumber who sought to bring down the Fey and wreak havoc on the people of Britannia.

For now though, the two of them had fallen into a kind of domestic cohabitation, as often occurred in the case of two lovers. For that too is what they were now. It was strange to consider. They had been enemies, had nearly killed one another so often in those early days that Gawain often found himself confused as to how he could now sit across the table from the Ashman and sip tea and eat eggs like it was the most natural event that could unfold. Gawain yawned, earning a smirk from Lancelot.

“And what shall we do this afternoon?” “It’s far too early to think about that now.” Gawain rubbed the sleep from his eyes and yawned again.  “Why do you insist on getting up so early?” “It’s only habit, and much as I love you I do enjoy the quiet of early morning.” Offered Lancelot in response and Gawain's heart hammered harder in his chest. A smile gracing his lips.

“Are you certain it’s too late to go back to bed?”

Lancelot only smiles fondly and kisses his forehead before he leaves to help out in the kitchens as is his Saturday morning routine. He isn’t required to but he enjoys doing so and according to Kinna he is one of the best bakers they have.

II

Gawain roles over with a groan. He doesn’t even know what time it is, only that his lover is no longer in their bed. He curls himself around Lancelot's pillow and breathes deeply. A chuckle wakes him slightly further from his sleep. “I thought I was the one who did the scenting?”

Gawain groans again, “Come back to bed and we’ll find out.”

It's such a sweet offer of a challenge but Lancelot has patrol this morning. He desperately wants to do just that, but he has a duty to attend. The war may be over but that doesn’t mean they are completely safe. There are still rogue groups of Paladins and Cumbers men roaming around looking for Fey to execute. “I can’t. You know this. I’ll be back this afternoon, and we can do something then.” He leans down and kisses the top of Gawain's head and the knight smiles, burying himself further into the warmth left in places of bedmate. He knows they have duties to attend to even if he’s only half asleep, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting the morning to drag on just a while longer. After all, their home is the only place Lancelot feels safe enough to be open and forward with him. He rolls onto his back and reaches out a hand, it's only a moment before the rustling of fabric from the former monk getting dressed ceases and a sword calloused hand takes his own. He feels the press of lips against his and sighs happily. This would have to do. “Born in the dawn,” He starts, words slurred by the call of sleep. ‘To pass in the twilight.” Lancelot's voice finishes on the edge of his consciousness, his hand is squeezed. It's the last thing he knows before sleep returns to him.

III

Gawain sighs. The bed was empty and cold when he woke this morning and it frustrated him to no end. He wished he could get the older man to understand that sometimes you could take a morning off. That it was okay to have a slow morning where you relaxed. Cuddled with your lover even. There was far more to the physical side of a relationship than sex. And while the sex was very good, sometimes Gawain just wanted to be wrapped up in the others embrace knowing that he was loved and taken care of. He was certain that Lancelot needed that too. It was more than quick kisses, and the brush of fingers on bare skin, or the feel of a supportive hand on his shoulder that he craved. The problem was that he really didn’t know how to express it in a way that Lancelot would understand. Beyond that the man had had the same pattern for the last six years, and Gawain wasn’t sure he could break him of it even if they both wanted it.

He leans down and pulls on his boots, he has a meeting with Arthur early this afternoon and it will take him and the others a few hours to reach the castle. Lancelot will not be coming with them, instead he will remain in the village, because that's what it is now, not a camp to help protect it and to be available to assist its members in whatever way necessary. He and Percival are very capable of this task, and Gawain knows they won’t return to find the village in ruins. Still he wishes that the Ashman was coming, if for nothing else than the quiet companionship that he offers.

They haven’t had much time together since Gawain was deemed Elderman of the village. He is not the elder of the village but he is the one everyone goes to and he can’t seem to get away from it. He knows it is in part due to the part he played in the rebellion and because of his status as both Fey Knight and Knight of the Round Table. And yet he is beginning to loathe the position, just as he loathed being the Green Knight. It was taking away from the time and the energy he could spend with his lover and their son and the other people in his life that mattered. He knew it would likely settle as the turmoil around them slowed and peace returned to the land but for now it put things like being joined to the bottom of the list and so he still hadn’t asked. He wondered if they were married if Lancelot would be inclined to spend his mornings in bed with him.

IV

Lancelot had been made a Knight of the Round Table and so had Percival, though a bit young he had proven himself time and time again worthy of the title. That had been what the meeting was about a few weeks ago. The ceremony had been arranged for this morning, and so it came as no surprise to Gawain when he felt Lancelot leave their bed before the sun had even begun to turn the sky the yawning grey of dawn.  He lets out a defeated sigh and turns his back to Lancelot's side of the bed. It's the complete opposite of what he usually does, but even now, half awake and over tired, despite a night of sleep, it hurts him that Lancelot insists on getting up instead of spending just a little extra time with him.   “Gawain? You smell upset.” He hears Lancelot say as he feels a dip in the bed. He only lets out a slight grunt and shifts his arm under the pillow he's using drawing it closer to himself in turn with his knees. He feels defensive and he isn’t awake enough to process his actions. “Tell me whats wrong?” “It’s nothing. I'm just not ready to be awake yet.” He isn’t sure his words make sense to Lancelot, they feel heavy and odd in his mouth. “Then go back to sleep. I’ll wake you at sunrise.” The voice that responds is gentle and understanding and he wants to tell him that he should be angry at him for lying but instead he nuzzles his pillow and yawns. He lets sleep slither silently around him again and painfully ignores the fingers running through his hair, and the knuckles that caress his cheek, and his shoulder. He falls into a fitful half slumber as Lancelot readies himself for the big day. When the ceremony takes place, Gawain feels guilty for having been upset with Lancelot this morning. He’s dressed in his new surcoat and cloak. Percival is dressed similarly though sporting colors that are a mix of his and Lancelots, though the crest is his own. He smiles, pride swelling in his chest as Arthur knights them both but does not give permission for them to rise. He nearly misses his cue. Percival snickers at him and then smiles at Lancelot with a nod. He can see the confusion in those stunning blue eyes as they track him stepping forward beside Arthur. As Gawain steps forward he can’t help but smile, he takes the blade from Arthur and stands before the two most important men in his life.

He begins voice strong and clear in the air as it echos into the courtyard, “A Knight of the Fey is one with the land,

enduring as the the Great River,

and as true as Arwan’s bow.

We are born in the dawn,”

He swallows, watches as the reality of his words settles on the two infront of him and knows that his anger this morning was pointless and unnecessary. He watches as Percival swallows, tears ready to fall from his eyes as they did all those days ago. And Lancelot, sweet broken Lancelot can’t stop the tear that follows the tracks of his people or the shuddering breath he takes just before he and Percival answer in tandem, “To pass in the twilight.”

V

It is the morning of their joining, seven years to the day since Lancelot came to them. And while he would love to be wrapped up in the man and  in the comfort and warmth of their bed it is not to be. Only, he is upset that he hadn’t been able to spend the night in Lancelot's arms, Percival had insisted on him staying over going on about bad luck or some such thing. So he had, it couldn’t hurt to spend the evening in Percivals company. He knew the boy probably needed it as much as Gawain realized he himself did. So they drank and sang songs and spoke about a great many things, including the girl who had Percivals fancy. This morning came with a slight hangover and the absence of his lover but it was the furthest thing from the worst morning he had ever had. He was brimming with excitement and buzzing with energy and could barely sit still long enough to eat breakfast. Percival shook his head at him and then they were getting ready. Gawain would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. The day went by incredibly fast between losing himself in his thoughts, getting ready, and the influx of visitors he had. But not once did he catch sight of Lancelot. It is just before noon that their vows are to take place. As the time approached Gawain felt the nervousness return tenfold. He was a warrior, a knight, he should not be nervous about this and yet he was. It would not change anything about the way he and Lancelot loved one another, but it was important and he didn’t want to mess it up. He approached the dias from the left as they agreed. Lancelot would come from the right. There was no need for traditional aisle walking. And yet as they approached the stage on which the ceremony would take place, the rest of the world died away. In a moment he was reminded of just how spectacular and stunning the man he loved was. Dark curls hung just past his ears, sunlight shining where it was laced with blond. Blue eyes like the depths of a still lake surrounded by the marks of his people. He loved those the most of all Lancelot's features. They were striking and fierce as war paint, and as sad as heartbreak, and yet when Lancelot smiled they reminded him of life and love as they did at this very moment. When they met at centre stage he could not hold back the smile on his lips. He did not know for certain the last time he felt joy like this, but he would not soon forget this day. When he met Lancelot's eyes, he found the same sentiment reflected back at him.

After a moment the officiant, Elder of the Skyfolk, spoke. “Say thy vows if thou gives them freely.”

