TO BE KING

Nobody ever thinks of himself as a villain, does he? Even monsters hold high opinions of themselves. Reynaud Septimus Galien Valmont. Heir.

[emperorvalmont]

valeriavalmont​:

Valeria’s eyes glaze over as if they are listening half-heartedly. This is their shield and their armor; Reynaud may see only disdain and utter disregard in Valeria. He is not privy to the parts of her that still tremble before his spite and his envy, the gaps in their defenses that are soft and yielding.They will give Reynaud every reason to hate them. At every turn, they challenge him; with no reason at all, Valeria conquers him and smears their name across their pride. But they will never give him the opportunity to be cruel to them gain. This is the game he set in motion, and they will not surrender.

A laugh tumbles from her lips with thinly veiled annoyance. “I make us look weak? Cousin, you are the one who boasts of triumph in war, yet cannot defeat me in a simple tourney. The future ruler of Tyrholm is only victorious when there are countless soldiers to die for him — what a beautiful ballad that will make. What love that will inspire in your people.” Valeria sharpens each word to a fine point, throwing them at Reynaud with precision. It is Reynaud who seeks her out for a bite of flesh; he can blame only himself if she draws his blood and bathes in it, in return. Do not think to wound the lion when you are a mere buck, Valeria thinks with fury — fury borne of hurt, fury that once bore the name rejection.

“That’s where you are wrong, cousin.” They use the word over and over, as if to remind him of what it means: cousin, family, my blood. Once, cousin was more than just a reminder of this bond that Reynaud can never escape, though both of them have tried. By birth, they are connected; they will orbit around one another for years to come, and Valeria once took that to mean they belonged to each other.

But Valeria belongs only to Valeria. Castle Tyrholm and Reynaud have taught her as much.

“You have already submitted to me.” Valeria’s eyes flash as they speak. “Surrender to my blade, and you surrender to my will. With every defeat, you beg for my mercy. Do not forget, cousin, that I have had every opportunity to draw your blood.”

It’s this disdain and lack of attention that fuels his fire. Perhaps it’s because it’s the same thing he’s seen in the eyes of his father, but while he ignores it in Septimus it makes it easier to spot in Valeria, which makes it even easier to take his feelings out upon them. “Yes, you make us look weak. You spend your days training and for what? To humiliate those who actually go to battle? You’re an insult to those who picked up a sword for Tyrholm’s honor.” He won a war and brought home a King’s head, and yet he was bested by the training of his cousin. Truthfully, it was not about the training Valeria had, if it was more frequent than his while he was off at war, but it was about the fact that they had this training at all, that Septimus had ordered only the best for them when he could not give even a moment of his time to his own son.

“I severed a King’s head from his shoulders with the help of no one but my sword. The future ruler of Tyrholm is victorious because he took matters into his own hands. He did what no one was willing to do, and look how he is thanked for it.” Poorly, Reynaud thinks. His cousin thinks him cowardly. His father doesn’t think of him at all. This kingdom thinks him foolish, when it is he who ended this war. Perhaps he should have allowed Vasily to live, found himself a nice bunker to keep safe in while Koldam destroyed his kingdom, and returned to everyone begging for him to do something when Valeria’s piss-poor strategy of inaction cost them their families and their livelihoods.

“And yet you never have;” Reynaud pointed out with a raised brow; “My complexion is still very perfect, mind you.” There is a brief moment where he wonders why Valeria has never spilled his blood, but like any arrogant idiot staring down an adversary, Reynaud chalks it up to weakness. “You will always be beneath me. You’d best learn your place in this kingdom, for when I am King I will not hesitate to remind you of it.”

[emperorvalmont]

undyingpriestess​:

    He’s being quite dramatic about it. 

    Levana looks at the corpse, bowing over it and taking the face of the dead man in her palms to examine him more thoroughly so that she might know at what points to place her hands so that the soul might gain purchase and slip into the body once more. For some, it was their stomach. These were the people that had laughter in their belly and constant merriment in their eyes. For other’s, it was their eyes. Their soul was reflected in them, glinting and light, reflecting the many ages that they had lived. There were few who held their soul in their hands; these were the craftsmen, the artisans, the musicians and sometimes, too, she would do this with soldiers. 

    Her lips twitched as she heard him take another heaving breath. He was breathing from his mouth and it was beginning to distract her. She considered telling him to blow his nose or shut his mouth and see what happens, but he questioned her before she could make her request. He’ll remember, won’t he? She blinked at him, wondering what answer he intended to receive. It was clear that he knew the only one she could give. The dead always remembered, when Levana beckoned their souls back to their bodies. It was the price that one had to pay when they leave the Undying God’s mantle. They did not barter with offerings and coins, like other foreign gods did. The Undying God’s currency was remembering – and having such memories haunt you until you are rejoined with Them again. 

    “If you wish it, Prince Galien, I can lie to you,” she hums, kneeling down beside him. It took great effort, the shifting of weight, the cogs of her iron legs groaning from the mist and cold, but she finally kneeled beside him, as though the two were paying homage to the gutted man that bled out before them. And perhaps they were, in a way, paying homage not to the man but this moment that was shared between them: the first time the great Prince Galien murdered someone. A special moment indeed that deserved to be committed to both their memories. “But what would be the point, then? It’s like asking for a shield made of wicker. The sword will pierce through, anyway.”

    Instinctively, her hands move over the man’s face, fingers brushing against his eyes, shutting them so that they may see no more. It had become a ritual to her. brushing her fingers over the faces of the dead. Her fingers still had their nerves, for the most part. She was able to feel their blemishes, the last vestiges of warmth, the light brush of their lashes. With their eyes closed, it could be so easy to imagine that her gift was nothing more than beckoning them from their sleep. She sat quietly, placing her hand over the open, weeping wound. The blood was beginning to cool beneath her fingers. “What happened, then?”

