//* 𝒊𝒂𝒈𝒐 𝒗𝒂𝒛𝒊𝒓𝒊.

☾ ✧･ﾟ: —— stood in firelight, sweltering. bloodstain on chest like a map of violent new continent. felt cleansed. felt dark planet turn under my feet and knew what cats know that makes them scream like babies in night.     - watchmen, alan moore.

[imperiosts]

sayf-insurgent‌:

each of their swords could last a hundred years, if not longer, were it not for the constant use and sharpening that sayf had to do, endlessly thinning and chipping at the blade with each real and practice bout. it was time to give iago some new ideas, in any case, reshaping the guard and the weight distribution of the curve for a heavier strike. 

the heat of the forge was a welcome weight as they walking into the forge. breathing in, they let the scent of iron and ash settle in their lungs, a clarity to the taste of a battlefield. instead of screams of the dying, it was the roaring of a fire and the clash of metal against metal in crystal tones.

they let a smirk cross their face as iago approached, before unbuckling the scabbard from their hip and tossing it, sword and all, to the other. (there were still at least nine knives hidden across their body and a longer knife still at their hip, but blades were not all that made sayf dangerous) 

❛ iago, ❜  they replied, letting their hands slide into their pockets as he approached.  ❛  certainly uncertain times, indeed. ❜  they said, before tilting their head in a slight shrug.

chaos that ruled and ran rampages across propriety and expectations. cruelty that always rules, uncertainty that always had its grip on every realm, this constant clash of ambition and power that had never truly gone away. perhaps virgil had a better understanding, some clarity of understanding of what the future would hold, but if they did, they had yet to deign to share it.

❛ for you though, why troubling? ❜ 

This was Iago’s domain. He found comfort in the embers, and he did not flinch when they settled on his skin. But whenever Sayf was near, his beacon of safety felt at peril. Not because of the prowess that they possessed, but rather the fact that they had the status and the means to be better than him. 

Iago was not fond of that. Nor was he fond of displaying bottomless patience, kindness being ripped from between clenched teeth, as he battled with the threat Sayf presented to his ego. 

He caught their weapons, but his fingers curled around the sheathed blade tightly. This was humiliating, to act as if he were under pupillage, to preen and adhere to the whims of fae so that his name could be etched back onto the pages of history. Now, Iago was sure that he remained a black, furious scribble on parchment. So, even as his cheeks heated with embarrassment, this was an evil that is necessary. 

He breathed deeply--Sayf was integral. He would not have to endure this for much longer.

“I thought that would be obvious,” he laughed, a bell over the din of clanging metals. “It is no secret that I am not a favourite of the court. Makes one feel as if they should tread carefully, hm?” Placing Sayf’s scabbard down carefully atop of an unused worktable, he gestured for the general to follow.

“Come, I think you would like the latest additions to the armoury.” As he turned, features shadowed and hidden from Sayf, his smile had fallen.

[imperiosts]

castaliafairbank‌:

In tumultuous times Castalia took solace above all in silence and space. An empty room where the sounds of her frustrated screams could just bounce off of the wall and echo endlessly would have been the perfect vessel for her in that moment. So much was changing so quickly, so many moves were being made by different players, some she could not even see. Shadows moving quicker than her thoughts could race to catch up. The dice of fate being cast by an invisible and not so benevolent hand.

And in such time she had to do what she was most skilled at and advise. Her mind as strategic and sharp as it was though still needed its rest and so she stood on a balcony alone, hand clenching her now near-empty glass of summer wine, staring out into the starless sky. There was no use seeking the Winter Queen tonight, Castalia knew all too well with what irreverence Aster would take the recent developments.

The winter faerie could feel a dull ache on her temples already, pulsating furiously and she shut her eyes, one hand snaking up her breast to feel her heart, the adrenaline making it beat a hundred times as fast. A voice shook her out of her trance and the hand that brushed against her, the rough fingers against the silk sleeve of her dress barely made her raise an eyebrow. In this dance, she and Iago engaged in there seemed to be an unspoken rule. Whatever boundary she had the high fae had no qualms breaking it and although she did not welcome casual touches, not even from her closest friends Iago found ways to touch her from time to time if only to remind her he could and that she wouldn’t stop him. Not that she didn’t want to wrap her hands around his neck and squeeze to teach him a lesson about the dangers of wandering hands but she simply knew that’d be showing a primal side to her he’d enjoy far too much. That’d be letting him win and she could not have that.

“Dear Iago! Your queries never cease to amaze me.” She started a smirk that edged on condescending but could have easily passed for pleasant to the untrained eye, firmly on her burgundy painted lips. “We have a political crisis on our hands and you ask me if I’m well. Why I advise my sweet, it is my whole reason of being. I am not well, I am positively thriving.”

The quips that lay on her tongue excited him. Iago dabbled often in acts of sadism, but in a quiet manner. So to be subjected to Castalia’s hostile eyes, her niceties plastered behind a weary tilt to her lips, Iago too was thriving. She was humouring him and thus allowing the blacksmith to chip away slowly at her delicate walls, and he would continue doing so until his nails were splitting against his skin, raw and bloody. In the dim light, Iago smiled at her so brightly, he very much looked like the feral cat his wants and desires painted him to be.

“Now,” he chastised. “Was there any need for that? Sarcasm does not suit you.” He shifted, an elbow coming to lean on the iron frame of the balcony, his shoulders a defiant shield against intruders. “I do not wish to talk politics with you, flower. That consumes you enough already.” Iago gentled his gaze. “You just seem so sad, and it pains me deeply to see you like this.”