And so they did, they spoke boldly and truthfully. With passion and love. They promised as all do to be faithful and true and to be present always and forever and more. They promised to keep no secrets, to reconcile all heartaches, to be slow in anger and to be just in their actions. They swore to cherish, to love and be united as equals in all endeavors. When they had finished proclaiming their promises to one another the officiant spoke once more a smile on her face. “Join hands.”

So they did with barely a glance, so well in sync their eyes could hold conversations mid battle, or mid marriage. The people watching them didn’t matter, the sun to bright and hot didn’t matter. What mattered was this moment in which they told the world they had chosen one another, and told each other they meant every whispered word of endearment and parise and love.  No one spoke as the Elder placed the three cords over their hands, the burgundy cord to symbolize romance, partnership and happiness, ivory for peace, sincerity and devotion, and gold which represents unity, prosperity and longevity. And finally he spoke out

“As this knot is tied, so are your lives now bound. Woven into this cord, imbued into its very fibers, are all the hopes of thy friends and family, and of thyselves, for a new life together.

With the fashioning of this knot you tie all the desires, dreams, love, and happiness wished here in this place to your lives for as long as love shall last.

In the joining of hands and the fashioning of a knot, so are your lives now bound, one to another.

By this cord you are thus now and forevermore bound to your vow.

May this knot remain tied for as long as love shall last. May this cord draw your hands together in love, never to be used in anger.

May the vows you have spoken never grow bitter in your mouths. As any child discovers when they are learning to tie their own shoes, the first move is to cross the ends.

The cross creates the (X), which is the symbol of partnership and union. As your hands are bound by this cord, so is your partnership held by the symbol of this knot.

Two entwined in love, bound by commitment and fear, sadness and joy, by hardship and victory, anger and reconciliation, all of which brings strength to this union.

Hold tight to one another through both good times and bad, and watch as your strength grows.

I shall now remove the cords.

Thou hast pledged troth of thy own free will and have been bound together by the ritual of the cords.

May it be granted that what is done before the gods be not undone by man.

Before I proclaim you joined thou must kiss three times on cue,’ Lancelot raised an eye brow and Gawain only shrugged too enamored by the man in front of him to care that it was ridiculous. Besides what did it matter if they kissed thrice now, there was certain to be many more this day, and the days to come.

“Once for luck, Twice for Love and Thrice for Long life. By the Power Vested in my by the Realm I now pronounce you married.”

The day ended in dancing and laughter and glee.

 +1

It was the morning after their wedding and Gawain woke to the familiar feeling of Lancelot leaving their bed. He sighed, assuming the other simply needed to relieve himself. It was their first morning wed, surely he would stay in bed and cuddle with him. It had to be obvious that they weren’t meant to do anything today, anything that didn’t involve the other and staying squarely in this bed. Unfortunately, the familiar sound of fabric rustling removed any traces of sleep from Gawain as he sat up abruptly in their bed. "What are you doing? We could keep cuddling." The words leave him before he can process what it actually was he intended to say. He ducks his chin embarrassed and can feel Lancelot's eyes on him, as though he’s being seen for the first time. Slowly the man responds, voice uncertain.

"Not if I'm going to walk around this camp properly dressed."

"You mean boiling to death and looking gloomy. Why do you have to start getting dressed an hour before sun up anyways? Besides that you realize no one expects us to leave this house today, let alone this bed. We just got married. Come lie back down!"

His demand is met by shock and surprise as they settle on Lancelot's features and then turn to a blush as he shifts embarrassed. Gawain can’t help but laugh, of course this man wouldn’t think of something like that, not that he could fault him. His upbringing certainly didn’t lend to romantic inclination. He stares as the dark haired man shifts uncomfortably on the other side of the bed.

"it takes that long to lace my surcoat...." and now it's his turn to be taken aback. “What?” “It takes an hour to get the damn garment on.” Lancelot says louder and much more upset than Gawain thinks he should be. He can’t help the cackle that leaves him as he shifts in the bed to more fully face his husband .

"Come back to bed for half an hour."

"It's like you don’t even listen."  Lancelot sighs and shifts his clothing around.

“All this time, that's why you haven’t stayed in bed with me in the mornings.” He groans, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Listen, if you decide that you have to get up and get dressed and do things, which I think you'll find you won’t, I'll get up with you and it will take half the time. Now come back to bed so I can kiss you senseless."

In the span of a few seconds the air is knocked from his lungs as he is pushed back against the mattress and his pillows, Lancelot's nose pressed into his neck and their bodies pressed firmly together. His brain, it seems, takes too long to process what just happened as Lancelot whines against his ear,

"Well what are you waiting for?"  It's all the permission he needs as he rolls them to the side and pulls him close, kissing him passionately in the process.

#Fanfiction #Cursed TV 2020 #Writing #Fluff #Lancewain #Lancelot #The Weeping Monk #Gawain #The Green Knight #5+1

[swixtern]

In attempt to get back into writing, here's

A bit about my Arthurian anthology (retelling) that nobody asked for:

Whispers: it's going to be a mess... sorry... It's also long and out of order...

Ambrosius was poisoned by Uther, his brother by their father’s second wife

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Uther is a shape-shifter and Gwrlais studied magic while fostering under Consul Aurelius

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Igraine is Jewish. I don’t know; it just feels right. And she’s a proven warrior (her sisters, too).

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Anna is Gwrlais’ eldest, then Elaine, then Morgan

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Merlin puts Arthur in a brothel (I’m sorry, but I really enjoyed that idea from King Arthur: Legend of the Sword)

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Uther’s next, and only other child, was named Anna, and she is not to be confused with Anna of Orkney

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Arthur leaves the brothel at 14 after he turns Cai (who is 17) in to the city guard for whatever crime he’s committed; Sir Ector comes to inquire after him, intrigued by the boy, and takes him away with him when his secret heritage is made known

.

Cai is acting out due to his father, Cynyr Ceinfarfog, and mother, Sir Ector’s currently unnamed sister (probably named Elaine 😂 *shot*🙃), being killed; Sir Ector is his uncle, and he loves him, but he’s frustrated and grieving

.

Arthur is called “Boy Rivers” until Sir Ector takes him in, giving him back the name Arthur; Cai calls him Wart every chance he can

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Bedwyr is black and two handed at first; he and Arthur meet in battle against the Saxons and they become fast pals. Griflet is mixed race

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Arthur stole pigs belonging to Mark, King of Cornwall; finds it hard to trust Arthur after that, even after Arthur pulls the sword Clarent from The Anvil™️

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The sword Clarent is pulled from an anvil on a stone

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There are three Guineveres: G1 mothers Arthur’s daughters; G2 dies within the first year; G3 mothers Amr and much later Loholt.

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Arthur marries G2 when he becomes King of Logres after pulling Clarent; he’s approximately __ years old (I really need to find the timeline that I did... I think he was, like, in his thirties?)

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Lancelot tries to repress his homosexuality. Galehaut encourages his exploration (but never pushes) but his duty to King and Country™️ keep him away a lot; the longer Lancelot is around Arthur, the more he falls in love with him, the more he represses it, the more he needs to convince himself he loves Guinevere. He’s a confused mess.

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Lot is not the name of the King of Lothian (anymore; he dies), it’s Uen; when Mordred is 13, he curses his ‘father’ so that the world will forget the man’s name

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May Day Massacre totally happened and that’s when Gawain uncovered his sun-powers

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Geheris has Moderate-ID

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Mordred spends his 14th birthday on a ship to Norway; he doesn’t see his family again until he’s 17 and he returns with strong Viking-ties

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Most of the Orkney Clan look next to nothing alike: Gawain is big and strapping with red hair and freckles galore; Ywain has auburn hair and light freckling, he’s a bit narrow and willowy; Gravaine is built like a barn and pale like his father with black hair; Clarissant, Agravaine’s twin, shares his black hair and stocky build but she has freckles that covered her face; Soredamor has medium-brown hair, she’s the tallest and thinnest of the lot, but physically frail with a chronic cough; Geheris is stocky with black hair, a red beard, a ruddy skin tone, and freckles; Cai the Grumbler, or Calogrenant, has light brown hair and green eyes; Gareth is albino with mismatched eyes (one brown, one pale); Mordred’s hair is long and dark brown and his eyes match Arthur’s grey; Yvain has freckles and Urien's black hair and short stature; Morfydd has pale blonde hair, dark brown eyes, and is short and curvy

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Tristan and Mordred are bros who adopt each other almost immediately

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Gay Squad: Dinadan, Galehaut, Lancelot, Ywain, Calogrenant

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Bi-Team: Galahad, Gawain, Lamo (Mordred’s servant), Bertilak, Mabon ap Modron

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Aces: Morgan le Fay, Mordred, Ambrosius Aurelianus

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Magic users: Uther Pendragon, Gwrlais, Morgan, Guinevere the Third, Myrddin, Mordred, Cwyllog, Iseult (Queen of Cornwall, Princess of Ireland), technically Tristan via harp, Gawain via solar power, technically Cai because giants

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Tristan seems drunk when he’s sober and he knows elf-tunes; the court learned that the hard way when they heckled him one too many times and he magicked those of them who weren’t sent out of the hall into an orgy they never speak of

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As much as Cai honestly loves being a knight, he's also got this secret passion for cooking and all things culinary; despite all his outward protesting of being Seneschal, he actually jumped at the chance, seeing it as a way to indulge his "little selfish interest" and to sort out all the riffraff trying to get in with Arthur

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I’m about convinced that the Orkneys as a unit lean Slytherin and Pellinore’s family leans Griffindor; this is not the cause of the feud but a participating factor in why it keeps escalating as it does

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G3 is technically a low(low low)-level earth goddess tied to the land (family of Welsh giants), and that's part of the reason she feels drawn to the men she's drawn to but her actions towards --and with-- them are her own

.