The first life taken is the hardest. It requires coming to terms with some lack of morality, some lack of humanity to be able to take the life of another. Make no mistake, this was no accident that Reynaud could be forgiven from. It could certainly be made to look like one, but beneath it all it must be known that this was a fight he started, this was a brawl he participated in and then deliberately ended. Did he fear? Perhaps. But he makes himself to be, in part, a monster. He’s always been cruel, always clenched his fist in the same manner his father does and enacted cruelty unto others. But while Septimus had been responsible for deaths, Reynaud never had been. While Septimus sent other people to carry out those executions. Reynaud had committed the atrocity with his own two hands. Hands that were cruel, yes, and hands that were greedy, but hands that are foolish and hands that had yet to be soaked in the blood of another. The red is deep enough to stain. He wonders if it will ever wash off.

“Don’t lie to me,” he spat, his legs shaking momentarily as he stood, as if they wished to die along with the man bleeding at his feet. It would be quite the insult for her to do so, and should he have recognized the lie, or learned the consequences sometime after when a dead man recants the story about how he was killed at the Prince’s hand, he would make certain there were consequences of it. Lies were not for protection, Reynaud believed. Lies protected no one. That wasn’t to say he didn’t lie, of course, but he lied to get his way, or he lied to be cruel, never thinking the forked tongue could protect anyone. “I do not ask to be coddled.” He never had. He’d never asked for a moment of soft hands pulling him to a warm chest. He’d only ever asked for recognition, for acknowledgement, and yet he was denied that, too. “I ask for the truth.”

Reynaud knows nothing about the life he had taken, and he does not think he wants to know. It humanizes a man more, making this decision harder, making what shriveled-up conscience he has pulse and ache. No, he doesn’t need to know. He imagines what his father might do, and the answer tells Reynaud he must put himself first. A dead man can tell no tales, and so his lips will never loosen to divulge what happened that night. A living man can easily paint Reynaud as a villain, a reputation under scrutiny as justice is demanded. “There was a fight,” Reynaud explained, staring down at the body. “He had gone mad with rage. I feared he might kill me. So I did what had to be done.” It wasn’t entirely true, of course. It was he who had started the fight, and while yes, he feared losing to this stranger obviously more familiar with tavern brawls than he, there was a line he had crossed. A line he doesn’t believe he could step back over, even as Levana offers him the opportunity.

[emperorvalmont]

shadowrcith​:

Reynaud’s face is telling, like a child putting together a puzzle and finding that the pieces create an image they rather like. There is interest, in his voice and in his face, in his posture. The barest hint of suspicion, there, too, just a small thing holding him back, the kind of thing that could be easily assuaged. It is a good trait, for a king, they think, to be foolish, and gullible. To be swayed by the words of their advisors such that they were the sole ruler in name only. 

     “You killed a king,” they begin. “You stopped an uprising. It is clear as day, to me, that that deserves celebration, and yet there are some in this court who don’t seem to appreciate what a feat you have accomplished.” Perhaps, they think for a moment, they are laying it on a little thick, but they’ve been in proximity to the Prince long enough to know that a stoking of his ego can only be a boon. “All I mean to say is that if the court will not see reason, there are other ways to ensure they think of you the way you want them to.” 

It is not entirely a lie, but it is mostly one: of course, Wraith could easily place rumors, sway decisions. Everyone wanted secrets, everyone was hungry for the kind of information they thought they could use to their advantage. They had traded in secrets with people other than the King more times than they could count. They had, after all, been the architect of their own reputation, as a ghost, as a snake, as a beast hidden behind a muzzle, a monster with a mask over its face. 

    “I serve the King, of course, but does it not also serve the King to serve his rightful heir? And as one day you will sit on his throne, it seems only appropriate that you be well practiced in the arts that keep his reputation clean.”

Perhaps if Reynaud had been the son of any other king, Wraith’s words would not tempt him so easily. If he had not been the foolish son of a foolish man both too foolish to recognize their own foolishness, he may have caught on. But all the schooling he was given (and even then, he did not receive so much as Valeria) could not teach him to see his father’s errors and avoid being like him. Nothing had yet gotten it across to him that his father is not the man he should want to emulate. And so he learned arrogance and pride and selfishness and greed and cruelty, and these things made him susceptible to the stories he wanted to hear, and Wraith was an expert at spinning these tales.

“I’m glad someone sees the logic in things, for once,” Reynaud comments. His achievement should be met with pride, Wraith is right (or they are at least crafting the tale to convince Reynaud of this), not the shame Valeria had brought unto him. Only, was it truly them who shamed him, or was it his father? Reyaud certainly refused to blame the latter, he never had and possibly never could. “And what exactly are those reasons?” He asked. Rumors, yes, Wraith had already told him, but there were certainly more details to such a plan, otherwise they would not have come prepared to suggest one to him. Reynaud might have been idiotic, but that glimmer of suspicion ensured he would make sure every detail was relayed to him before anything could ever take place. After all, what was the point of enacting a plan if he was not sure it was going to work, especially when the consequences included more of this shame he was trying to avoid?

“This victory is not only mine,” he stated, resting his hand atop his chair before standing, “it also brings victory to him and is a testament of the sort of kingdom he runs and the son he’s raised.” Regardless of what Septimus thought of Reynaud, he raised him. He reared a boy who adopted his image when he could not be given the attention one might think it takes to raise a son. Reynaud’s success is Septimus’s success. Reynaud’s failure is this kingdom’s failure. It is Septimus’s failure. “This will serve us both, I think. I thank you for this offer. Please, tell me more.”

[emperorvalmont]

maidenhoods​:

she withholds the sweep of his gaze and waits for his eyes to land back upon hers, though not without wondering how many maidens (herself excluded) had blushed under such a look, and if he expected the same from her.

“then i find myself in good fortune that it does not suit you to do so.” 

he extends a hand to her, and so she does in return: hers gloved and palm-flat on his chest, atop the warm-place where a heart sits. it keeps him still and prevents him from forward movement. 

