Role Playing - Game of Thrones - Prequel: A MYOC Role Playing Game - Page 7

AtomicEmpress · 03-24-2015, 08:20 PM

Gemma
"The problem with a mind such as mine, which you have helped mature, is that there is almost always something on it."
She sighed. Gemma had a time with overthinking almost everything. Even something as simple as which item to pick from the feast had to overanalyized to death. She was debating the merits of several food items, sweets vs. savory items for one and then each individual item side by side. She put food matters to the side for the moment.
"After the feast do you think I might be able to sneak away for a stroll through the gardens?"
Gemma was never happier than when she was among nature, namely plants and flowers and she even delighted in growing them which her father allowed as a 'quirk' that she would grow out of upon marriage. She rather hoped she would marry a man, as it was growing more and more apparent that marriage was coming, who would allow for all her odd quirks. Her books were one of such quirks, she would need a proper library to thrive - and she enjoyed writing in a journal, and sometimes making up stories. Then there was the flowers and such. There were worse things she could be doing - most of which she heard gossip about, but she was good and even so much that some of the visitors to their home marveled at a young woman of such goodly intent. Then, she made the mistake of opening her mouth and she felt the bitterness come out of her at the item of being paraded before visitors like cattle. She was more resigned to the idea that she had no real choice when it came to marriage.

Starfield_Scribe · 03-24-2015, 11:00 PM

OOC: Well, here's all eight of them

If anyone wants to establish some kind of relationship/plotline or another with any of them, just send a PM!

MORGAN, LUCERYS & VALAENA

He'd stood quietly at the door while the little princess was being helped into her dress, on the Queen's wishes. Morgan would not let either of them out of his sight until the day was done and their royal heads were back, safe in their beds. 'Too many strangers around' had been Her Grace's excuse. It was not Morgan's place to question and, if anything, he did agree with her on the matter, to some degree.

He watched the Prince, a statue at the window overlooking the city. The boy troubled him at times. The dragon's blood, surely, burned hot in him, scalding, and being of Dorne, Morgan could appreciate that. But then a dragon was no pet, and a Targaryen with a scowl was no trifle of a matter.

"Is something troubling you, little prince?" He had taken to calling him so, just as he called Valaena little princess. Lucerys turned to him. For a boy his age, a man grown in near every respect, a look just as the one he gave could be taken in one of many ways, but then Morgan knew him well enough. He may have given airs of a warrior, but he was still, when a situation that trouble him arose, only a boy.

"I will not dance." Morgan stood up to his full height, which was just about the only way for him not to smirk.

"Just so. You will do as you like." Lucerys said nothing, then nodded approvingly. "Someone will have to let the little princess know," he turned to Valaena, on her stool, as her attendants adorned her, fixed her long silver-blond locks. She was all smiles. When Morgan turned back to Lucerys, the boy had a look of resolve. "One dance," he declared, then just before the little prince could say a word...

"I'm ready now," Valaena declared, and Morgan stepped forward to help her down, only to have Lucerys reach out his hand first. His young sister took hold of his arm, and together they made their way out to join the festivities, with the Kingsguard brother on their heels.

OPEN

-

DACEY

She would not get away with playing this card much longer, if ever at all, but this one time it had worked, and she wasn't about to let it go to waste, oh no. It had been an afront enough that she should be made to come to this place, made to don this flimsy thing of a dress, with her hair pulled in knots, so she might wait on those insipid girls... princesses, very well... If her father wanted her to swallow her pride, then two could play that game.

But she drew the line at being turned into wait staff. A woman had come and told her she would be called on to haul wine and the likes, so the royals and their guests could get drunk at her, grope at her... She'd have the knife out from the sash at her waist faster than they could blink. So what had she done? Dacey Pyke had reminded the woman that she was not as she was, that she was Theomore Greyjoy's daughter, and that if any wine should pass through her hands, it would be so that she might drink it.

Which she'd done. Holed up above, away from sight - them of her or her of them, whichever - she had emptied all that which was brought to her, until she was good and warm and a bit tipsy. She would have to consume much more in order to be incapacitated; the poor dragon whelps would have already tumbled on down by now, had they been in her place.

Instead, she regaled in her moment of peace. She fully expected to be reprimanded come morning, and with any luck her scolding would be coupled with marching orders back to her father's islands. Or maybe she could journey further north, to Bear Island. She had long wanted to see her mother's home, the place where Dacey herself had been born, where she'd lived, in the short weeks before her mother fell ill and died and she was brought to Pyke. She had no way of remembering this time, but sometimes, in dreams, she thought...

The sound of steps on stone made her stop and turn. She must have been a sight, her blond hair forced from its knots and left a mess about her shoulders. No chance to fix it now.

OPEN

-

DESMERA

Without doubt, none of her girls or her boys had been extended the same invitation she was. Her own status had been one thrust upon her more than one that she might have sought out. Even so, she had a feeling she knew how the summons had originated, and as she didn't see the need to deny herself such an opportunity, she'd donned her best dress - a gift from a Myrish sailor - and presented herself as requested.

She was treated with the same variety of looks she always was. Some saw her and recognized her from having visited the brothel. This was generally followed by a discreet look away. Some did recognize her for her trade, from notoriety more than patronage, and they made it clear to all who should bear witness that they disapproved that they should be in her presence.