Guinevak is G3's twin in every way but mothering, magic, and looks; she's the rejected bastard who spends a lot of time with Mordred, Galahad, Calogrenant, and Tristan; envious of G3, Lynette, and Cwyllog --each for different reasons

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Urien was first married to Modron (the relationship deteriorated after Mabon's abduction and she returned to Annwn) before patiently pressing suit to Morgan who eventually yields as "friends in matrimony". After Morgan chooses Accolon for a lover, Urien is upset but allows this, naming him as her personal knight

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Urien does not do comfort. Ask Morgan and Anna about when they found out Uen had sent Mordred away and the mother was distraught

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Bedwyr loses his right hand as penance for Arthur stealing King Mark's pigs.

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Yvain is a bastard child sired by Urien on his steward's wife after Morgan and Accolon are... happy together

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Anna of Orkney is... twisted up. She loves her children (a little... too much sometimes) and tries to do right by them but... well... yeah... it's... it's no bueno

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Cai has super powers. Access giant-size, extra endurance, impervious to hot or cold, and heat-radiating hands

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Uther is... terrible. He's the sorta worst, really. Seriously, the things he does

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Eigyr is not passive in captivity; that does not mean things go well for her

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Morgan was learning magic from Gwrlais and took his scrolls and books on the subject hostage after his death

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Gwrlais' daughter Elaine (the one who marries Nentres) is devotedly Jewish like her mother and raises her children as such (such as Galeshin and Hoel).

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Nentres adores Elaine in marriage and even before that took his vows as her knight and betrothed seriously; he carries whipping scars on his back (from Uther) for trying to rescue Morgan from a monastery in her name. He tells Arthur later that he bears them proudly

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Cai's parents are dead because of Uther (I can't remember how) and Sir Ector's father was a Roman soldier who stayed behind

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Mordred is technically Melehan's step-father (he's a bastard by rape) but only Mordred and the mother know. They don't talk about it

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Elaine of Garlot has psychological damage from the things Uther has done to her family and others in front of her. She has no tolerance for violence and aggression.

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Tristan has PTSD and severe depression; he's also an alcoholic

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Nentres slowly poisoned Uther over the years with hemlock

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Mordred's first wife is a Lothian common girl-turned-slave-turned-servant that he's known from childhood. Her name is Julianna, and her family name is Ruricius, coming from a Roman-merchant connection

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Morgan has been locked in a monastery twice; she escapes the second time after Uther's death and runs into Urien for the first time

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Urien owns the first claymore. His father had it made for him as joke but he's a pro now so, well, guess who has the last laugh?

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Agravaine killed a Unicorn as a child; it's okay, Unicorns are kinda evil here and will straight-up murder you

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Urien doesn't age, eat, or drink (he hasn't since Modron); he still looks super young, roughly 16-17. His younger brothers and later on his own children look older than him

#arthuriana #arthurian legend #arthurian #king arthur #mordred #sir kay #sir bedivere #sir gawain #sir tristan #sir gareth #lancelot #guinevere #guinevak #king urien #merlin #fuck uther #king uther #morgan le fay #morgause #arthurian retelling #igraine #gorlais #arthuria #geheris #orkney bros #orkney brothers #orkney clan #writting #writing #agravaine

[erinaceina]

ScotsSwap 2020

Bombycine

Recipient: Jo (@notasapleasure​). I hope I’ve done Jerott justice. It’s been absolute torture not talking to you about writing this <3

Prompt: Philippa and anyone as a BroTP, ‘Take the words 'sharp' 'alone' 'close[near]' 'missed' and give me some Pain :’)’ - it’s mainly alone and pain really, although Jerott has had some close encounters with sharp objects in the recent past. I hope it’s still delicious angst, even if it has wandered a bit off topic.

Setting: St. Mary’s, early autumn 1560.

Characters: Jerott Blyth, Philippa Crawford, Francis Crawford.

Relationships: Philippa + Jerott, Francis + Jerott, Philippa/Francis.

Rating: I’m not sure? References to things that happen to Khaireddin, but nothing explicit.

Summary: Sleep is not kind to Jerott Blyth.

Word Count: 2986.

Note: This is broadly compliant with this and this, mainly so I could squeeze Astraea the cat in there.

Spoilers: Non-specific spoilers for stuff that happens in Checkmate.

*******************************************************

The pain rose up to meet Jerott Blyth, mingled with the waters of the Middle Sea, and he drowned in the scent of spikenard and jasmine, in roiling fumes and obscene kisses and all the stench and horror of battle. Even as he fell, half-blind from the blow to his temple that had swept him overboard and the haze of gunpowder that hung, cloying, over the churning blue-green waters of the Mediterranean, he heard behind him the low, animal noises of the foundering ship.

The pain at shoulder and temple and thigh howled in awful harmony with the tortured screaming of overstressed timber and the crack of snapping lines. Flashes of light filled his failing vision, amber and gold and cornsilk-fair, yet, through them all, he could see glimpses of palm and pomegranate beneath a blistering African sun; the smell of storax and benzoin clung to the aching tissues of his throat and curdled in the saltwater filling his burning nostrils.

Although Mehedia lay more than a hundred and fifty miles distant, set on its strangling neck of land in the shining sea, passing vistas reached him through the sheet of blue water and yellow fire. He thought he could see flashes of gnarled grey-green olive groves and fields touched with the blush of new barley and smell the sun-warmed earth and the fetor of bombyx mori. Even as the roiling waters of the Middle Sea saturated his padded gambeson, drawing him down and down into the currents that eddied and swirled around him, down into the vortex of the foundering ship, he thought he could feel the splintering wood of a burning hut beneath the tips of his blistered fingers. Even as his useless arm hung wavering and limp as storm-wracked kelp and a ribbon of blood like scarlet silk wound through the water around him, he touched the soft, pliant curve of a child’s back and the damp weight of of amber hair tacky with cooling blood.

İpec böceǧi, called the dry, whispery voice of the old woman, and Jerott Blyth flinched. For this wast thou born? What lack is there in Scotland that her sons grow so feeble?

The saltwater again burned in Jerott Blyth’s nostrils and, with the sudden clarity of the sleeper and the man nearing death, he knew that the sea battle and the olive groves alike were the mere conjurings of a mind caught in a drugged stupor. Slitting open stinging eyes against the fetid, poisonous fumes of burning silk cocoons, tasting bitter almonds like charnel flesh on the back of his tongue, he saw with little surprise that he lay beside the discarded body of a fair-haired child on the rough floor of the warehouse belonging to the silk-farmer’s sister in Mehedia. The marks left by the mutes were livid on a face touched also by the griefs of a short life twisted and warped against itself. 

The great impulse to live that dwelt within Jerott Blyth’s sturdy flesh took fresh flame, and, even against the will that cringed against it, he drew a dragging, acrid breath and smelt the cloying, indecent reek of the perfume that clung to the boy-child’s cooling flesh.

The cornflower-blue eyes were open and far-seeing beneath their heavy, slack lids as they had not been beneath the merciful bindings of Amiens or in the wreckage of a shattered face on a Northumbrian hillside. The soft, kitten’s mouth, still bearing the last, revolting brush of paint, formed words without breath, as parched as the desert air. İpec böceǧi, for this wast thou born? Is there no failure thou hast not encompassed?