“wine cannot be taken with the tonic i am to make you. which seems,” maiden holds his glance, then drops her eyes down the height of him, a slow and deliberate observation of the body — a mimic of the thing he had already given her. “already a hindrance to be adjusted for.”

maiden drops her hand as casually as her gaze, turning from the prince to place the glass atop a wardrobe behind her.

“i watched your event,” there sits a moment where she might offer him praise for what she saw  —  and maiden watches it pass by as she opens her trunk, sparing a glance to reynaud before beginning to unpack. “you landed on your ankle, did you not? standing on it will do you no good —  and i shan’t be able to tend to tend it from there.”

“It doesn’t?” Reynaud asked, the ghost of an amused grin pulling up slightly at the corners of his lips. “Who says it does not?” His voice has a deepness to it, a playful remark and yet something more cruel lurking underneath. Do not think for a second that I cannot swallow you whole. Or perhaps she is right, that while he may be capable of such things, cruelty does not suit him in the sense that it does not look good on him. Cruelty fits Septimus like a glove, or like the crown that fits perfectly upon his head. Perhaps it looks odd on Reynaud, like a child trying to wear his father’s shoes, stomping around in something far too big for him.

He doesn’t think too much into it, obviously, and especially not when his attention is drawn to Triss’s hand against his chest, that ghost of a grin turned to something more of a live being as it widened, and his hand no longer extended as it moves to rest atop hers. There’s a wrong idea planted in his head as he watches her eyes scan up and down his form, though while the influence of the wine has something to do with it, it’s mostly intoxication from arrogance that fuels his behavior. “You underestimate my tolerance. I’m perfectly fine and able, and I’m inclined to show it to you if you need more proof.”

Reynaud nearly drops the amusement when she mentions the event. He nearly expects something to follow that, as everyone has been vocal about their opinions on that day, and yet nothing does, and so he does not falter much. He watches her unpack, unsure of what it is she’s planned. “Then what is it you’ll have me do, Triss? Know that I am typically the one giving orders.”

[emperorvalmont]

bardglory​:

date: thirteen of ten. location: receiving hall, evening status: closed to @emperorvalmont

It takes him near an entire week to finally track Reynaud down for a conversation. The prince has been notably difficult to get a hold of, and those who’ve managed to tell him where the man might be at any given time never arrive quickly enough for Armel to coordinate a happenstance meeting. The receiving hall is, blatantly put, not his favorite place to hold any sort of conversation, but dinner is done and guests in attendance are few in numbers. He spends some time people-watching; he watches as Lady du Pont misses her mouth with her spoon entirely, spilling soup right onto the bodice of her dress. Her husband is quick to furrow his brow and cover her while she desperately tries to sponge the broth up with a napkin. The man who’d been wiggling his eyebrows at her – Armel doesn’t think he could name him if he tried – averts his gaze.

There, at the end of the hall, sits Reynaud. His step-mother and father disappeared some time ago, excusing themselves from the meal at hand to do what Armel can only assume are better things than listen to a bard – himself – carry a tune. It takes some time, some patience, some plucking at strings, but Reynaud does eventually stand and look towards the doors with what Armel can only think to describe in his head as wanton longing. Everyone had witnessed the embarrassment at the tourney, everyone had seen the way the crown had fit on his head, lopsided and stained with mud, as if it was never meant to be there at all. Everyone except Armel, who’d been occupied with more important things.

For example: not watching the apparent embarrassment the spar had been, and instead debuting some new tune for a crowd who had as little interest in the matter as he. He tries to recall the notes, but they’re muddled with the haze of shock. Most about the day is a blur. All he can remember is smoke, the scent of burning flesh. Reynaud moves to exit the hall, and his time has come. He waits, at least, until the prince slips out from the hall and into the corridors, trails after him like a dog looking for scraps until he finally manages to catch up. He only wants to ask a few questions; most summarily, what was it like to be totally humiliated? “Your Highness,” he calls, voice soft. It’s just the two of them, some guards – hopefully the implication of privacy will be enough to get the man to stop walking.

Reynaud refuses to sit still. He has never been the type to wallow, shame and rage rather becoming fuel for his steps than anchors that pin him to the chair in his study. If actions speak volumes, he is determined to scream from the rooftops, but he’s not even allowed outside the castle just yet. It’s a frustrating circumstance, wanting to prove himself worthy of more than a shameful dead man’s crown and also wishing to find and make an example of the mind behind the assassination attempt on his father, and yet not being able to set foot upon the grounds that will bring him closer to those goals. He understands an attempt on his father could be followed up with an attempt on him, and he swallows hard every time he thinks of it, wishing to not be the man he saw in Vasily, wishing to not see his eyes upon a dead man’s face. So he complies, but in that compliance, he roams the grounds more than usual, restless and hungry as he stalks these walls that one day may be his.

There is no time for movement in this hall, not yet, only small motions of hand to fork to food to mouth and the slight opening of said mouth to partake in a conversation he doesn’t know if he’s entirely welcome in. Reynaud knows this is the space he deserves to take up and so he occupies it fully, making himself welcome regardless of the looks he’s blatantly ignoring on his father’s face. It’s a stressful time, he reminds himself, King Septimus was nearly killed, the man deserves a few moments to seem unlike himself. Only Septimus is quite like himself, the self that favors another over his own son, yet to be seen or accepted by Reynaud, who only seems to envision the grand portraits of his father that hang in this very hall – perhaps it’s because he got more glimpses of those than of his actual father.

And when Septimus goes to leave, it’s with an order that he and the Queen are not to be followed, an order mostly directed at Reynaud. Something about business to discuss or chambers to retire to, he doesn’t quite remember because he doesn’t entirely intend on listening. He waits in stone-faced silence, watching the door, hoping foolishly for a moment that his father might return. Reynaud knows better, and he simply counts the moments until he, too, can leave in hopes of joining him, watching the door, longing for that moment with his father, longing for the redemption he thinks he could bring to him. In reality, it is a journey he must walk alone, and yet he seeks the council of the man who shaped him, even if he did not use his own two hands to do so. Finally, he stands, walking towards the exit and into the corridor, only stopped by the voice calling to him. He turns on his heel, his expression less than amused. This fool. “I hope there’s a damn good punchline at the end of this, jester.”