Yet others looked at her with curiosity. They knew, that was, they'd heard of what she could do, what she'd learned to do all those years ago, in Braavos. It would not keep them from scurrying away, but Desmera had long ago learned not to bother herself with those who'd run from her, and instead dedicate herself to those who came toward her.

Still even now, all on her own, there was something in the air about her, something like dread. This had nothing to do with the fire, or what He might have shown her, no. Her former mistress would say the incident which had brought her to the shores of Braavos had left her cautious, sensing danger about her better than others, like another ship rocking tempestuously beneath her feet. Only with so many people around her, how could she even begin to understand what it meant?

She would allow the thought to wander from her mind then, as she found herself accosted.

OPEN

-

ELRIC

Their arrival in King's Landing had been a noted one, but then what did they expect, as a pack of Northmen, some of them still called 'wildlings,' and, of course, the direwolves, imposing in their size, as cutting as they were in their glares, their snarls. To appease the guards, the wolves had been brought to be kept out of sight from any skittish guests.

Elric had volunteered himself to see to it that they would be in a good place. Already the walled up city made him nervous the way only castles and holds could. He wasn't ready to enter among the guests inside the throne room.

"Here, Night," he called to the black furred beast. He came padding forward, sniffing. Elric touched his head. "No one will harm you," he swore. The wolf whined. Elric leaned close to his ear, feeling the soft fur on his cheek. "Later, we hunt. I promise." With that, Night relented. Elric breathed, looking down at himself. They would need to change.

TAG FREYA (OR OTHERS IN STARK PARTY)

-

AXEL

He would not have left Rosamund's side so soon, but seeing her with Lanford, he wandered off. As far as he could see, his nephew would bring smiles to his daughter's face, and smiles were just what he needed from her.

Deep down he guessed there was something else making him move away, to take a breath. His Rosamund had always been beautiful, yes, but the more she grew from a girl into a woman, the more she showed herself for being her mother's child. Every day she resembled her more, and now, dressed as she was... He saw the girl he'd glimpsed in the Eyrie, so many years ago, and his heart ached deep where he tried not to show.

Some days he wished he could have taken Rosamund anywhere but here. If not for his duty to his King, if not for his duty to his family, his House... He could have taken her to the Eyrie, to her mother's people. Instead, this place... The same thought invaded him time and again. What place is this for a girl of tender age?

The guests were as loud as they were many. They greated him, as they would, being the Hand of the King as he was. They would share short, meaningless pleasantries here, toss ill-advised complaints there. Lord Axel Tully dealt with each of them in kind.

He had only just rejoined Rosamund and Lanford when the young man came forward. He knew him for who he was before he ever introduced himself. The color of his hair, his eyes, the weight of long-suffered sickliness, the cane... He tilted his head to the young Baratheon when called upon.

"Yes, naturally," he replied, observing him from up close now, a shade of his father somewhere in him. "Word has reached King's Landing that Lord Ormund's illness had progressed, is that so? How is he now?" he asked with the courtesy of a friend more than a mere acquaintance.

TAG SYEMON [+ ROSAMUND/LANFORD]

-

LAENA

It was more than expected for her, as the Queen, to make an entrance, but still she waited. She needed to look at them first... her guests. From near and far they had come, and she would have to speak with each one of them. It was one of those parts of being a Queen that she would have gladly done away with. How long since she'd attended a ball, where she could go, dance to her heart's content, without so many eyes on her?

A loud voice drew her attention, and she looked below, finding as she'd expected, the twins. Her fingers wrapped about the railing, clamped. That one day one of them should rule in her husband's place was simply preposterous, laughable even. It was a thought she could only ever entertain in her mind of course, but entertain it did she ever.

She would have let the thought fester if not for the presence she sensed near her. She smiled. "My King..."

TAG JAEHAERYS

Captivating · 03-25-2015, 08:22 AM

Lord Torren Stark
With great ease, Torren traced his fingertips across the crinkled parchment in hand. Beneath his skin rested days old ink. The most recent words of Cassanda Baratheon lay smudged by her tears. She was well, but her Lord father faded fast. The Stormlands would soon be in mourning. Oh, how she missed her love. Such trying times called for his comforting arms. Torren cringed at the pain of her request. His soul ached to bring her aid. Duty took precedence over such desires, yet logic could not quell the longing. “Soon,” Torren whispered to an empty corridor. He would pen a reply come evening. The honorable Lord drew tired breath, adjusted the House sigil on his breast, and stalked forward. There was no need to return to his chambers. Music and laughter reverberated off all corners of the Red Keep. The festivities were underway. Torren entered the Great Hall with one agenda: to schmooze. His newfangled Lordship branded him a question mark on the Great Houses’ radars. Proving himself capable, and worthy, of alliances was vital for the North. He also intended to pledge his loyalty to the crown.