*******************************************************

The gasping breath that woke Jerott Blyth was his own, rasping like poison in his chest, and his outflung arm howled with pain. For a moment, he thought he could feel the raw burns of Mehedia licking its length and he was back in Djerba - the Djerba of some seven years past - with Onophrion Zitwitz’s jellies melting on his tongue and the golden warmth of the North African sun spilling through the latticed windows of his convalescent room. For a moment, he burned again with fever on the boat fleeing the carnage of Djerba with Giovanni Andrea Doria fretting and fuming at the prow and Danny’s hand clasping his own and the utter failure of the Knights of St. John sour in a mouth that cracked and bled. With a blink against the enveloping darkness that admitted neither sunlight nor the deadly fire of an overturned brazier, he recognised the shadow of the bed curtains and the dim glow from the last embers of the fire dying in the hearth. A dint on the pillow by his head suggested the recent warmth of a cat, but he was utterly alone, neither prisoner nor knight.

With a hollow, awful noise, half sob, half laugh, Jerott buried his head in his shaking hands, feeling the trembling weakness in the injured arm and the aching memory of the old burns. It seemed to him that, like the silk moth which has no organs by which it can nourish itself, he lacked in that moment any means to sustain himself, and could merely exist in the labouring of his lungs and the eddying horror of the dream. Khaireddin, who he had failed to save; Marthe, whose death he had caused, however unwitting; Francis, who might have died by that same act of mercy; the boy Diccon, weeping before a father who turned an implacable face to him, the warm light of the afternoon gilding both their pale heads.

Although he had regretted his hasty words as soon as they were spoken - Damn it, Francis, he’s not one of your men to browbeat. Can you not show him half the pity you gave the other? -  he felt the previous day’s anger kindle again at the memory of the cool displeasure in Francis’s eyes and the flat, uncompromising line of his mouth, even as his infant son tugged at his silken hose and begged to be held.

Mo cridh is a good little boy now, said the voice of that other child with the pitiless clarity of memory.

With no more conscious thought than the doomed silk moth, Jerott swung his legs over the edge of the bed, groping with chilled toes for the slippers that had been set out for him. Although the day had been warm for Scotland on the cusp of autumn, a decided chill hung in the night air and he shrugged into the borrowed robe, feeling it pull across the shoulders where it was cut for a slighter man.

In the near total darkness, he let his feet and memory guide him through the corridors of St. Mary’s, grateful at least that although the house no longer maintained its martial aspect, Francis’s taste did not yet run to endless trinkets and furbelows to trip the unwary. At the head of the stairs, something sleek and pale regarded him curiously from a ribbon of pale moonlight where a shutter stood ajar, but, before he could do more than peer blearily back, it disappeared into the recesses of a court cupboard made monstrous by the shadows.

Once, on a night such as this, Jerott Blyth might have sought the wine cellar and all its bottled comforts; once, Lymond might have locked it against just such an eventuality. Tonight, however, Jerott wandered through the silent house with no goal in his mind save to put as much space as the night permitted between himself and the fading echoes of his dream. His slippered feet padded softly across the expensive carpets and he recalled with a shudder the carpet painted with red and white in the in the selamlìk like a terrible exchequer counting out life and death - say goodnight to the dark.

Despite his meandering path, Jerott was not overly surprised when he lifted his eyes and found himself in the passageway leading to the great, vaulted kitchen. There would be fresh water there to wash the taste of bitter almonds and smoke from his mouth, thanks to some mechanical contrivance of Lancelot Plummer’s, and the cool of the Scots night under cloud-veiled stars through the door beyond.

He had already stepped through the door when he realised that long room was not empty; the faint glow from the banked hearth was matched by a candle flame and in its light a slim figure moved briskly from table to cupboard. Jerott froze, for a startled moment half-fearing some apparition from his dream, or, worse yet, an encounter with Lymond for which he was ill-prepared, but as the figure turned to greet him, he saw the fall of dark, unbound hair swing out around slender shoulders and recognised his hostess in a robe de chambre belonging, like Jerott’s own borrowed garment, no doubt, to her husband.

‘Jerott!’ Philippa came more fully into the light, her smile warming with more pleasure in the encounter than Jerott thought strictly reasonable for some time after two in the morning. ‘Couldn’t you sleep either?’

‘No,’ Jerott said shortly, and wondered what else he could say, but Philippa seemed unperturbed.

‘She gaue him milke, the slepe fell in his hede,’ she pronounced cheerfully. ‘I was making myself a posset, guaranteed by Kate to knock out half the county - of course, that’s in England. Would you like some?’

About to demur, Jerott was shepherded without delay to a seat at the well-scrubbed board and had an equally well-scrubbed lemon deposited in his nerveless hands. Half-hysterically, he found himself thinking that Djerba might have gone better with Philippa Crawford and not Giovanni Andrea Doria commanding the massed forces of Christendom. Taking the knife presented to him, he set to paring dutiful curls of zest and listened to the surprisingly comforting sounds as Philippa clattered around the kitchen, collecting the milk and cream from the cool slate and the sugar and nutmeg from the spice chest. As she worked, she hummed to herself, a fragment of Salve intemerata virgo, a snatch of a filthy ditty that he had heard on the docks at Leith. In short order, he found himself in possession of a steaming goblet of spiced posset aromatic with lemon and nutmeg and the Crawfords’ good French eau de vie, and being appraised frankly by the appallingly candid brown eyes of Francis’s child-bride.

A child no longer, he conceded with a shade of reluctance, although he could see the ghost of the scrubby and dishevelled adolescent alongside the the elegant courtier in the lines of her face as he squinted against the flickering warmth of the candlelight. A single lock of brown hair fell in disarray across her high brow, but, even in the dim light, it was glossy and well-trimmed, and the thin-fingered hands cupping the second goblet no longer showed the effects of diligent adolescent gnawing.

‘So,’ Philippa said conversationally, pushing a plate of sweetmeats towards him. ‘You saw Diccon’s argument with Francis.’

The posset soured in Jerott’s mouth. ‘Argument? He’s a child. He was crying. God, Philippa!’ Francis’s retort had, as ever, raised an angry and impotent resentment within him only made worse by the recognition that he was over-matched.

‘He’s Francis’s child,’ Philippa corrected gently. ‘He could pick a fight with a fencepost and is as highly strung as a papingo at a fair.’

Jerott subsided sulkily into his chair and eyed a sticky square of something dripping with honey and jewelled with candied nuts.

‘Baklava has many curative properties, but the banishment of nightmares is not one of them.’

As so often with Lymond, the softly spoken words left Jerott feeling as if he had been flensed and scoured raw, but there was a kindness in Philippa’s face that Lymond rarely permitted himself to display, and Jerott consciously relaxed the fingers clenched bitingly tight around the goblet until the ache of the healing wound in his shoulder subsided.

‘What, then? What possible reason could Francis have to treat his own son like that after… after…’

‘After losing Khaireddin? But if Diccon’s offence was no grave matter, neither was Francis’s.’ And in quick, amused words, Philippa sketched the outlines of a scene quite different to that which Jerott had seen - or thought he had seen: the tired, overexcited child; the hand tangled in the cat’s inviting fur until she awarded the barest scratch to her tormentor for this impertinent ambuscade; Francis’s insistence that Diccon should render his apologies to his feline friend before any consoling cuddle; child and cat alike falling asleep in Lymond’s lap even as he himself drowsed in the late sunlight. The light in the cornflower-blue eyes that had been not cold anger but a carefully corralled excess of emotion.

Philippa licked a crumb of honey-soaked semolina from her fingers and continued in a quieter voice, recalling the outspoken, stalwart child that Jerott remembered from the long-ago voyage, the terror and exhilaration alike of playing for Roxelana Sultàn, the dawning fear she had felt in the sultana’s gilded and grilled listening post above the Divan as she saw Jubrael Pasha for the first time. Kuzúm’s whipping and the despair of her wedding night in the French ambassador’s residence and the long journey home. 

As if it were drawn out of him like a skein of silk unravelling, Jerott found himself responding in kind, telling the story of his ill-fated foray to Mehedia, the horror that he had found there and the coming horror that he had been unable to prevent. Just a quarter-hour’s difference, just a little more wit to see the danger surrounding him, just a little more strength in his arm… Remembering the obscene travesty of the kiss pressed into the crook of his neck, Jerott looked away, into the shadows that crowded the corners of the kitchen, but Philippa’s fingertips pressed lightly against his own, a benediction of a kind, as cleansing as any priestly absolution. In a flash, he remembered the calm of Francis’s face set against the crispness of his pillow in Amiens, the blind, blank eyes and bloodless visage and quick, expressive features shorn of all emotion.

İpec böceǧi, for this wast thou born?