[emperorvalmont]

shadowrcith​:

Reynaud is as jumpy as always; perhaps understandably moreso after the attempt on his father’s life, his defeat at Valeria’s hands in the tourney, things Wraith had watched from afar with only passing interest. But they had done it not to startle him—though they had, in the past, done it deliberately to startle him—but instead as a reminder: not that anyone in Tyrholm looked at them and thought of anything but their rare and valuable ability, whether that was with fear or scorn or awe; but it was important to the offer they were about to make, that Reynaud have it in mind. 

     “Your father—” they begin, but they quickly correct themself, amending it: “The King. I know you’re aware he takes my counsel in private, but I realize that means you may not be aware of precisely what my work for him entails. I thought you should know, in the event you mind find it something of use.”

It is a dangerous game, to lie to a Prince, but Reynaud is fool enough, needy enough, filled with enough unsatiated, wounded pride that they believe he will take to the lie like a thirsty dog to a pool of muddy water. They hold no ill will towards the Prince; it is not his fault he is as much a fool as the man who raised him, and he is so young still—it is telling, that somehow his limited maturity already outpaces that of his father by so much. 

     “You will know, I am sure, that I deliver information to the King. Anything he might find useful. From the castle, from the city, from more far-flung places outside the reaches of his hearing. What you may not know, is that sometimes, too, I place information. Rumors, gossip. These things spread like fire, from the right lips, until suddenly everyone in the court believes them, or everyone in the city.”

They wait, for a moment, watching him through their mask, searching for any sign of recognition or understanding on his face before going on: 

     “You are a wise Prince, I’m sure you know that rumors can be death to any reputation. But when wielded correctly, with intention and care, they can be advantageous when it comes to whose reputation they ruin.” 

Wraith offers him more information about their dealings with his father in this moment than his own father had offered him in his entire life. Inner workings of this kingdom were always taught to him through tutors, even as he argued that first-hand experience from the man he was to inherit the throne from would serve him much better. Perhaps that’s why Septimus never taught him, hoping his son would never inherit that crown perched gloriously atop his head. And yet Reynaud doesn’t ever think of that possibility for a moment, living in the ignorance his role affords to him, taking comfort in the power his blood has graced him with. So of course he’s inclined to listen, the hand ever ready to send his guards to escort Wraith out (not that they would be of much use against a person who could change their location in the blink of an eye) settling back atop the hard wood of his desk.

Reynaud at least knows better than to completely trust Wraith, as his father seemed lack of complete trust for anyone. And yet, his pride vulnerable, he listens, not knowing what value there is of lying about what they do with his father for he could easily get that information himself. Only, he couldn’t get the information so easily, if at all, and that is exactly the reason he listens. Reynaud only barely knows of Wraith’s duties with the King, knowing they passed information back and forth, but that was just about it. He never knew the nature of their conversations, was not privy to the information they passed along. And he certainly wasn’t aware that Wraith was as much the weaver of information as they were the relayer of it.

Possibilities begin to swirl in that wretched mind of his. Learning nothing of the horrors a dead man has tried to wordlessly communicate to him, Reynaud is foolish enough to fall for this, likely because of how well these rumors may serve him. It’s his ticket to the respect he’s been looking for and the demotion of those who stand in his way or dare to humiliate him. It’s power he hadn’t imagined prior to this moment. “Can they?” he asks, obviously interested. And yet, there’s the voice at the back of his mind that reminds him Wraith must have something to gain from all of this. “Tell me, then, why do you bring this information to me? And further why do you bring it to me right now?”

[emperorvalmont]

undyingpriestess​:

STATUS: for @emperorvalmont

DATE: flashback 

TIME: ungodly hours of the morning

LOCATION: the rosewood maiden

TW: death (accidental murder), mentions of abuse

    She wished that she could say she had been roused from her sleep, but she hadn’t had the chance to shut her eyes. Levana had been looking at her reflection, tugging at the edges of her lips, pulling at her brows to see if they would arch still. It seemed that the wearier she was, the more difficulty she had maintaining her facial expressions. Her head had canted thoughtfully, she remembered, as she had recounted how easily smiles had painted across her lips – even in the face of her mother’s fury, the sound of ruthless, backhanded slaps striking her ears even to this day. Often followed by the sound of her father’s bellows, his worn leather belt making an appearance; rarely used because of how he would totter on his feet, far too drunk to do anything other than slip into his long-sought-for stupors. 

    And now, in the midst of idle contentment, she was unable to smile as she remembered. But it’s difficult to long for something that had no use for her now. What was a pretty little grin going to earn her except the leers of nobles who thought to court “Death” itself? Who hoped to add one member of King Septimus’ menagerie to their sad list of conquests? Levana had pressed her fingertips against the tired bruises of her eyes and at that moment there had been a knock. A hurried, terse demand for her to quickly go to the docks. 

    Quickly she had pulled on stockings, strapped her legs into their iron casts – crutches tucked under her arms because she was feeling particularly exhausted – and found herself standing outside the door of the…what was this? A tavern? A brothel? It seemed oddly subdued. Carefully, she examined the exterior, noting the individuals that loitered outside. They looked unperturbed, perhaps a little melancholy at having their night of debauchery come to an end. Sailors likely frequented it, but a soldier wouldn’t have dragged her here just to mingle with them. The young woman nodded down the way, weight shifting uneasily, eyes flickering away from Levana, clearly ill at ease. 