[katiebishop]

[imperiosts]

[ CLOSED STARTER FOR: THE INSURGENT. ]

—  He too had gasped alongside the company of the High Court, a victim of shock and trepidation. The threat of the unknown was prevalent, but his bewilderment did not last, for Iago knew that chaos had been waiting patiently for a long time. Glinting beneath soil bloodied with sweat and anguish, it was ready to be harvested, and when unearthed, its teeth will bear a black, unsightly smile.

Iago could only funnel such fantasies onto others. He was not at liberty to indulge in courtly matters, but there remained one perfect candidate: Sayf Rosewood. A curious creature that Iago knew possessed the brutality that is needed for war.

“Sayf,” he greeted, walking toward the other in that strange way of his. Heavy-footed, but not making a sound. “These are troubling times, don’t you think?” Of course, Iago should begin to worry about his own head, but for now, he wished to hear the thoughts of the General. 

@sayf-insurgent​

[imperiosts]

[ CLOSED STARTER FOR: THE BENEVOLENT. ]

An illusive one, was his little flower.

As time slipped, as scandal surged and formed iron walls, casting him aside, she remained unchanged. A delightful little thing at the beating heart of the Winter Court, fragility was perhaps what he attributed most to Castalia. Yet, her oblivion irked him. Could she not see that he desired her time in magnitudes? That he ached to scorch the petals of her disposition, allowing for secrets to be spilled as he paraded as a friend?  

Iago wished that he could once more be in the midst of it all. Castalia... well, it was in the palm of her hand, and she is a puppet to many notable strings.

Her familiar figure in the distance spurred his footsteps, his heels on the marble floor creating abrupt echoes as he hurried, propelled by the notion that he would soon lose yet another opportunity to converse.

“Dear Castalia!” He beamed upon closure. His hand, calloused and thick-fingered, brushed against her briefly. A friendly touch for some, a motive for her to halt for others. “How have you been, are you keeping well?”

@castaliafairbank​

[imperiosts]

                   INTRODUCTION: THE CRESTFALLEN.

BIOGRAPHY : (TW: burns, swearing, violence.)

•    A quiet child, the product of an affair, blending into the crowd had been an immature priority. Nobody was to suspect that he was different, that he found satisfaction from the little things—whispering lies into the ears of his brothers, watching them tussle until they were bloody-lipped and breathless. Or how he would sit in front of the fire kindled by his father, his irises lit, captured entirely by the flames. The burning of flesh met his nostrils before he had heard a distant scream, and pulled back by his tunic, he had not even remembered reaching forward, mesmerised, to let the fire engulf his hand as if it were inviting him to kiss.

•     Bastard! It became a strength as much as it were a weakness. Adolescent taunts served to remind him that his mother was of a lowly birth, but why did that matter when his father was not? If anything, it would serve to propel him into greatness, for why should he become who everyone says he is destined to be? By harnessing steel, feeling the heat touch his skin, delighting in the sizzling of iron, the power of weaponry could be wielded by his hands. Weakness, by force and by the slice of a blade, could be eradicated. Oh, how he would sit and wonder how fae warriors would utilise the weapons he created. Was it a pretty dance, soft fountains of blood flowing like a current down to a bed of peonies, or would the sword bring upon a brutality to the skin, garish slashes and necks thrown back in anguish? Bathing in such thoughts made his skin itch, for the concept of chaos was one that plagued him as if it were a perverse desire.

•    To be seen and not heard, a trait cultivated from childhood until hairs on his chest began to show signs of greying, was something that did not work in his favour. Sitting on the fence, as he climbed his way to recognition in the High Court, was soon noticed. How long could such a façade be kept alive, his quiet rumours and docile demeanour eventually getting the best of him? Loyalty was a fickle thing when surrounded by fae that gave into temptations, lied behind gritted teeth, and were naïve to the point where it was pathetic. But neutrality, it seemed, was not favoured. Once more his name was tarnished, spoken as if it were a forbidden curse, and he would right this wrong. He would decide who should be worthy of the throne, and then he would once more whisper his words and stoke the fires of rising tensions. After all, it was rather amusing to watch things burn.

THOUGHTS ON THE HIGH KING’S DEATH :

A finger, blackened from the ashes of fire, tapped his chin as if he were in the throes of a philosophical revelation. “Hm,” a subtle twist to his lips, his smile became wry. “Voicing my thoughts on such matters before has caused a great deal of mischief. Now you wish to know what I think?”

Spine straight, the veil vanished, and beneath it appeared a face set as hard as stone. “The death was untimely, but not unjust. He who rules with abandon, with no regard for riches or knowledge of how to replenish the banks, has no place on a throne. When war comes, we need to be prepared. Like a lamb thrown into a den of wolves, we would perish under such rule.”

Iago shifted suddenly, relaxing his features. The tilt to his lips returned, and his gaze broke. “Ah, I suppose I should silence myself, before I am asked once more to sharpen pitchforks intended to pierce my own heart.”

THOUGHTS ON THE CROWN :

Iago believes that the crown has a history of weakness. With ‘gentleness’ considered a gracious trait for a monarch, he does not believe that is what makes the Crown thrive. A heavy hand, a curled iron fist, is what is needed to rule. It should not come later, as history of the court writes. It should come first. The Kings and Queens of past have never been suitable in his eyes, despite the variations of public opinion. Satisfaction in a ruler has never been felt by Iago—ruling by the heart is to be foolish, undesirable consequences and a crumbling moral compass become fruits of this labour, rotten and spoiled, leaving a bitter taste.

[imperiosts]

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[goldentailedmermaids]

                  Chaos. A most wonderful weapon. Only takes a little push to upend the cart.

[lemontartcreations]