And - no; they had stood as well as they might against a malicious and terrible will and had found beyond its bounds some place of refuge, though it had driven them over distant lands and wide seas. It had made of them something which none of them had been able to contemplate, both for good and for ill, and, as storm-wrack, they lay upon its farthest shore. If there was grief here in plenty and a lifetime of Graham Reid Malett’s ill works to be unravelled in Scotland, there was no shame in that. 

Perhaps he was not formed as the horned worm of India, unable to sustain life even in others. 

With a start, Jerott realised that the goblet was empty and cool beneath his fingers, the plate reduced to a scattering of crumbs and the first faint glow of dawn spilling through the high, narrow windows. The cat perched on one end of the long table, glowering at them through narrow green eyes and batting at a scrap of honeyed pastry with a desultory paw. Blinking against the sting of tears, as caustic as any poison, Jerott saw that Philippa’s lids were drooping, her chin propped on one hand and the other laid lightly on the curve of her belly suddenly revealed beneath the fine lawn of her shift where the embroidered silk of her gown had dropped away. ‘You must forgive Francis, you see,’ she said in a voice warm and soft with sleep. ‘It is difficult for him at the moment.’

‘I - yes - there is nothing to forgive,’ Jerott said, and found that he meant it. Perhaps, like the pelican, Francis would sustain these children with the last of his own heart’s blood, as he might have sustained his firstborn, were it not for Gabriel’s schemes, but the stubborn light in Philippa’s drowsy dark eyes suggested that she had decided opinions on the matter. And, with abrupt solicitude, ‘You should go to bed.’

‘A moment longer. Goo to Morpheus; thou knowist hym well.’

Rising to his feet against the protesting ache of his own muscles, he was surprised to find himself swept into a hug comprised half of peacock-embroidered silk and half of flying dark hair that filled his nose with the scent of chypre. Cautiously, he let his own arms close around Philippa and felt a great flood tide of weariness sweep over him, as if all barriers to sleep had been swept away and that welcoming sea rushed in, bearing all before it.

Disentangling himself with only a little difficult involving Philippa’s hair and the carved horn buttons fastening the sleeves of his robe, Jerott padded sleepily from the kitchen, the cat weaving lazy patterns around his bare calves.

*******************************************************

‘Well, yunitsa?’ asked the figure lounging in the entrance to the larder, a sleepy, sardonic smile crooking one corner of his long mouth and pale linen sleeves falling back from his sinewy arms as he brought his hands up to frame her face.

‘Well,’ Philippa confirmed, and pressed a kiss to the scarred wrist. ‘He’ll sleep tonight, at least. And you?’

‘I see Astraea has absented herself, so I suppose we will find ourselves the next targets of the infant’s hair-pulling fervour in far too short a time, but for now my sleep, like justice, requires a witness.’

‘Then let me be witness by sight and by sign.’ Philippa smiled up into his face, smoothing the fingers of one hand through the disordered silk of his yellow hair. ‘Come to bed, Francis. There is nothing more to put right in the world tonight.’

*******************************************************

Notes

The first three paragraphs draw heavily on the description of Jerott’s approach to Mehedia in Pawn in Frankincense, pp. 111-112.

İpec böceǧi  - ‘silkworm’ in Turkish (I hope).

‘Like the silk moth which has no organs by which it can nourish itself’ - some version of this is repeated at various places in Pawn in Frankincense and also in Checkmate.

‘Mo cridh is a good little boy now’ - Pawn in Frankincense, p. 445, aka the most distressing line in the entirety of canon (and, let’s face it, there’s plenty of competition).

‘She gaue him milke, the slepe fell in his hede’ - John Lydgate, The Fall of Princes.

‘Goo to Morpheus; thou knowist hym well’ - Geoffrey Chaucer, Book of the Duchess.

#scotswap #lymond fanfic #my fic #philippa somerville #jerott blyth #francis crawford

[lostinfantasies38]

Modern AU Sirrastair

Here is more from my modern cop/Carta AU with Alistair and Sirra that no one asked for.  Except, it’s NSFW, so there is that!  Mind you, it's a WIP and subject to change.  But I wanted opinions on how it’s coming along.  💛  @kittimau @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold @fluffymabari @sharkapologists @river-of-asgard @schoute @lyrium-lovesong

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tossing his keys on the ceramic dish perched atop the low bookshelf with a clatter, Alistair sighed heavily as he laid his wallet beside the ring of metal, smoothly locking the door with his other hand.  Pushing off the frame, he strode into his kitchen and yanked the fridge open.  A trip to the grocery store was desperately needed, but he never had time with the late shifts.  Grabbing the last beer, he popped the top on the stout and poured it into a clean glass.  

Admiring the foam in anticipation of the first cold sip, he almost missed the slippery scratch of pebbles under someone’s shoe from the deck.  Unclipping his holster, he palmed his Glock and ducked into a crouch.  Working his way through the edge of his living room, he stayed in the shadows, thumb resting on the safety, itching for an excuse to flick the switch.  

Peeking around the sliding glass door, the slightly open door, he froze in shock.

Sirra Brosca was draped across one of his deck chairs, curvy legs in snug leggings propped on the railing, twirling a dark strand of hair around her finger.  She glanced up with a bored expression, her lips faintly quirking before settling into a plump pout and patted the chair next to her.

“Hello, handsome.  We need to talk.”

Tilting his head suspiciously, he slid onto the deck, gun in hand.  “I don’t know whether you are incredibly stupid or stupidly brave to break into a police officer’s house.”

The signature smirk that had haunted his thoughts and fueled more midnight fantasies than he cared to admit bloomed on her heart-shaped lips.  

“I’m Carta.  That should tell you all you need to know about me and my motives.  And technically, I didn’t break in.  I’m merely trespassing.  I cracked the door to get your attention, that’s all.”

Alistair shook his head while sinking into a chair against his better judgement.  “If that were true, you wouldn’t have given me that tip.  Thanks for that, by the way.  Although, I still don’t know why you would give us that kind of intel.”

“Quite the haul, right?”  

He noticed she pointedly did not give a reason for divulging the information that allowed them to intercept 9,000 kilos of lyrium from the port before it could hit the streets.  An estimated street value of eleven million Crowns, it was the biggest bust in Denerim’s history.

Tucking his weapon back in his holster, he steepled his hands and leaned closer to the dwarven woman.  “Why are you here?  What do you want?  Is there where you tell me I owe you and I say I don’t help criminals?”

Chuckling in that damnable husky voice, she crooned.  “Ooo, a romance angle!  Are we star-crossed lovers now?  Does that make you Guinevere?”

Smiling despite himself, Alistair snorted.  “I think I’d make a dashing Lancelot, thank you very much.  A pity the days of knights and codes of honor are dead.”

Sirra shook her head almost fondly.  “Not quite.  You strike me as a very gallant guy, willing to do what’s right, no matter the cost.”  

He leaned back against the chair, creating distance between them, but she followed his retreat.  Unfurling her legs from the railing, she pressed forward, dropping her voice to a whisper.

“You know, the Carta has a dossier on every cop in town.  Just like you have on us.  None of your ‘undercover’ cops goes unrecognized.  We see every move you make and it’s why you can’t nail them without an inside man… or woman.  It’s why I chose you, Officer Theirin.”  

Alistair tensed under her intense stare, held captive when she slid gracefully out of the chair, ankle boots tapping softly against the wood.  He noted the fitted cut of her forest green top, drawing his eyes to her ample bosom, watching with rapt attention as she swung her wide hips with each step.  Every move was an invitation, and he idly wondered if he would see the killing blow.  If he would even care.

Placing her hands on either side of the chair, she caged him in, staring at him under thick, curled lashes and murmured.  “Former Grey Warden, exemplary military record.  Most well known for clearing an entire school of children as Fog Warriors set it on fire.  Against orders.  You returned to the conflagration multiple times, carrying out boys and girls covered in ash until the building was empty.  I saw the footage, Alistair.”  

He shivered at the sound of his name in that raspy voice.  “H-How?  The footage and the mission were sealed.  There is -”

“I have my ways,” she interrupted airily, flicking her dainty fingers.  “You are probably the closest this Age has to a knight.  You are honorable and good.  Maybe a little naïve, but that is part of your appeal.”  

Crawling into his lap, she hummed appreciatively to discover how perfectly she fit in it. The man gasped as her thighs wrapped around his, her round ass deliciously close to where he wanted her, yet not close enough.

“Sirra…” he ground through clenched teeth.  “What are you doing?  What do you want?  What is this all about?”

Licking her lips, she held his gaze as she leaned close, veering right at the last second to purr in his ear.  “You need me, handsome.  If you want to take down my father’s organization, you will need me.  And… I need an alibi.”