    The mist hung heavy in their air, but it seemed to cling to a figure that was hunched over a lifeless corpse, kneeling next to it as his shoulders shook. Levana did not need to glance at the wet cobblestone to know that it was likely stained in blood – nor did she need to think twice about who had summoned her. Her eyes drifted between the corpse and Septimus’ son. “May I offer my services, Prince Galien?” Another reputation saved another debt that will be owed. And another piece of her soul that she would have to bid farewell to. 

The fight was his doing. Of course it was his doing, cruelty finding this growing prince as easily as puberty stretched his limbs. If he was to be a man, he’d seen from his father’s demeanor, he’d demand the respect of one, but such things were easier said than done at this tavern. Reynaud had thought it a shit hole, but it was the exact sort of shit hole his father’s men wouldn’t bother to check for his presence, and threatening his own men to keep their mouths shut about the ordeal was working well for him thus far. Reynaud was not often quite a rebellious young man – he didn’t want the attention he gained from his father to be negative, after all – but everyone had mischievous itches beneath their skin, and it just so happened his was ale and some company he could easily kick around.

After all, the tavern couldn’t refuse the Prince, lest Reynaud make good on his threats to burn the whole place down (which wouldn’t take very long given its size, he pointed out). But the people here were some that only saw him as a spoiled brat, and the respect he was beginning to demand would be far from easy to pull from the patrons, save for a few women who saw some positive side in being near him (even then, that was still far from respect in their eyes). The ale only made easier his ability to march to other tables and find reason to display his power over the regular people who visited. Combine that with an atmosphere already growing rowdy on its own and Reynaud was bound to find someone with a mouth so disrespectful it didn’t need the alcohol to loosen its lips.

It was he who delivered the first blow, a show that he was not to be trifled with. But the message was not received, and soon a brawl had begun, the Prince becoming eager to show the combat skills he’d been learning all his life, preparing him for wars more vicious than this. But he had not been to one yet, and so outside the tavern where this fight had clumsily spilled into was his battlefield, and this dagger pulled from his pocket was his sword. Blood flowed outside these walls as freely as ale flowed inside, not his own but of his adversary, and it was only then the magnitude of the situation settled down atop him.

Had he meant to take a life? Certainly not. And yet that did not stop the vicious way he fought, trained for no mercy from both the guardsmen who taught him to fight and from his father who showed him how to be. Reynaud had not quite prepared himself for this moment – in his mind, there was quite a bit of difference between the cruelty he enacted, the cruelty he sent others to commit, and having this much blood on his own hands. If others did this job for him, he simply could have walked away with little remorse, and yet at his own hands, it feels different, feels personal, as if this soul steals something from him as it drifts away from its mortal tether to join the Undying God. Reynaud is left with heaving breaths as he sinks to his knees beside the corpse, his mind unsure of the solution.

He’s still there when Levana arrives, though he hadn’t called for her. One of his men had mentioned something about going back to the castle to fetch help, and Reynaud was simply too overcome with what he had done to stop him. It’s when she makes her offer he notices the dead man can’t be more than his own age, foolish and brash and thinking himself invincible all the same as Reynaud. And yet, that does not awaken empathy in him, only fear, and fear is quote the effective tool. “He’ll remember, won’t he?” Reynaud asked, unable to meet Levana’s eyes as he began to rise to his feet.

[emperorvalmont]

valeriavalmont​:

Will he ever learn to walk without footsteps like thunder, or enter a room without fire bursting from his ears? Valeria hears his every step before she registers the venom in his words, and her tongue steams with a fiery retort that this is precisely the reason she beat him at all: Reynaud lacks the tact and the nuance to even consider a way around an obstacle. Instead, he tries to march through hard stone and is surprised when he is thrown back onto his back. He is a wolf playing the games of serpents; he will continue dancing on his hind legs, thinking he is trampling them long after they have already left him behind.

She turns and becomes a statue made of steel, unflinching and unmoved by his finger in her face. How can she be afraid of something that sparkles? “That is not my duty, but yours,” Valeria says. Reynaud’s every word drips venom, and hers land with the resounding thud of a boulder hitting the earth. She will place them in his way until he learns to leave her well alone. Do not come after me, Valeria is trying to say, I am going where you are afraid to follow. “Are you requesting my assistance, cousin?” Her smile is polite, meant to guide the blade deeper into his chest. “I may consider lending my support, if you beg.”

Not a single word rings true, but Reynaud has no ear for honesty. He is blinded by his rage, deafened by the roar of his envy. You started this, Valeria tries to tell him silently with her icy gaze alone, you made me bleed, first. Let him jeer at their triumph and make a mockery of their blood. She is a quick study, and she’s learned that Reynaud’s envy knows no bounds. Never again will she forget the lesson he taught her with blood and blade: there is no such thing as family in Tyrholm. Reynaud cannot hurt Valeria, whose heart has long iced over with this crooked blood that binds them together.

It is only the memory of Reynaud that haunts them. At times, they can still feel blood pooling from a wound on their cheek; they can still feel a well of unfathomable loss opening inside of them as they realize that Reynaud will not hesitate to harm them. Once a cousin, now a rival; Valeria will never mistake one for the other again.

“Well you seem to have taken that responsibility on, as well.” The words taste bitter upon his tongue as they leave his lips, and rightfully so, Reynaud believes. Valeria has taken everything that should be his, after all, and he is not afraid to vocalize his feelings over it, albeit without mentioning the problem directly. Perhaps because that confronts an uncomfortable truth he cannot face. It is a truth that tells him Valeria is favored over him for a reason he cannot understand. It tells him that his father does not love him in the way he hopes so viciously. It tells him he has never, is not, and never will be enough. Blood does not make him worthy. Everything he has done to make himself more like his father does not make him worthy. He runs from that thought, and instead points the weapon of his words at Valeria.