The determined dire wolf’s eyes searched for Elric as he made his rounds. Should his cousin fail to make his presence known, he would know the depths of his Lord’s anger. He might’ve been above reproach in The Gift, but he forfeited that freedom upon stealing away with Freya. First to Winterfell, and now to King’s Landing. Torren considering summoning Silas to search until the banquet table came into focus. His stomach grumbled its interest rather loudly. Yes, locating Elric could wait. Pigeon pie and roasted boar adorned Torren’s plate within minutes. “The South is not without its charms,” a high-born lad to his right spoke. Torren chuckled in agreement. His smile faltered upon notice of the man’s lustful gaze. His acquaintance was not referencing the food, rather, he licked his lips at the ladies of High Garden. Torren’s interactions with the rosebuds were limited, still, he felt cause to approach. Better they were subjected to his courteous company than the alternative. “Lady Tyrell, Lady Gemma,” Torren greeted, bowing in respect. “Lord Torren Stark. It’s an honor. Tales of your people’s warmth and beauty has filled the North for years. My men will be glad to hear them all true.”

TAG Rowena/Gemma

Lanford Tully
“Ah, sweet Rosamund, always the voice of reason,” Lanford concluded, planting a chaste kiss upon her cheek. “But must you keep me in line so often?” A hint of mischief danced across the playful trout’s face. His eyes, cerulean in color, rolled in mock irritation over his cousin’s reply. Of course she must. Insulting a lady’s intelligence, or lack thereof, was in poor taste. House Tully ‘s reputation was not an unpleasant one, nor should it be. “Family, Duty, Honor,” Lanford agreed. He’d meant no harm, yet saw the error of his ways. Had he caught the maiden’s names he would’ve left to issue an apology. “It’s easy to forget when one is surrounded by vulgar, crude men day in and day out.” The City Watch was difficile business. Ten years service subtly chipped away at the most decent of high born’s etiquette. Still, the route to forgiveness seemed smooth until talk of Maegor commenced. Lanford cursed himself for venturing outside his dance offer. Perhaps he should take a page from his lady mother’s book and wash his mouth out with soap? It certainly worked in his youth. “Rosamund – ” he began, and attempt to cut off her retort. Syemon Baratheon finished the job. His arrival captured Axel and Rosamund’s utmost attention. The future Lord of Storm End wasn’t much to take in. Tall and thin, with scarce facial hair, intimidation was not his weapon to wield.

“Honored to make your acquaintance,” Lanford chimed in. “Please give your father my best. If you’ll excuse me…” Rosamund scowled at her cousin’s hasty exit, but his presence was not demanded. He wasn’t a Lord or an heir. Syemon did not wish to speak with him, and Lanford felt beckoned by a beautiful mane of red hair. Rather, his loins felt beckoned. So quick was his approach that Lanford remained blind to the obstacle in his path. Thump. Down she went, and down he went with her. “Pardon me, my lady,” he gasped. “Are you alright?” The blonde figure rose shakily with his help. Lanford smiled at his victim, the rugged outline of his jaw pronounced by the gesture. “Myri, right?” A Lannister’s face was difficult to forget. The lions made sure of that. “You look lovely. I hope I didn’t mess up your dress.” Lanford bid the girl goodbye as distraction consumed him once more. Exiting the Great Hall, he followed a long corridor to a familiar room. The room where they often met. His strawberry blonde hair shone bright by candlelight within the darkened space. “Are you here?” he ventured, eager hands outstretched. “Come to me.”

Semi-tag Myri/full-tag Desmera

Starfield_Scribe · 03-25-2015, 01:24 PM

DESMERA

She heard him before ever seeing him. That was, she heard a commotion from nearby, turning her head and looking over her shoulder in time to see the City Watchman helping young Myri Lannister back to her feet. She smiled to herself, moving along on a familiar path. She knew the eager sort of twinge in his eyes. She had seen it time and again, from any number of men coming through the doors of the brothel. She was by no means in the habit of bringing her services out and about, and while she did bend the rules when certain clients were involved, clients such as Lanford Tully, she could not in her right mind ignore the fact that this was the Red Keep, the royal seat of House Targaryen. If she had been concerned with being found out before, today in the middle of this gathering, the stakes were that much higher. Still, if she was ever going to work him down from whatever he had in mind, it would have to be done with care and manners.

Her steps echoed, swallowed into the semi-darkness of the room, and she came to a stop, hearing another set of feet nearing. When he appeared, seeking her out, she took one slow step forward and then another, looking to the hand held out to her and placing her own over it before tipping her head forward.

"I thought I might be seeing you, my lord," she turned her eyes back up to him, her hands rejoined before her. "I trust the young lady was unharmed," she looked back the way he'd come.