His hands found her then, locking around her hips like steel as he growled into her curtain of hair.  “Why do you need an alibi?  Why me?  You know what, nevermind, I don’t think I want to know.  If you want to be an informant, which, for the record, I haven’t yet agreed to - I can’t be your alibi.  And this is hardly keeping our working relationship professional, don’t you think?”  

Grasping at straws, raging a war against his own desires, he struggled to find a way to get the dwarven woman off his lap before he did something stupid that involved little to no clothing.  Her face filled his field of vision, nose ring flashing in the faint sliver of moonlight, and he had to remind himself to breathe.

“First, I don’t need an alibi tonight, but I know the time is coming when I will need you to cover for me.  My father is not the only thing I’m running from.  The pit is full of vipers.”  

Alistair frowned heavily at that, a dawning realization that she was not doing this just for him.  She was escaping, and he was her ticket out.   

“Second, I never said this partnership had to be professional… or respectable.  We’re both adults here, aren’t we, handsome?  Of course, if you want me to get off your lap, I will.”  

Gripping her generous curves tightly, he answered in a strained voice.  “No, I don’t want you to do that.”

Smirking, she brushed her lips across his in a chaste kiss.  “And that’s the rub, isn’t it, gorgeous?  You don’t want to want me as much as you do.  Because of who I am.  Because of my name.  Does it hit a little close to home?”  Sirra’s teasing smile softened when his hazel eyes darkened.  

“Shut up, you damnable siren.”  

A large hand wrapped around her neck and pressed her lips fervently to his full mouth, and they moaned in unison as their lips and tongues fell into a natural rhythm.  Scooting forward on the chair, he rose, and she locked her legs around his trim waist.  Once inside the house, her small hand carefully closed the door behind them as his lips moved down her neck, nipping at the sensitive junction where it met her shoulder.  She gasped in approval, bucking against his abs, and he chuckled.  

“Wh-where are you taking me, Officer?”  

Her dark eyes twinkled mischievously, and Alistair’s chest tightened in a way he didn’t really want to analyze right now.  Instead, he smirked, murmuring as he circled her throat with licks and kisses.  

“Where I take all naughty women who sneak into my backyard and proposition me with offers too tempting to refuse: my bedroom.  Where else would I take you, Sirra?”

“Ancestors save me.  You better not take me anywhere else, Alistair.” 

He chuckled again, full of promise, and she shivered wantonly as he carried her through the hallway to the master suite.  “Oh, I don’t know, I may want to take you all over this place before the night is through.”

They tumbled on the king-sized bed and she claimed his lips urgently.  As they parted for air, she scrambled out of her top, revealing her full breasts barely contained in her black bra, and soft curves he needed to get his hands on.  Alistair groaned as he kicked off his shoes desperately.  

“I hope you live up to that promise, handsome.  I want all of you and then some.”  

Flicking her leggings absently aside, she froze as he shrugged out of his shirt, bronze muscles rippling in the moon-washed room.  Without pausing, he unsnapped his gun, ejected the clip and laid them on his dresser before unzipping his trousers.  

She could see the trail of auburn hair that led to what she really wanted, peeking through the elastic band of his boxer briefs.  Sirra moaned unintentionally, the clingy fabric of his underwear leaving nothing to the imagination.  

Alistair paused and glanced at her then, splayed out like a Satinalia present on his bed.  Dark hair pooled underneath her flawless skin, reminding him of marble statues of ancient goddesses displayed in museums.  Sex personified as she bit her lip, a flush blooming on her chest, her eyes nearly black as she ogled him.

“See something you like?” he taunted as he stepped out of his trousers.  Striding confidently toward the bed, he knew she was drinking him in.  His cock heavy and hard between muscular thighs, still hidden from view, but obvious through the thin material covering his modesty. 

Exhaling raggedly, Sirra breathed, “You know I do.  What about you, gorgeous?  See anything you like?”

Reaching the edge of the bed, he shot her a dark gaze full of want.  “I see what I’ve fantasized about since that night in the club two months ago, Sirra.”  

Her breath hitched at his honest confession, and she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue.  Alistair watched intently as it dragged along her luscious mouth.  Snagging her hip, he gently maneuvered her to the center of the bed and hovered over her.  His voice was low and raw when he spoke again.  

“But what I have before me is even better than I imagined.  I am in deep with you already, siren.  I have been since I met you.”

Lifting her torso slightly off the bed, Sirra reached around to unclasp her bra, a sultry laugh tumbling from her mouth when Alistair swore at the sight of her pierced nipples.  

“Oh, darling, you ruined me that night in the club.  And now I plan to return the favor.”   

#sirrastair #sirra brosca #Alistair x Sirra #modern au #modern thedas #dwarfmance #star crossed lovers #cop au #carta darling

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, JULIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of OBERON with an approved FC change to Oscar Isaac. Admin Rosey: I don't know how many times I said I was possessed when I wrote Oberon but I very much was. I think you have to be a little bit possessed to write him because that's the kind of person he is; you have to be all in with him or perish. I don't know what it is about these types of enigmatic, almost ethereal characters that you understand - they have one foot in heaven and one foot in hell - but you get them at their core, Julie. Thank you for bringing my most beautiful son to the dash. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Julie

Age | 20

Preferred Pronouns | She/her

Activity Level | I mean, y’all know how it is. One draft a day usually does it for me, and at the bare minimum, I shoot for a few replies a week.

Timezone | MST

How did you find the rp?  | I was perusing the ‘lsrpg’ tag, and the rest was history.

Current/Past RP Accounts | Lucien!

IN CHARACTER

Character | Oberon / Olivio Rivera -- with a fc change to Oscar Isaac, if it’s okay with you guys.

What drew you to this character? | There’s something about Olivio that makes him half-man half-hell, and that’s fascinating to me. I think, to a degree, he’s as human as the rest of us, with good parts and bad, but most people don’t show those parts so brazenly and manage to be half as discreet while doing it. This charm is pretty different from a character like Lucien’s, because it’s not a necessary charm. It’s not something he learned to do. It’s something he's always had in him for as long as he’s been -- it’s essential to the core of who he is as a person. There’s a dream-like quality to him that pulls you in and a nightmare-like quality that makes you take a step back when you get too close. He’s brutal in the way he orchestrates his own downfall just to get away from work he no longer has an interest in. He’s gentle with Theo, still grieving, because he knows they’re still working through something and it’s not entirely his place to poke and prod. Walking the thin line involved in this dichotomy is something that immediately caught my attention, and I’d love to explore both sides to him in the way Oberon deserves.

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

1. I’d like to explore what Olivio has to sacrifice in order to ascend in the Capulets. He’s already lived a fair bit of his life without any of it really being impacted by the mobs of Verona, so his priorities and goals are likely pretty different from characters that have been here their entire lives. It’ll probably take a while before he builds relationships strongly enough in Verona that he has anything worth sacrificing, but as soon as he does, I’d like to yank them from under him, see how he fares -- if he’s worth becoming a soldier or an emissary in the way that Theodora thinks he can be. He’s strangely comfortable as an initiate, sitting at the bottom of the barrel, but how long is that comfort going to last him?

2. With Olivio, there’s definitely a two-faced element to him, in much the same way there’s a two-faced element to Oberon in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He’s brutal and gentle all in one, and I’d like to explore what dictates in him which part comes out where. He gets his work done and ties it off in a neat bow, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he shies away from the ugliest parts of himself. How does he fare in comparison to someone like Orpheus, a dead man, who had similar goals and aspirations as the Robin Hood of Verona but didn’t set out to become that sort of figurehead -- everyone remembers Orpheus. No one knows Olivio. I also think it’s entirely possible his two-faced nature could undermine his reputation and his overall climb towards a more concrete place in the Capulets, if he isn’t careful, and I’d love to see what the consequences are. It worked for him in Spain. It might not work for him here.

3. In the para sample, I allude a little to Olivio’s dream in the same way it’s alluded to in his biography -- this borderline fantastical dream of a better place, a better world, where the underdogs and the fantastical alike can come together and live in harmony. A place where he can taste honey in his mouth where there might have been blood. I’d like to explore Olivio’s past in reflection to his present. He’s had the same dream his entire life, worked towards it slowly but surely in his youth, and then he ended up sitting on top of an empire he didn’t expect to have and didn’t really want. He gets caught up in his own flaws, and it all crumbles apart right from underneath him, and I’d love to see if he’s doomed to repeat that in Verona or if things are really going to be different this time around.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | I think so! As long as it serves a purpose, I’m happy to dip my hands in angst.

