lioness of night

[lifeinpoetry]

I stare in the mirror / take a knife to these delicate       ideals split them         open wider

& wider / avoid the body grip the fruit      tight

it does not taste killer I do not feel victimized this is still        progress

— Alexis Bates & Logan February, from “pomegranate,” published in Luna Luna Magazine

[lecnis-blog]

◐ ˚⊹ — wyatt stark.

As a member of house Stark, Wyatt got to meet many people. At some point the late king, his father, expressed awe at how many people Wyatt could remember. “Even I can not remember every man or woman that enters these gates. You have a gift, my son.” It was a compliment he took to heart. He was proud of that talent, as his father had named it. But even Wyatt was only human and he was bound to lose track a bit at some point. 

For a moment he thought he was speaking to someone else entirely, how embarrassing. “I do apologize, my goodwoman. It seems I have mistaken you for someone else.” He smiled slightly. There was something odd about the woman, but he couldn’t quite place what. Perhaps it was just the setting sun that had literally put a different light on the girl, reminding him of someone else. “They have quite.” Wyatt replied, still trying to figure out where he went wrong. “What’s your name?”

while her mother’s family had been of the north since time immemorial, none of her mother’s features were particularly evident on serena lo’s comely face to anyone save her father, who always said she had her mother’s smile and mischievous twinkle in her eyes. to the westerosi, however, she was yitish through and through. “your apology, you grace, while appreciated is unnecessary.” serena spoke evenly, unoffended that he would not identify her as a member of a northern steward house like cassel. “my late cousin was edric cassel.” swallowing roughly at the taste of his death on her tongue, she can’t help but feel the burning frustration at not knowing what happened to him or if it was her fault in some way--knowing full well that the events surrounding his death were much bigger than her past indiscretions.

“i thought princes were supposed to be sophisticated,” serena smirked, raising a polite, but challenging brow in jest. “not so forward. my name is serena lo. i am ... “ mulling the title over in her head with peppered distaste, she paused. “the lady of house cassel.”

[lecnis-blog]

rarerpmemes:

* (  positive  personality   traits!

bold   all   that   apply   to   your   muse,   italicize   the   ones   that   slightly   apply,   and   strikethrough   the   ones   that   definitely   don’t   apply!

Adaptable / Adventurous / Agreeable / Alert / Appreciative / Articulate / Athletic / Balanced / Calm / Caring / Charismatic / Charming / Cheerful / Clean / Clear-headed / Clever / Colorful / Compassionate / Confident / Considerate / Contemplative / Cooperative / Courageous / Courteous / Creative / Curious / Daring / Dedicated / Deep / Dignified / Disciplined / Earnest / Educated / Efficient / Elegant / Eloquent / Empathetic / Energetic / Enthusiastic / Faithful / Flexible / Focused / Forgiving / Freethinking / Friendly / Fun-loving / Generous / Gentle / Genuine / Good-natured / Gracious / Hardworking / Helpful / Honest / Honorable / Humble / Humorous / Idealistic / Imaginative / Independent / Individualistic / Innovative / Insightful / Intelligent / Intuitive / Kind / Leaderly / Logical / Lovable / Loyal / Lyrical / Many-sided / Mature / Methodical / Modest / Neat / Observant / Open / Optimistic / Orderly / Organized / Original / Passionate / Patient / Patriotic / Peaceful / Perceptive / Perfectionist / Personable / Persuasive / Playful / Polished / Popular / Practical / Precise / Principled / Profound / Protective / Punctual / Rational / Realistic / Reflective / Relaxed / Reliable / Resourceful / Respectful / Responsible / Responsive / Romantic / Scholarly / Selfless / Self-reliant / Sensitive / Sentimental / Serious / Sexy / Shrewd / Simple / Skillful / Sober / Sociable / Sophisticated / Spontaneous / Stable / Steadfast / Steady / Stoic / Strong / Studious / Suave / Subtle / Sweet / Sympathetic / Systematic / Tasteful / Teacherly / Thorough / Tidy / Tolerant / Trusting / Uncomplaining / Understanding / Warm / Well-read / Well-rounded / Wise / Witty / Youthful

[lecnis-blog]

◐ ˚⊹ lady reyanna bolton.

Sleep was something that escaped her at times like these when her mind was far too full of theories and plagued by what ifs to let her rest enough for slumber to take her. She had never been a woman to deal in anything but actualities and facts but the deaths had left her turning what she had witnessed over and over in her mind while wondering what she could have done differently. Logic told her that there was nothing that could have been done but Reyanna had always been stubborn in nature and there was a refusal to admit to any sort of powerlessness, even just to herself. Growing tired of tossing and turning, the Bolton pulled on a cloak in the hope that fresh air might clear her head enough to snatch a few hours of sleep before daybreak.

It only takes a few steps down the corridor for noise to reach her ears and suddenly her destination is decided. As she nearer the courtyard, the sounds grew louder and her intrigue for who else was up so late grew. The face she sees is one she recognises but not one she is familiar with. House Cassel. She does not miss the annoyance on the other woman’s face and it only prompts a coldness in her tone. “Nor did I.” Dark eyes cast around the courtyard, wondering if any rooms actually housed someone who was getting some rest. “I would have thought the same thing that is troubling everyone.” Shifting her gaze back towards the other brunette, Reyanna shrugs her shoulders slightly. “Considering what happened I doubt there is much else on anyone’s mind.”