“You make us look weak. I come back with a victory for our kingdom, and you’ve just undone everything we’ve fought for. I hope you’re pleased with yourself, because if anyone decides they can trifle with our kingdom, I will gladly point them in the direction of your door.” Fend for yourself. This kingdom cannot and will not serve you forever, not if I have the final say in it, he does not say. He so desperately wishes she would learn the consequences of her actions, that she will fall finally and have no one there to held her a hand. She had been given too much for a child who deserved absolutely none of it. There is no equity in this home, and in learning that, Reynaud has only been viciously desiring to take all he believes should be his. 

“Listen carefully, because I know that troubles you.” That’s not entirely true, for Reynaud simply isn’t deserving of the respect one requires to lend him an ear, but it’s a fact he’s completely unaware of as he continues to speak. “I will never, even with my last dying breath, submit to you, and I certainly would rather choke than ever beg in your general direction. The only assistance I need if yours is your cooperation in finding the furthest piece of land on this planet and then swiftly absconding to it.”

[emperorvalmont]

revoluticn​:

WHEN: Tenth of the tenth month  WHERE: Castle Tyrholm, Gardens WHO: @emperorvalmont​

Saying this is the work of Inferi is the kind of statement that would immediately knock you down two rungs on Marceline’s overall opinion of your intelligence. The guard that poses this as an answer while they’re patrolling is spared none of her snark - though Marceline knows they’ve been through enough for him to know there’s no real sting behind it. If anything, she responds with a small cock of her head and a grin: 

“Tell me, the last time you tried to murder someone - how much of an effort did you put into making sure whoever found the body knew it was you?”

And if some Inferi does want all of Tyrholm to know it was them, the current chaos and confusion that grips the castle is proof that they’ve done a piss-poor job of planting enough evidence.  Be better, she thinks sourly to the assailant as she shifts through her notes. 

Marceline and Saif steadily make their way down a list of suspects to interrogate. Sometimes they split the work, sometimes they handle it together. Most of their questioning is inconclusive, but the two are nothing if not thorough. Well, almost thorough. Marceline’s sharp eyes are quick to notice four people are left off the list and immediately she feels indignation rise at the sight that the royal family is spared of questioning. She thinks: she doesn’t have time for Saif’s personal brand of cowardice.

So she stands in the garden now, four days later, ready to be brave. Marceline has always lived a life split in two, like a crack through a great mountain, splitting it wide open. She has a life to things she can do and a life of things that she cannot, and she spends most of her days reaching for the latter in hopes she doesn’t fall into that mountain’s abyss.

Finally she spots the Prince, cutting through the garden like a thundercloud, and Marceline, never afraid of some storm, ready to be brave, shifts her stride to catch up with him.

“May I walk with you?”  She says crisply, loud enough for him to hear.

Reynaud is already growing impatient with the speed of this investigation. In the time it would take to pin down anyone associated with it, by the standards of those actually allowed to go out and search for them, they’ll only be wiser, learning from their mistakes and planning an attack for when the castle least expects it. Word will only spread further to neighboring kingdoms, for all of them to point and laugh at how such a thing was nearly allowed to happen, and how foolish this kingdom was if they couldn’t even find those responsible. Reynaud firmly believed if he were allowed out, if he were allowed to lead his men through town to investigate on his own, the threat would be extinguished in haste, and the kingdom — most importantly, his father — would breathe a collective sigh, thanks to him.

However, he’d yet to be allowed to swing that iron sword down outside the castle grounds, so he stood here, helpless, yet convinced he held the solution to this situation. It was frustrating, to say the least; before him lies a chance to prove himself and to redeem himself from the embarrassment brought unto him days ago, a chance to bring back the victory that he believed suited him well, and yet it sits just out of his reach. Were his life not in danger by doing so, he would have taken what he wanted days ago.

Instead of patrolling town, Reynaud stalks through the garden, not stopping at the familiar voice that calls for him, not slowing for the presence that attempts to fall in line with him. There are moments where he’d like to turn to Marceline and demand to know what this is all for. Years ago she had broken his nose, and now here she was, seemingly expecting him to do something about her complaints as if he owed her something (or as if he could even do something about it). “I suppose,” he stated. Reynaud knew better than to turn her away, especially if he could collect anything useful from their conversation. “Have you learned anything of note yet?”

[emperorvalmont]

1, 2, 5, 15 + 33 :)

1.What does their bedroom look like?

Answered here.

2.  Do they have any daily rituals?

Trying to get the King’s attention is basically a daily ritual at this point :(

5. Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

His spaces are clean only because others keep it clean for him. Reynaud has a habit of leaving something where he’d finished using it, such as books, papers, plates, etc.

15. Biggest and smallest short term goal?

Biggest goal is to figure out what’s been going on with him lately (aka start processing the trauma he can’t even begin to understand). Smallest is finding someone to marry, with some pressure to do so beginning to seep in. Also between the two is the goal to get back at Valeria for the humiliation she caused him.

33.  Concept of home and family?

Home, as a concept, is only as good as what’s inside of it. If Reynaud had to move to a smaller dwelling, he would not call it home like he calls this grand castle. Home is a place, home is things. Family as a concept is complex to Reynaud, only because his blood relation to and his idolization of his father is everything to him, yet the remainder of his family he can easily harbor the same cruelty he inherited from his father towards. Basically, he believes himself above the others in this made-up hierarchy in his mind, convinced he comes first because he was raised under that pretense (even if his father never treated him like he did).

[emperorvalmont]

WHEN: Eighth of the Tenth Month WHERE: Castle Tyrholm, the Throne Room WHO: @viktordaegal

Two days had passed since the attempt on his father’s life, and the castle still lived in fear. While Reynaud could not complain about having to remain in his place of luxury during this time, there was still something so isolating about being forced to remain here, partly because he could not do anything to go and clear his name of the humiliation that was brought to it a few sunsets ago without fear (that of his own and those sworn to protect him) of his life being taken in the process. An end to this investigation would certainly put minds at ease, and Reynaud, proclaiming himself victor of this most recent war, sees a moment where he can be judge, jury, and executioner, showcasing the prowess he has manifested within himself best suited for a future King.