IN DEPTH

TW: VIOLENCE, DEATH

Cesar’s face is so heavily caked with blood that Olivio doesn’t think he could see through the red if he wanted to. His right eye is swollen. He’s missing some teeth. His breath is coming out in wheezes from a few broken ribs, and Olivio -- in spite of his shape, in spite of being three years Cesar’s junior -- is out of breath. They’d grappled for the pistol for some time only for it to go flying under a table somewhere when Cesar kicked it up. Now, staring each other down in an empty backroom in El Valenciano, they’re catching their breath. They’re both drenched in the vibrant pink of overhead lights. It could be a painting, he thinks. Something right out of sleep. He’s had dreams like this before, and they usually don’t end quite so badly.

It makes sense in Olivio’s head that Cesar wouldn’t go down without a fight. That’s fine. He never has. But Cesar knows that Olivio’s never liked losing. Even in drills and races and training exercises, even in the field, neck-to-neck, rifle-to-rifle, Olivio never gave him the chance to get ahead. So those few months where Olivio was falling from grace, slipping from his throne? They must have felt like winning to Cesar. He must have not even realized that the game was rigged from the start.

That’s fine, too. Olivio was always the brain of the operation. Cesar served his purpose as the brawn, the Lancelot to his Arthur. 

“You should’ve let me leave, a year ago. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.” There’s a headache building at the back of his head. Stress or exhaustion. Both? He takes his own trembling hands and grapples for a glass of what looks like bourbon from one of the still-standing tables. Cesar watches him, licks his lips when Olivio swallows. 

“No one leaves. You’ve never let anyone leave. You shouldn’t get the same luxury, Olivio.” Cesar spits the words out so angrily that Olivio’s almost convinced he believes them, but it’s still hard to hear him over the thrumming reverb of the music. Sweet dreams are made of this, who am I to disagree? Catchy. In this moment, in spite of the gore, Olivio thinks Cesar looks young again. Fuzzy around the edges, purple-pink-crimson, young. No more grey at the temples, crow’s feet around the edges. Just blood on his teeth, shifting from pink to blue in a moment’s notice.

“Where are you going to go?” Cesar asks, as he moves a few steps closer. He’s still holding the glass in a white-knuckled grip. His heart is going a million miles a minute. It’s not easy to kill a man with your bare hands, but he’s done it before. He’ll do it again. It feels right to do it this way, with his fists, rather than the barrel of a gun. He wraps his fingers in Cesar’s collar with his free hand and Cesar barely even jerks to meet the movement. He’s all dead weight. Olivio considers the question.

“I’ll go to Verona.”

“In Italy? Bah.” Cesar laughs, throat hoarse. Spittle paints Olivio’s face, but the disgust barely registers. “You always hated Italy -- shot down any business there every time.”

“I hear it’s nice this time of year.”

“You’re burning every bridge you have in Spain. When winter comes around there won’t be any coming back. This is it. You kill me and we’re done.” This feels right out of the pages of the novel. He wonders if maybe he should deliver some sort of dramatic monologue. Something about being brothers from the very beginning. Hold your head up! Moving on! “You’re going to regret it, and you won’t get to crawl back and apologize to me this time.”

Even Olivio’s two divorces weren’t this messy. Still, he leans in close. “It’s not my dream anymore. I’m just making sure it won’t be yours, either.” He searches Cesar’s face for something. Anything. An apology. An indication of guilt. A plea for mercy. The animal-like terror that comes into men moments before they die. They’d seen it a thousand times before, together, and they’d laughed about it over drinks. A shifting green light passes slowly over his eyes. The world goes seafoam.

Nothing. Just their shared breaths. Not even a do it. Olivio sighs. He lifts his hand holding the glass and brings it down. Cesar, to his credit, doesn’t scream. He just takes what he’s given and dies quietly, in the club they bought back when they thought they’d go somewhere bigger than Barcelona. Or maybe that was just him. It doesn’t take more than two minutes.

Olivio stands back, checks Cesar’s pulse, and then wipes his hands on his slacks, chest heaving. 

The ‘ludes start to kick in just as he leaves the club, bloodied jacket in hand, a little later than he would have liked. The cleaners sweep in to wipe evidence away as soon as he’s stepped out of the room and towards the exit. Not a single employee looks at him as he leaves, and the people dancing on the floor hardly notice him. The doorman nods at him on his way out. The car waiting for Olivio at the curb takes him straight to the airport, and he barely has time to settle in his seat before he’s asleep. When he wakes, it’s to the sight of Verona and the river that runs right through it, the sun cresting overhead. He descends onto the tarmac cotton-mouthed, changed into clean clothes, and satisfied.

Cesar had been the last loose end. With his death everything in Spain has tied itself up into a neat bow. The ashes of whatever vision he and Cesar might have shared at some point would be gathered up and put into someone else’s hands. Marta’s, he hopes. She’d always been the most capable, in his mind. She’d been the one to tell him of Verona, originally, when she caught wind of what he was doing: razing everything he’d built. She’d been smart enough to stay loyal in the face of his personally orchestrated coup, and he let her live.

He just hopes she doesn’t take it for granted like he had. That she’ll lay out her own path and stick to it, instead of watching it build by itself and grow restless. Verona won’t be like that -- he’s sure of it. It has to be a new start, one he’ll be happy to die by.

In two days’ time --- and he doesn’t know this now, but he will look back at it and laugh --- he’ll kill an enemy of the Capulets in much the same way he killed Cesar, hooked on the sheer euphoria of his newfound love for the city, just outside a place achingly close to El Valenciano, and it won’t even get him in trouble. The Capulets will sweep him up before he has the time to come down from the high, and they’ll bring him into the fold without even knowing his name. He’ll start from the very bottom, and he’ll relish in it, because it’s been a long time since he had nothing.

What he does know: the Capulets are the key to this newfound dream of his, this new-and-shiny-glossy illusion, and Olivio Rivera will take whatever he can get in a city like this, so long as it means he doesn’t have to raze it to the ground.

Extras: [glass him] PLAYLIST / PINTEREST [cesar won’t remember this.]

#accepted #accepted: oberon

[simba-bonfamille-lyons]

The Unrelenting Warrior /./ [Self-para]

In which Simba has a dream...

[tw none]

There was the snap of flags on the breeze, the clanging clank of armor, and the snorting of horses. 

“Where have--” Kay says, whirling around to his useless squire, who appeared at the entrance of his tent. Everything is tinged red from the fabric surrounding them; except for the sword in the boy’s hands. The sword shines golden and silver, bright as solid sunlight. He knows immediately what it is and his chest swells with fire. Who is this boy to pull Excalibur from the stone? His fingers itch for it.

“Give me that.” 

Arthur hands it over and when he holds it in his hand, he can feel its power thrumming up his arm. 

When Kay wins the tourney that afternoon, a shout raises from the crowd: “All Hail the True  King of Britain!” He feels the chant like the magic vibrating from the sword. 

It takes only an hour for the doubt to creep in, sitting in his chambers with the sword in his lap. He runs his fingers over it covetously and barely touching it, the blade slashes across his finger. When his blood drips onto the metal, it sizzles and he knows that a lie can only ever be a lie.

Kay is standing in front of Arthur’s door and when the boy answers, he drops to one knee and bows his head, holding the sword up towards the rightful king. There in the shadowy, drafty hallway, he swears his allegiance and he means it.

/./ /./ /./

As a boy, Arthur is all limbs. 

Kay strikes towards him while Arthur yelps and lifts his shield. “Faster, Wart,” he demands as he strikes again and again. Their feet move across the earth, his trained and elegant--as if he is dancing. 

Arthur stumbles, Arthur falls. 

With a sigh, Kay crouches down next to Arthur. “Come on, let’s try again.” He hoists him to his feet, their hands clasped together. 

This time Arthur lasts a whole three minutes. 

“Good, you’re getting better,” Kay compliments, ruffling the boy’s curly hair. They trudge back up to the castle, arms about each other’s shoulders. 

/./ /./ /./

The table is made of good, strong wood. Kay takes a seat to the right of Arthur, the first of the knights to have knelt before him. He grows fond of the other knights, though he spends more time teasing them than attempting to make friends. Galahad the Gallant, he nicknames the suck-up, it's not as flattering as it sounds. Bedivere the Brain. Bors the Bore. (He’s not really boring, but he thinks it's funny anyway.)  And Arthur, of course, remains: the Wart.

When Lancelot betrays Arthur, Kay is halfway to removing his gauntlet in challenge before he is stopped. When Arthur rides out to battle, Kay is by his side. 

At Camlann, Kay knows he will most likely die but to die at the side of his king, his brother, is all he has ever wanted. He takes a sword to the ribs, distracted by the cry of one of his brethren. He falls to the soft, green earth and blinks up at the grey sky, feeling the rain as his eyes flutter closed.