degausser · 03-25-2015, 03:45 PM

Name: Freya
Age: Twenty-Five
House: None.
Theme Song: Howl by Florence + The Machine
Personality: Stubborn, Spirited, Audacious, Inquisitive and Loyal.
Three Life Facts:
- Freya’s father had been but a tiny whelp clutching his mother’s hand when the two abandoned a small valley tucked away in the Northern Frostback mountains to join up with the King Beyond the Wall and begin the arduous journey south. By the time he made it south of the wall, his mother had been claimed by the cold. Even after the war ended, Bjorn was not ready to put down his axe and so he continued on in much the same way the free folk of old did, raiding for steel and for women. Freya was but just one of a dozen babes fathered by Bjorn, each of whom were mothered by different women and each of whom knew him about as well as Freya did, which is to say not very well at all. Her mother herself had also been a descendent of the Thenns. Tradition had already established a unique trend of keeping both laws and lords amongst this small contingent of free folk, and perhaps it was this reason Ingrid and her kin had been able to integrate into their new society as well as they did.
- Integrate, sure, but never fully subjugate themselves. The free folk do not kneel. Freya recognizes no King of a collective seven kingdoms with arbitrary boundaries sketched out on a piece of parchment. There is only the North and the South. There are her people; people free to hunt where they please, marry who they wish and live as they like. And then there are the kneelers, people whose lives are rigid and predetermined by men and women who often never even set eyes on them. Northerners are said to be hard because their lives are hard, and harder amongst them all are the free folk. With no towering stone walls to shelter from storm or invader, Freya has learned to be self-sufficient and resourceful. She can track, snare, skin and cook her own food. She’s familiar with natural remedies for the basic of ailments found in the wild. She’s skilled with both a dagger and a bow and like those who dwell amongst the wilds of the North, she keeps the Old Gods and she’s reasonably familiar with the Old Tongue. She couldn’t tell the stem of a brush from its bristles though, nor is she very familiar with the concept of bathing.
- For twenty-five years, The New Gift is the only home Freya has ever known. That all changed the night her lifelong companion did something utterly Un-Stark like and carried her away during the hour of the wolf. In truth, Freya had been waiting for Elric to steal her away, her constant companion in childhood growing into something more intimate through the years. Curious though she is to see the world outside the ice and snow and cold she has become so familiar with, Freya is ill-prepared for the destination they have arrived at and no more the wise as to the reasoning behind her “abduction” now than she was the night they first made for Winterfell. Figuring out her place in this new group of strange people has been difficult as Freya is not exactly content to just sit around and knit all day. She keeps herself busy by tending to the Stark host’s kennels and hounds, preferring the company of those smelly beasts to the majority of the men and women she has traveled with. They remind her of home.
Relationships: TBD
Taken By: degausser
Played By: Àstrid Bergès-Frisbey

Starfield_Scribe · 03-25-2015, 03:59 PM

OOC: FREYA MY LOVE! I MEAN ELRIC'S... I MEAN...

winter soldier · 03-25-2015, 06:23 PM

Myri Lannister
Hiding any self-perceived faults behind a beautiful ornate mask was as near as Myri could get to simply magicking said faults away altogether, and she enjoyed it as thus. Behind a golden mask and a clever gown which subtracted and added in all the right places, Myri could be a woman anew, grown bold by tastes of wine and company far more tragic in face and figure. She danced and she sung and she twirled about, submitting to peals of giggles once (soberly) thought to belong to a girl unblooded and carefree, delighting in hushed whispers of rumored romances having taken place that very eve. The girls she’d chosen were younger, bosoms as paltry and flat as her own, a sagacious choice made of wary consideration for her own feelings of adequacy. Because there were beautiful ladies everywhere, dancing and flirting and baring coquettish smiles to the unsuspecting male masses and Myri was resolutely choosing to pretend none of them existed. Nothing existed beyond her preconceived bubble. She’d enjoy the night’s festivities in the safety of her bubble, behind her mask and gown and the compassionate haze of arbor gold.

”—thought I saw Lord Manderly sneaking out with a kraken girl, can you imagine—“ Myri bent close, eyes comically wide and cheeks flushed with the heat of excitement and alcohol. Maddie Wythers was whispering far too loud to be called subtle, struggling to be secretive above the din of music and merriment, and simply ended up pointing to the offending parties and gesturing some obscene act with her hands. Myri burst into laughter for a moment, only sobering as an amorous couple danced past, bodies far too close for polite society and Myri’s features bent and twisted into an covetous scowl which she wisely smothered in her half-empty goblet of wine. As her companions paid her abrupt change in moods no mind, Myri chose then to announce, “Do not speak a word without me. I seek more wine, and in my travels I may chance upon my family but I shan’t be gone long.” Wisely, the small gaggle of girls nodded their heads and smiled, obedient in their grand respect for her House and Myri flounced away from the dance floor, mind stubbornly set on a vintage somewhat stronger than the sweetened, partially watered-down skin she’d been offered. Perhaps at the behest of her mother.

In her single-minded pursuit through the droves of faceless guests Myri hadn’t seen the man coming. Nor, apparently, had he been cognizant of her swift impediment of his path, because they intersected so roughly both were driven backwards into inelegant heaps on the floor. The man recovered first, and Myri accepted his hand in a daze, senses having abruptly left upon moment of impact. Righted, the man took a cursory glance down her person, onto her face which had been cruelly revealed by the skewing of her lioness mask, and Myri felt herself prickle, then heat from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. ”Myri, right? … You look lovely.” She managed a dumb nod, and that was that, the man rediscovered his path in haste and she was left alone, staring after where he’d been seconds ago, just short of quivering.

degausser · 03-25-2015, 06:26 PM

OOC: I got a little ... carried away with Freya. Sorry for the wall of text.

Freya
She thought the thing about dress had been a jape. And yet judging by the heap of fabric that sat atop her bed, it had not been a jape after all. Or if it had, well, her little not-a-lordling Stark boy clearly did not realize his jape had gone too far. Freya had been staring down at the pile of black and white silks as if they had been some sort of terrifying and fascinating fantastical creature, like she might a mammoth or a giant. Part of her was admittedly a little curious. She approached the fabric timidly, as if it were a wild beast at rest that might become alert to her presence and either attack or flee at a moment’s notice. She reached her hand forward tentatively, before poking the folds of the dress. As soon as her fingertips grazed the slippery material, her hand recoiled back as if something sharp had pricked it.