But still, he is only the Prince, and a prince must still answer to the true King. He knows this and has always listened to his father without question, and thus knows better than to round up his men and drag them along with him. Besides, they probably have orders, as well, and protecting him as they’re tasked means keeping him in the castle for the time being. It’s a bit boring, he’s finding, wounded pride wanting nothing more than the space to stretch its wings so it can teach itself to fly once more. So he comes here to petition his father, not that he’s been very successful before. But perhaps, he thinks, victory will sweeten it, become a key to the aggravating lock placed upon this door. Perhaps it will become wood to build a chair he may use to control his own seat at the table, the one his father dines at without him. But first, it is a badge, he hopes, to get past the man whose face he easily associates with the closed doors Reynaud approaches.

He likes Viktor well enough. The man is respectable, a loyal guardian of his father, and quite literally saved his life only a few days prior. Reynaud holds nothing against him, aside from the frustration of the closed doors he guards, but even that is less personal, and it’s easy enough to see that. He approaches, head held high, looking the man in the eye as he arrives. “Viktor, I don’t know what it is you’ve heard, but you must allow me passage into this room.”

[emperorvalmont]

maidenhoods​:

for — @emperorvalmont

location — the prince’s quarters

date — seventh of the tenth month

do not go in there yet if you can help it, the serving girl warns, fresh from the doorframe of the prince’s quarters. her skin is pink as though she has been dipped in a heated spring, and maiden wonders how hot the prince’s blood runs tonight. he be in a foul mood since yesterday miss, throwin’ things about and such. i’ve just left him his second flagon now, if you wait a little longer he may be more amenable —

maiden thanks the girl and sighs, though not for reluctance. she comes to the great wooden door without fear for she had been raised in the grasslands, and nature knows no kings — nor their descendants. 

“my lord.” maiden drops to a curtsey, stable despite still holding in one hand the heavy trunk of medicines. she had long grown accustomed to maintaining balance while carrying something difficult. when she enters she is struck, not for the first time, by the man she sees and the gifts he bears: graced by heavens with standing, beauty, and strength — and how each had been flattened by him like trinkets beneath the hooves of a stallion. between bruises and finery he appears to her as mottled gold in the firelight, half-beaten under a rough blacksmith’s hot tools.

or, in this instance, his cousin’s lance. 

“why, my prince, there are no tilts happening under today’s sun.” her eyes net on his own as she comes to him with extended arm, reaching for the wine goblet held in his bruised fingers. “so there is no need for courage in your bedchambers.” a dove plucks the day’s feast from the claws of an eagle and does not shy. 

maiden moves to place the half-drained chalice on a low table before pausing, returning her gaze to the prince with a canted head: “— unless you find me a fright.” 

refute me if you wish to earn it back, but it shall come at the cost of your ego.

A bruised arm can heal in a matter of days, but the flesh is not the only thing that bruises. Press into the ego harsh enough, jab at pride with enough force, and you shall see the purple bloom upon it, marring it, perhaps even stunting its growth. Reynaud sits with his wartime injuries aching, but his pride taking the worse hit. Despite the defeat, Valeria did not make it a bloody or all too brutal one, the majority of aches coming from bruises and the worse ones simply re-aggravations of his marks from the war. A wound treated for infection reopened against the aggressive movements of the skin keeping it held together, a rolled ankle feeling worse than it had been after weeks of healing when the mud released it and he fell to the ground. But pride, the pride he felt in the victory he caused, the pride he had in the trophy he triumphantly brought to his father, that was damaged worse, especially as the symbol of victory tarnished to become a marker of his defeat.

And now, everyone crossing his path was target to his wrath. What he lacks in the ability to inwardly process these feelings, Reynaud more than makes up for in cruelty. Insults were thrown just as easily as papers and books and chalices and whatever else was within reach. He’s not sure what he wants, if it’s to be left alone or to have some sort of company he can tolerate, but it’s obvious he can’t tolerate the company of most after only a few moments, the cruelty crawling up his throat and out his lips to everyone thus far. What he wants is retribution. What he wants is respect. What he wants is... he’s not quite sure. 

Triss enters, and she’s perhaps the first person who Reynaud does not wish to throw out already. It might have something to do with the ache as the ends of his wounds sting, or the dull throbbing of an ankle, but it is still a small victory that he looks at her and waves her in with the curling of a few fingers, inviting her in.

“I don’t need courage,” he replies sharply, attempting to snatch the glass back after realizing her hand had already wrapped about it and brought it to herself. It’s true, he has enough stupid courage to supply the entire army. What he needed was a break from thinking, and he’d forgotten to replenish the stash of the substance that did just that from a few days ago. He needed liquid dreams. Liquid escapes. Liquid whatever the hell made him feel better in this moment. 

“And you are certainly not a fright.” He looks her up and down slowly, deliberately. “I could likely break you in two if I tried.” He stands, but is not so sharp in his movements when he does so, under the effects of the chalice’s contents. A hand extends. “Give me back my glass.”

[emperorvalmont]

"Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t work out?" this one was Too Funny to not

His plans for the future involve taking the throne and showing the kingdom how worthy he is of the power he was born into, or so he thinks. In reality, the plans are more like deciding if he actually wants the throne or just thinks he wants it because he’s been raised to believe as much, and also gaining the respect that precedes him ever having the ability to take power.

He has no contingency plan. Literally his entire life has been building to this and he’s never even considered anything different than the throne, though perhaps it’s time to start imagining one.

[emperorvalmont]

1 / 7 / 19

1.  What does their bedroom look like?

Answered here

7.  Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

Reynaud has a lot of time to waste, with his responsibilities as a Prince taking up nowhere near the entirety of his day. Time wasting should be entertaining, at least, in his opinion. Typically, his favorite ways to do this are by exercising his cruelty, or through sex. He has other ways of wasting time, such as reading, but it’s not as entertaining to him.