/./ /./ /./

Simba blinked his eyes open with a breath, as if he had just awoken from a sleep of a hundred years. Ber stirred beside him, reaching out on instinct. Despite the early hour, he opened an eye a sliver.

“That was the best alternate reality yet,” Simba exclaimed, thrilled. That was not the first time that he had dreamed of knights. That was not the first time he’d awoken with a heaviness in his bones as if he had lived an entire lifetime. 

“Mm, I didn’t dream anything,” Ber mumbled, already halfway asleep again.

Simba frowned and slipped out of bed. He had an active imagination, that was fair enough. He had grown up dreaming of knights, but not so specifically. He could remember each of Ser Kay’s triumphs, all his failures. The way he felt, what motivated him. And then, there was Arthur, who looked exactly like the sheriff. It could’ve been his brain, substituting one for the other, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. 

This was Swynlake, after all...

#self para #the unrelenting warrior #knights of the round table #ser kay #in the HOUSE

[seventhwinterwolf]

Children

All information regarding Rosalind’s heirs. 

Standard disclaimer, I am not claiming to be an expert in biology and genetic traits aside from basic comprehension of Punnett squares and dominate vs recessive traits. It would be unrealistic if all of Rosalind’s children (did or did not) look exactly like her, however statistically that is probable though unlikely- not to mention boring. Yeah, yeah, the likely hood of twins is rare (there’s a weird amount in books from House Lannister)- I’m attributing it to the Old/New Gods.

This is in the process of being filled out more. Don’t worry. All of their face claims are of full grown people because who wants to look at a bunch of random babies. Also if you haven’t gathered, Rosalind and Trystane fuck a lot. Eventually she goes on moon tea, hot damn that’s a lot of children. 

Tyrus, Winona, Elianna, Jaycen, Daymond, Irene, Serena, Robb

1. TYRUS LANNISTER ~ Heir of Casterly Rock

History: First born child of Rosalind in the year 299 AC in King’s Landing. His twin, Winona, was born shortly after him. Tyrus is the third son of Lord Tywin Lannister and is the lawful lord heir of Casterly Rock. He was named in part after his father (Tywin = TYrus / WINona) by also following the historical traditions of male heirs (Tytos, Tywin, Tywald, Tygett, Tyrek, etc). Upon arriving in Dorne, Tyrus is accepted as a ward of Prince Doran Martell. Later he will join his twin at Highgarden to train as a knight with Ser Loras and receive different lordship teachings. Tyrus remains loyal to Dorne and greatly appreciates his mentor- the ruling Prince.  

Personality: nicknames the golden lion’s pride, 

Appearance: Tyrus has fair skin with light golden blond hair and dark emerald green eyes. Tyrus’s face claim is Bradley James as ‘Arthur Pendragon’ from Merlin, gif made by user “srndptyjimin”. 

2. WINONA LANNISTER ~ Princess of the Five Kingdoms

History: Second born child, first daughter, of Rosalind in the year 299 AC in King’s Landing. Her twin, Tyrus, was born a few minutes before her. Winona is the second daughter of Lord Tywin Lannister and is betrothed to Aegon Targaryen. She was named by Tywin (Tywin = TYrus / WINona) after Rosalind suggested Joanna- something her lord husband did not appreciate. After arriving in Dorne and being welcomed as a guest in Sunspear it is arranged for the young Lady Winona to travel to Highgarden to be a ward of Lady Margaery. In Rosalind’s mind, Winona most resembles her sister Sansa. She is another young girl who is the near perfect embodiment of a Lady- something that Rosalind realizes is what her own mother wanted her to be. 

Personality:  Winona is naturally shy and modest, despite becoming a beautiful young woman. Her reserved nature almost caused Aegon Targaryen to break their long standing engagement soon after they first met each other. // possible nicknames, beauty golden light, 

Appearance: Winona has fair skin with dark golden blonde hair and light jade green eyes. Winona’s face claim is Eleanor Tomlinson as ‘Georgiana Darcy’ from Death Comes to Pemberley, gif made by user “elyzas-archive”.

3. ELIANNA MARTELL  ~ Ruling Princess of Dorne

History: third born child, second daughter, of Rosalind in the year 302 AC in Sunspear. Elianna is named after both Rosalind’s and Trystane’s aunts, Lyanna and Elia, who both died during Robert’s Rebellion. Elianna is the first daughter of Prince Trystane Martell and is first inline for the ruling heir (will clarify later about Arianna and Quentyn, basically they are younger now) and is a Princess of Dorne. In Rosalind’s mind, 

Personality: possible nicknames or titles, the winter viper, 

Appearance: Elianna has tanned fair skin with unruly curls of fire red hair and warm sunlight brown eyes. Elianna’s face claim is Rachel Hurd-Wood as "Laura Richis’ in Perfume: The Story of a Murderer, gif made by user “thegifs-queen”.

4. JAYCEN MARTELL  ~ Prince of Dorne

History: Fourth born child, second son, of Rosalind in the year 303 AC in undecided location probably Sunspear. Jaycen (pronounced like Jason but with the added twist of ‘jay’, like the bird, and ‘cen’ like scent) is the first son of future ruling Prince Trystane Martell. He goes by Jace as a shorthand or nickname for informal occasions. 

Personality: 

Appearance: Jaycen has olive skin with wavy onyx black hair and light caramel brown eyes. Jaycen’s face claim is Santiago Cabrera as ‘Lancelot’ in Merlin, gif made by user “loveconstablecrabtree”.

5. DAYMOND MARTELL  ~ Prince of Dorne

History: Fifth born child, third son, of Rosalind in the year 304 AC. Daymond is the second son of future ruling Prince Trystane Martell. He goes by Dany as a nickname, shorthand version of his full name, when not in formal company. 

Personality:

Appearance: Dany has olive skin with straight obsidian black hair and dark rocky brown eyes. Daymond’s face claim is Osacar Isaac as 'Orestes’ in Agora, gif made by user “innueendo”. 

6. IRENE MARTELL  ~ Princess of Dorne

History: Sixth born child, third daughter of Rosalind in the year 305 AC at an undecided place. Irene is the second daughter of future ruling Prince Trystane Martell. Irene is particularly close with her cousins the Sand Snakes. 

Personality:

Appearance: Irene has olive skin with wavy raven black hair and dark chocolate brown eyes. Irene’s face claim is Aiysha Hart as ‘Princess Ariadne’ in Atlantis, gif made by “sansadaynes”. 

7. SERENA STARK  ~ Heir of the North

History: Seventh born child, fourth daughter, to Rosalind in the year 306 AC. Serena is the third daughter of Prince Trystane Martell. While Serena is the lawful daughter of the Dornish Prince, she will not inherit Sunspear due to Rosalind and Trystane deciding to name her Stark and being declared the joint heir of Winterfell alongside her younger twin Robb II (fulfilling the command of Lord Tywin to King Robb years before at Rosalind’s first wedding). Serena was also born in Winterfell after the events of season eight. 

Personality:

Appearance: - Serena has fair skin with straight chestnut brown hair and light sapphire blue eyes. While Serena shares a common face claim with Rosalind they are not identical (Ros more resembles Adelaide Kane as Queen Mary). Serena’s face claim is Anna Popplewell as ‘Susan Pevensie’ in The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, gif by “daily-narnia”. 

8. ROBB STARK II ~ Heir of the North

History: Eighth born child, fourth son, of Rosalind in the year 306 AC. Robb II is the third son of Prince Trystane Martell. While Robb II is the lawful son of the Dornish Prince, he will not inherit Sunspear due to Rosalind and Trystane deciding to name him Stark and being declared the joint heir of Winterfell alongside his older twin Serena (fulfilling the command of Lord Tywin to King Robb years before at Rosalind’s first wedding). Robb II was also born in Winterfell after the events of season eight. 

Personality: nicknames, the grey wolf

Appearance: Robb II has fair skin with wavy russet brown hair and dark stormy grey eyes. No, he is not a copy paste version of King Robb nor is he that same Robb reincarnated. He resembles his uncle greatly but Robb II’s eyes are a different color and his hair is darker brown. Robb II face claim is Richard Madden as ‘Robb Stark’ in seasons one to three, gif made by user “drain-seeker”. 

────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

The Power of Eight

Children of Winterfell: Robb, Rosalind, Theon, Jon, Sansa, Bran, Arya, and Rickon

Last Targaryen Children: Rhaegar, Shaena, Daeron, stillborn, Aegon, Jaehaerys, Viserys, and Daenerys

Rosalind’s Children: Tyrus, Winona, Elianna, Jaycen, Daymond, Irene, Serena, and Robb II

#got fanfic #got oc #got fanfiction #got original character #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #house stark #house lannister #house stark oc #house martell #rosalind stark