It felt weird. It felt really weird.

Yet some small part of Freya liked the weirdness, not because the fabric felt nice or because she secretly wanted to be a little perfumed dainty Lady of a castle or whatever. She just liked weird things in general and this dress was definitely weird. The second time she touched the fabric, she let herself grasp at the material. It was slippery in her hands, the silk sliding between her fingertips. And it was remarkably thin, nothing like the heavy leathers and furs she was used to wearing in the North. Freya still wasn’t wearing the dress though. The wild Stark boy might have stolen her away, but he wasn’t her master. He could not make her do anything she didn’t want to do. But then he hadn’t told her she had to do anything, had he? He simply said he thought it might be nice to see her in a dress.

What did that mean, anyway? Nice. It was such a stupid word. A safe word. As Freya stared down at the dress, she realized it wasn’t even about the dress. Not really. Elric felt just as strange and out of place as she did in this large red building with so many walls. He did not want to be alone. Freya stared down at the folds of fabric in her hands thoughtfully before grumbling under her breath. She really, really did not want to put it on. But she did not want Elric to have to face these strange southerners alone either. So she unbuttoned her tunic and slipped out of her breeches and did something she had not done in a very, very long time. She asked for help.

It took three girls to help bathe Freya in the strange circular container type thing with its claws for feet, and four to comb out the tangles in the braid she normally wore. The sun had long disappeared beyond the horizon by the time someone at last declared she was presentable enough to attend the strange party with masks. Though the current climate was considerably warmer than she was used to, tiny gooseprickles covered her shoulders. The fabric of the dress was so thin she could feel the smallest of breezes right through her smallclothes and before she set off to find Elric, she made sure to snatch one of his cloaks from his trunk. She found him outside the tower that had been designated for the Stark host in the courtyard with his canine companion. The hem of her cloak kissed the floor as she moved forward, hood pulled over her head to obscure her hair. The wolf heard her before Elric did and glanced over at her as she approached. “You’re not ready?” She observed out loud, noting he was in the same stained tunic and breeches from earlier in the day. “This was a jape, wasn’t it?” Her stomach lurched in her embarrassment. Freya felt stupid. Freya also felt angry enough to flay the flesh off a suckling babe.

Jaehaerys Targaryen (II)
Over the years Jaehaerys had come to outgrow his aversion to Balls, though through no effort of his own. It was his eldest daughter who so loved them, and Jaenaerys had never been one to deny his heart’s delight anything. The King wondered after his eldest son, wondering if Maegor enjoyed the pomp and attention. Something suggested no, though he suspected it had less to do with sharing his father’s general abhorrence for false niceties and more the fact that there were other ~~people~~ things he would rather be doing. It mattered not. False niceties were as necessary to managing a realm of naturally quarrelsome people as were maester’s lessons and martial training. Maegor would get used to it whether he liked it or not, as he had learned to do himself.

The twins shared nameday had been an excuse, of course. A very poorly obscured one at that, as evidenced by the train of young and eligible young maids the King had paraded before his eldest son and heir during the day's earlier Tourney. At Maegor’s age, The King had already been betrothed, though it had been different back then. His Martell Queen had been chosen for him before he had any concept of what it meant to have a wife. Jaehaerys did not wish the same for his children. His most fruitful marriage had been the one born of choice, and the King hoped, perhaps somewhat naïvely, that lightning might strike several times more and provide his children with profitable marriages that would serve both realm and personal happiness. His son had not taken the bait, nor had his eldest daughter for that matter, and as the King observed them from his seat on the dais beneath the throne he could not help but think the attention they placed on one another could somehow be better spent amongst their peers.

Disheartened, Jaehaerys searched for the other members of his family. He spotted his wife easily enough, her general visage being as commanding as it was. She stood apart from the crowd, the silks of her skirts clinging flatteringly to her shapely form. Jaehaerys moved through the crowd, exchanging the briefest of nods with his Hand who looked to be engaged with the young Baratheon heir, before joining his Queen in the quiet alcove she had secured for herself. “My Queen,” he greeted in turn as he took her hands, capturing her lips with his briefly. “You are a vision, as always.” Jaehaerys knew his Queen enjoyed these events about as much as he did, though she had the grace to hide it a little better than him. His eye was drawn as his Queen’s had been to their two youngest on the floor below, his beloved Valaena evidently anxious to take a turn on the dance floor already. He smiled after her, sensing another Daena in the making, before he began to think after his currently missing dragon spawn.