19.  What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

Currently, he’s been thinking a lot about the future as well as the very recent past. For the latter, he’s been thinking a lot about the war, and specifically the actions of this war that affect him the most. The fate of Vasily sometimes has him falling asleep wondering about his own fate, and it’s there he can restlessly think about the future, about what sort of king he’d make. Even more recently is the question of when he’d have to be that sort of ruler, due to the very recent wake-up call that his father will not be around forever.

[emperorvalmont]

shadowrcith​:

     time: afternoon, seventh of the tenth month      place: Reynaud’s study         ( @emperorvalmont​ )

The threat on Septimus’ life has put certain things into perspective, for Wraith. Things like the purely conditional terms of their employment. They had gotten as far as they had because Septimus was a fool, but the fool’s head rolling meant they would be beholden to new masters, no matter who did the beheading, and not every master would be as ready to see the value of an aging inferni whispering secrets into their ear—a job which, if Septimus’ outrage the night before was anything to go off of, Wraith wasn’t even performing up to standard. 

There were any number of ways the throne could go, in the event of a coup, a spiral of possibilities dependent on a range of conditions, and talk of revolt wasn’t loud enough or frequent enough yet for them to have heard what they’d need to know to make an educated guess. And that, Wraith figured, meant having all of their bases covered, starting with the first in line to the throne. 

They overheard, from a conversation between two of the kitchen staff, that the Prince hasn’t left his room all morning, that he’s cooped up in his study and will likely be there for most of the day, so that’s where they set their sights as they take a step and fall into the void, emerging from the other side in his doorway. 

     “My liege,” they say, dropping to a knee and bowing their head as soon as they’re certain their leg has made the trip along with the rest of their body. They pause, for a respectful length moment, before casting their masked gaze back up in his direction. “I hope you’ll pardon the interruption. I come bearing news, for you, something I think you’ll be interested to hear.” 

Tension still strained against his muscles and pressed in upon his temples today, and for fairly good reason. Not even a full day has passed since his father’s life was threatened and his own was humiliated, the smell of burning flesh still etched into his nostrils and the sensations he imagined last night fresh in his mind. The legacy Reynaud was attempting to continue by forging his own greatness was soiled at the hands of his own blood. His father nearly lost his life, and what then? Reynaud could only think selfishly. He would take the throne, but he would have not earned the respect of the people he’s realized he lacks. He would not have their adoration, not when he received their jeers and laughter mere moments prior to the one that could have made him King. He was not ready, he saw in that moment. Septimus could not die when Reynaud could not confidently place the crown atop his head, the rightful head. 

But that did not happen, and the lives that flashed before his eyes (his father’s, his own, and the last moments of Vasily’s later that night) were not necessary anymore. Fear gave way to anger, anger at those who dared an attempt on his father’s life, at those who thought his own was something to mock when it was his own that saved theirs from the blade of Koldam, at his cousin who brought that humiliation, that bruised pride to his doorstep. It did not stay within those boundaries, of course, for in an attempt to claw that power back, he retorted to what he knew best, to fear and cruelty. A voice in his head reminded him that fear may not be the answer, but what was Reynaud to do when he was slowly losing ground and knew no other way?

Lockdown was taken seriously. While Reynaud was typically one to do whatever he wished, there were certain responsibilities and duties he did not ignore, and one implemented so he or another family member would not be killed was not one he decided to so easily defy, not when the severed head of a dead king sent omens of a similar fate to him. So it seemed the only people his anger could spill out towards were of his own staff, and hell they did receive, insults thrown about and demands barked. They’d all taken the particular hint that it’s best to leave the Prince alone unless absolutely necessary, but the memo seemed to be ignored by one person in particular as the sound of Wraith’s voice suddenly in his room caused him to visibly jump, scattering a few papers from his desk to the ground. As he turned in his chair, he looked quite displeased with their sudden arrival.

“How many times do I need to tell you not to do that in my presence?” Reynaud hisses, his heart rate slowing as he stands to address them. Magic was a complicated thing, and his opinions of it had grown similar to his father’s. He was not such a fan of it unless it could be used for his benefit, and this certainly was not one of those instances. “What is it? My forgiveness of your interruption hinges on what sort of news you have for me.”

[emperorvalmont]

1, 23

1.  What does their bedroom look like?

Reynaud’s bedroom is large and spacious with some natural light from a large window on the far side of the room. The location of his bedroom only allows windows on the one far wall, with two sets of large arched windows providing light during the day. Filling up the space between the two windows is a large canopied bed in a dark wood with gold accents. The pillows and linens also have gold detailing and are usually of a dark red color. Several large dressers and trunks and wardrobes are scattered on either side of the bed and towards one side of the room, with an area for dressing (this, of course, includes a full-length mirror, as well as a vanity mirror atop a dresser for extra dramatiques). Most of his belongings are scattered through here, including clothing, accessories, and minor cosmetics and grooming products. The opposite wall contains a grey-brick fireplace and a large desk in the same wood as his other furniture with a large plush chair. Papers are often scattered about it unless someone has been in to clean them. A large animal skin rug rests here and another in the center of the room where there are some couches and chairs for lounging or reading (or other activities). The chairs are a red-brown leather and the couches also contain the same gold accents. Tapestries adorn one wall and another contains a family portrait, its size dwarfed, however, by a large portrait of himself.

23.  How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life?

I think he’s as organized as he believes he needs to be. In terms of organization of his belongings/general tidiness, he has people to take care of that for him so Reynaud has never thought much of physical order. Papers are often strewn about his desk before someone tidies them for him. In life he’s learned to be organized mostly in tongue, and despite being relatively awful, he doesn’t mince words, certainly. His thoughts, however, are a mess, especially now, tangled in a web of trauma and confusion and mixed emotions.

[emperorvalmont]

22!

22.  Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?

Most likely, he’d write a letter, penning a flirtatious correspondence or a threatening letter depending on the mood he’s in and the recipient on his mind. He could also write a petition to his father for his time or something similar, but that never seems to work.