“You haven’t seen Indira yet, have you?” Jaehaerys asked after a beat, glancing back over his shoulder at his wife.

winter soldier · 03-25-2015, 07:27 PM

Lorene Lannister
Damon would need to nurse soon. Such thoughts were usually at the forefront of her mind, the priority of her subconscious which at one point some twelve months past most typically chose to remind Lorene that Tybalt Lannister was very handsome, that her mother-in-law had ridiculous, hypocritical standards, and that it tragically wasn’t possible to kill another person with one’s mind. My, how motherhood had changed her. Tybalt Lannister was still very handsome, her mother-in-law was still a beautiful albeit crazy shrew, and murder fantasies would necessitate a weapon beyond the power of her thoughts—these were all truths. But Damon. Damon was a trump card. He cooed, he drooled, he made obscene noises and laughed at them, and Lorene forwent her sexiest and most resentful inner thoughts in favor of gathering that golden-haired spittle-covered cherub in her arms and dreaming of making half-a-dozen more. Then Damon would paw at her, as he does, sternly aware of his bottomless pit of a stomach and Lorene might very well turn into a dried-up fluidless husk after six children, but her womb throbbed away in time with the words ‘doesn’t matter, had babies.’ Sometimes she wondered about her brain, and perhaps its mysterious connection to her uterus, and then she’d inexplicably feel the urge to nurse and coo over Damon anew.

Damon could wait a bit longer, couldn’t he? Distracted as he was, now, reaching and struggling with his awkward chubby little hands for a wine bottle. His grandmother encouraged his explorations with an obliging laugh, showering the pleased little babe in a wash of attention, and unconsciously, Lorene found her grip around the wiggling little boy tighten ever-so-slightly. Her body spoke the word ‘mine’ in a litany but in elusive ways, a gentle angling of her hips, the vaguest pursing of her lips and minuscule narrowing of her gray eyes. You’ve had your turn, her mind supplied, severe and spiteful in a way Lorene was not, kindly up and flounce back to Casterly Rock like the bitter wizened widow you are.

Tybalt, ever the perceptive mind-reader, drew close in that moment with a lowly-uttered jest, drawing a bit of hair up and away from her face in an innocuously intimate gesture. The clouds cleared from her darkened thoughts, as they were wont to do each time Tybalt took up the mantle of peacekeeper and batted all threats of a foul mood away with such enviable ease. The unfortunate—awkward, rather—consequence of this was often an inexplicable desire to see her husband in naught but his smallclothes, and Lorene’s grateful smile turned strained as she bounced the child on her knee as a distraction. “I want for nothing, beloved, beyond the promise of a dance before you’ve coaxed too much wine in me to escape your husbandly duties.” With that remark her gaze turned mischievous, as if Lorene had just gauged the double meaning of her own words.

Captivating · 03-25-2015, 09:05 PM

Lanford Tully
The anticipation of Desmera's touch lit a fire in Lanford's southmost regions. He'd no use of wine to feel alive and merry tonight. His 'friend' drew forth such reactions effortlessly. His whore, if Lanford spoke honestly. What a dirty word it was. Tully honor demanded he leave as soft fingers enveloped his hands. Inward protests faded from shouts to whispers, until only silence remained. "You're a vision," Lanford admired, eyes tracing the stitching across Desmera's garment. No doubt a rich Lord had gifted her with the ensemble. A gutteral moan left his lips. The dress cinched tightly in all the right places. "A welcome distraction from the women I won't wed and their eager fathers."

Smiling, Lanford moved to close the space between the redhead's body and his. Desmera side stepped the advance, her peculiar question giving him pause. Was the young lady left unharmed? Realization filled the distracted trout's face seconds later. "Myri Lannister, you mean. A little shaken up but well. Not much of a talker, that one." A welcome change from the lionesses who came before her. They so loved to go on and on about their worth. Lanford cared little for Lannisters, yet Myri possessed a certain charm. An innocence above corruption...for now. Her notorious House would sink their teeth into her unmarked flesh soon enough. "I'm surprised you care. Or do you try to evade me?" His strong arms pinned Desmera against the wall hungrily, lips connecting with the nape of her neck. "I can be quite persuasive."

Starfield_Scribe · 03-25-2015, 10:49 PM

ELRIC

Freya had been away for longer than he realized. When he was away, like he was home again, not here. He didn't understand at first how he hadn't sensed her approach before he felt a presence, heard her voice. It was Night who had sighted her first, and Elric gave him a look, running his hand along the top of his large head.

When at last he turned and saw her, he only took brief notice of the cloak she wore -his - thinking it made him glad for some reason, before her words worked their way into his head. Before he could reply, she had gone on, asking if - no - assuming that 'this,' whatever she meant by 'this,' was a jape. She was upset. He'd known her all their lives, he knew what it looked like on her when she was upset, as much as he knew what it looked like on those who'd done the upsetting.

But, no, it wasn't just upset, it was something more. If he could understand what it was...

"A jape?" he asked.

He smelled flowers. They weren't the same flowers as in the North. These felt as though they'd seen more of the sun. They bid to his senses to take notice, and how could he not when they seemed to be wrapped around Freya, a scent that stuck to her. That was it. That was why he hadn't felt her before. Her scent was gone, the scent he knew well enough that it announced her, promised her presence. Instead... flowers.

Now he got a better look at her face, shining out of the dark hood draped over her head, and it was different as well. It was the smudge that gave it away, or the absence of it. The trace of dirt had been there, just over her left eye from two weeks ago, when they'd still been on the Kingsroad. Torren had pointed it out to her, and she'd made it a point of pride to leave it just there on her face. When she'd sleep, Elric would watch it move whenever Freya's face twitched.

It wasn't because it was gone that he was startled, but more the pieces he was putting together. Just looking at her, he could tell by the way the cloak took form over her that she wasn't wearing her own clothes underneath.

"I thought... You said you wouldn't come inside there," he said this with the slight hesitation of one who wasn't entirely sure whether he really meant to follow through yet. Except here she was, and if she was going, then maybe... He could go, if only to make sure she didn't have to be alone.

She was looking at him, at the cloak... If he'd had a better grasp of this side of his old friend, his companion, his... But he didn't. If he did, he might have stolen her years ago, and in no uncertain terms.

"Where did you go, Freya?" he asked, standing back up.

LAENA

All those years ago, she would never have believed how happy she could be made by having this man near her, by her side. But now here they stood, and when she saw his face, she smiled. When he took her hands, she felt comfort in his warmth. And when he kissed her, the world faded away, if only for a moment. He complimented her, and now she blushed, turning her face away just so. All at once her fury had been quenched. If only they could stay here, as they were.

Alas, duty would call, as it was bound to. It was not without its rewards. Down below she saw the children, with their Kingsguard well in place. Lucerys was doing all in his power so not to show his discomfort, but then a mother knew. Laena smirked. And Valaena, her littlest one... How she had grown in the past year. She had already sprouted near on to her brother's height, five years his junior. It had worked in other ways, primarily making so that Laena was forced to admit her babies were no longer so. Soon, they would none of them remain as children.

When Jaehaerys asked after Dira, Laena came nearer to him again, grasping on to his arm, leaning along his side, looking down at their masked guests. The ornate dragons covering Lucerys and Valaena's eyes were a matching set, with a third meant to fit her elder daughter's face. She had yet to see it.

"No," she declared before reaching to her side, where their own masks awaited his arrival. She reached for the dragon mask - this one matched the twins,' she'd been forced to notice. "Turn around," she instructed playfully, and he obliged. Slipping the mask over his face, she fastened it in place before touching his shoulder so he would turn again. Now she took up the other mask, her own. Here the dragon of Targaryen and the seahorse of Velaryon twined and spread over her face. Now each in 'disguise,' she took his arm again. "Let's go and find her," she suggested. Time to face the throngs.

DESMERA

She had been so very young when she had first stepped forth in the pleasure house of Braavos, an offering to whatever patron would turn his attention on to her. The first had been costlier, of course, having carried away her maidenhead on the way. She remembered how she had been nervous, yes, but not entirely frightened. The other girls, they had prepared her, told her what to expect, even instructed her in what she might do, the better to please the man, whoever he was. For all they had told her, it was never going to have prepared her for everything, for the sensations she would experience in her own body. If this was what was expected of her, what could be so terrible about it?

But as time went on, as she gained both experience and notoriety, she began to see another side of her trade. Suddenly she wasn't just a girl, she was one of them, and in being one of them, it seemed whatever little identity she carried lost more and more of its significance. Her name mattered only a little; some liked to know it, the better to cry it out in their pleasure. Others wanted to know as little as possible, and others still would have her remain entirely silent for the time of their encounter. Where she had come from, how she had arrived in Braavos, how she had even found cause to take refuge in this place was meaningless. All that mattered was the part between her legs, her mouth, her body... That was all she was good for to them. She had struggled with this realization, but here again she had been forced to rise above. If she was to continue as she'd done, she would have to find a way.

That she surpassed this feeling didn't mean it had left her for good. Every so often she was reminded, in the most unexpected and unforgiving ways. It wasn't that she had suddenly started to look at Lanford Tully in any different way; she didn't do things that way. But she had been invited to this place, she had felt honored, had dressed accordingly. And yet, within little time following her arrival, there she stood, alone in candlelight, with him in front of her, holding her, touching her, kissing her neck, and she wondered if she could ever only be a person for him or anyone else. I can be quite persuasive. 'So can I,' she thought. She could let him have his way, collect her due, and he would believe her thankful rather than distracted. She would be alright again in time, with none the wiser to her moment of weakness, but for now...

"Now, Lord Tully," she pressed her hand to his chest, feeling his heart racing, his breath hurrying along. "Such a lovely occasion, this day," she looked him in the eyes, and he kissed her for that, still oblivious. "I thought I might dance, not..." she pulled herself closer to him. "... dance."

Captivating · 03-26-2015, 08:43 AM

Lanford Tully
Lanford’s lips traced Desmera’s collarbone tenderly. Her skin tasted sweet and sour, much like the lemon cakes spread throughout the Great Hall. He could’ve taken her quickly, devoured her whole, yet foreplay proved essential. Women deserved the same pleasure their male counterparts sought. Sex was a give and take exchange. Tully men were eager, but they were not brutes. “I’ve dreamt of this,” he confessed huskily, hands rubbing against his partner’s bosoms. Weeks had passed since their last ‘transaction.’ Desmera’s services were highly sought after, and Lanford’s commitment to the City Watch retained him. Finally, no obstacles lay strewn in their path. The fire-kissed maiden stoked his longing with one word: Lord. Lanford would never be Lord Tully, though the fantasy remained. His mouth captured her soft, plump limps appreciatively.

“Yes, those are words enough.” Conversation was futile. The lust-filled soldier was gifted with all he wished to hear. The moment arrived for Desmera to show herself in full, only, she balked. Such a lovely occasion called for dancing of a different sort. Confusion gave way to understanding as Lanford replayed her request. Oh. “You don’t want to do this now,” he acknowledged. Respect shone in his eyes, though he could not give Desmera what she desired. There was much talk of her doings amongst nobles. To cavort openly was far too great a risk. His House’s reputation would suffer immensely should they be found out. “That I would if I could. I’m sorry. I will take my leave…”

Starfield_Scribe · 03-26-2015, 09:11 AM

DESMERA

It was a mark of the kind of man he was that Lanford Tully had heard her words and interpreted them for what they were. He had stopped himself, and now he looked at her with different eyes, calmer eyes. He was still flustered, she could see... How could he not? He had been stirred by her presence and could not so easily return to stillness. When he made to leave her, she caught his arm on the way.

"Wait a while with me, if you will. You're burning up, come," she brought him near the window, where the breeze met their skin like a soothing embrace. "Do forgive me for this turn," she told him, reaching toward him to help and put back what had been displaced in their hold. When she was done with him, she did the same for herself. "If you would pay us a visit when this night is done, it would be my pleasure to welcome you into my rooms... and yours as well, I venture," she tossed him a smirk. She felt better, which she suspected was due to his choice to leave her be.

Captivating · 03-26-2015, 12:59 PM

Lanford Tully
Uncommon as it was, Lanford felt pained for Desmera. Her plight was most unfortunate and undoubtedly irreversible. Once a whore, always a whore. Countless jewels and dresses did little to reverse a working woman’s standing. When the sun came up high born men would always remove her from their beds. A husband to serve and children to nurse was an impossible future. Quite depressing, if one dwelt upon the truth. Lanford remained void of such blessings by choice. Sometimes, he failed to take notice of the lesser classes options. Was this the battle raging behind his companion’s eyes? Desmera certainly seemed troubled. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” he pledged. His honor shone bright enough to lead distant ships to shore. Polished nails caught hold of his sleeve in protest. Stay, the buxom beauty requested. He was burning up. “Am I flushed?” Lanford jested. “I hadn’t noticed.”

A cool breeze filtered through the window, balm on their heated skin. Desmera straightened his collar with a subdued smirk. Lanford noted, with a sigh, her pronounced dishevelment. He’d certainly proven himself eager. “Again, my apologies,” he stated, lifting her sleeve politely. His refusal to cast his eyes downward was endearing. Desmera guffawed at his embarrassment, making mention of forthcoming services. She’d be more than happy to calm the beast come nightfall. Voluminous pleasure awaited them both. “I can’t deny it, nor resist it now should I remain. Tonight.” Kiss on hand, Lanford bid his diversion adieu. His body pulsated with missed opportunity whilst returning to festivities. The Great Hall was abuzz, no Lord nor Lady wise to his absence. The pulchritudinous trout scanned his surroundings curiously. Who could he charm on his House’s behalf? Rosamund would be so proud. His sapphire eyes came to rest upon Myri Lannister. She appeared unmoved from their site of impact. “My Lady, did I jostle you that significantly? I am sorry. I shouldn’t have run off before assessing your needs. Perhaps a goblet of wine to sooth your nerves?”

TAG Myri Lannister

Starfield_Scribe · 03-26-2015, 02:55 PM

DESMERA

Her spirits were lifted, higher even than they had been in the moment when she had walked into the Keep. It was so inexplicably comforting for her to have moments such as she had now, as Lanford Tully left her, chivalry and virtue equally intact. She had met any number of types of men in her line of work, and she had always made sure to treasure the good rather than recall the bad, the ones who, in an identical situation would have ignored her discomfort. She knew some who would have seen fit to punish her for her insolence and made sure to help her remember her place in this world.

With a shiver, Desmera looked back out the window, to the city spread out below. It was down there, way out in Flea Bottom. It was there, they... they were there, her family, or what remained of it. She hadn't been back to see them in the years since her return from Braavos. Finding the house alone had taken her over a year of searching, coupled with apprehension. What would they think of her, what would her mother her mother say of what she had become? When at last she had seen it, found it out of a long faded memory, she'd been unable to go any further than where she stood. She knew they still lived there, some if not all, because she'd seen her sister, recognized her immediately. She was stick thin, weary... It struck Desmera deep, and she left before she ended up seeing more. Now, whenever she had the chance, she sent some of her wages to them, not too much to raise suspicion, but enough that they might be sustained by it. She kept her identity a secret; they thought her dead, and it was better that way.

A chill, again. The night is dark and full of terrors, Mother Lady would say, and Desmera tended to agree. She stepped nearer to the candle, the one source of light in this room, and that alone brought her some peace already. She stared into its flame, the tiniest of fires, but as she'd been taught, never too small...

She jumped back. There it was again, the dread. She frowned, turning away, tugging her dress in place though it already was, then reached for the mask she had left abandoned upon walking in. She slipped it over her face, interwoven colors that betrayed no pattern, as though they had something to hide. Determined not to let her worries resurface, she rejoined the ball. She had come to dance.

OPEN


Fan Forum > Archived General Discussion > Role Playing > Game of Thrones - Prequel: A MYOC Role Playing Game