the houses of the north are less abstract to her than are the rest of the seven kingdoms, whose words and sigils she hardly cared to commit to memory as a child. there are a few that stand out--those whose members she had the pleasure of dispatching from the realm with a well-placed blade or a timely ‘accident.’ her mother’s daughter in many ways, serena can recall the major houses of the north, but not well enough to place anyone within them. the familiar names are her mother’s contemporaries, not hers, though many of them yet live. the slight woman who approaches is familiar only as a small collection of features serena has seen around winterfell in the short time since her arrival. though she has the sweet look of a snowflake, there’s a hardness to her like ice.

serena considers the woman’s words, nodding in agreement. there is little else she might suspect as the culprit who robs the slumbering of their dreams and restful sleep. “well said.” there are myriad ghosts that haunt serena lo at night. sometimes they are gentle and take their turns, other nights they set upon her like the pack of white wolves on her mother’s banners. “i can scarce believe it myself,” the words were hollow; she’s seen the horrors of asshai, the magic tricks of those who would follow the lord of light, and a dozen other strange magics outside of those she learned from the night lion in the house of black and white. though she does not know the source of these assassins, there is little that surprises her. 

“forgive me,” there is a genuine regret in not being able to place her anywhere but in the north--her features and the presence of her the largest hints, “i am serena lo of house cassel.” she dipped her head in a courteous bow. her fists finally satiated, serena made quick work of unwrapping them, taking care to deftly roll the cloth as she went and smirking at the comfort of the cool night air. “it’s so quiet here at night. nothing like where i grew up.” she thought aloud, wondering why her mother would’ve left.

[lecnis-blog]

◐ ˚⊹ rook.

        THE ROOF WAS SLICK AND CASED IN ICE, so each step was placed gingerly on shingles and glimmering stone. He moved lycanthropically through the dimensions of shadow holding Winterfell hostage, a part of the darkness, a shade. There was no particular point to his stealthy sweep along the keep’s walls and over the castle’s rising towers, but the exertion soothed the buzzing sense of unrest which had settled in his bones. It had been initially cured with Grim’s assistance, and he’d spent his day ascending, his mind fused with his raven familiar’s, and his body an empty host below. But now the stubborn avian roosted, and Rook was left to his own devices. The King’s Road called to him first, but the harrowing singe of black magic hanging in the air kept him planted in Winterfell. It was important to note that it wasn’t fear for his own life that kept him there, but fear for those he loved. So, Rook paced.

He was thankful for the rhythmic smack! he heard rising up from the abandoned courtyard; somewhere to direct his focus, a distraction from the oppressive silence of winter. At first, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him — that is was some phantom, ticking clock, or restless ghosts locked in eternal, Pyrrhic dances — but as he followed it to the center of the keep, he found the source and snorted a laugh. Winter air curled from his parted lips like a curtain and dissipated almost as quickly. He made no effort to disguise his jump from the roof, so his boots crunched loudly on faulted mud, and continued to crack the frozen mantle with each deliberate step.

“Neither did I,” he answered, assessing the damage she’d done to the training dummy. “But with the racket you’re making, I suspect all of Winterfell will be up before the sun.” He circled around behind her inanimate target, watching her eyes in the blue, spectral light of the moon. “I keep thinking about the dead. The vile magic that killed them.” Despite his nature to appear unaffected, his face grew dark as the vivid memory resurfaced. “And what did this poor dummy do to deserve your IRE?”

still unnerved by her new compatriots and far from the comforting jungles of home, serena was not at ease when she saw the king’s sword ambling on practiced foot with an affected silence. walk softly but carry a big stick, a piece of wisdom plucked somewhere in her memory amongst myriad idioms from across the globe. her travels had brought her many places, and yet the north seemed to stand out among the great grass seas and bone mountains. the snow around them seems to devour sound, the din of her fists echoing only against the worried stones that, together, make up the castle. linen wraps let her hands breathe, protecting the integrity of skin beneath.

there seemed to be a permanent sour expression on serena’s smooth features. though not hostile, it is difficult for her to break old habits. with so many new faces to commit to memory, she was grateful for having worn the skins of those long dead. each person had a story--a saunter, a pet peeve that made the corner of lips twitch. they had things that made their hearts sting inside their chests and their breath catch in their throat. it was learning each person’s machinations that took time. the more enigmatic, the greater the challenge. that, at least, if little else, was something she could be grateful for.

“they are, like as not, turning in their beds restlessly anyway.” she had been, until the chill of a dying fire had rose her from the bed like a wight. “at least now they have me to blame instead of ghosts.” a dark chuckle escaped her as she opened and closed her hands at her sides, stretching her fingers against intricately woven wraps. crossing her arms, a shrewd eye followed his path around the dummy, who stood before them an oblivious burlap sack of frostbitten straw. 

as he spoke, she shifted her smirk to something of an easier grin, tough her eyes took him in with sly calculation. there may be loyalty among northmen, but loyalty existed to be subverted and she did not trust that a stranger from yi ti should be welcomed into their fold without suspicion. “he owes me five gold dragons” she spoke dryly, “and made some rather disparaging comments regarding his accommodations i’m sorry to say. such an ungrateful guest.”

[lecnis-blog]

She knew herself, how she had slowly, over years, become a cat, a wolf, a snake, anything but a girl. How she had wrung out her girlhood like death.

Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless.

[crownlessrp-blog1]

“ I AM NOBODY: A RED, SINKING AUTUMN SUN TOOK MY NAME AWAY. ”

FULL NAME: Serena Lo Cassel

AGE: Twenty-Three

HOUSE: Cassel

TITLE: Lady

OCCUPATION / VOCATION: Former Faceless Man / Lady of House Cassel / Steward of House Stark

ORIGIN: Yin, Yi Ti

CURRENT RESIDENCE: Winterfell

ALLEGIANCE: None

TRAITS:

+ Cunning, Redemptive, Perspicacious

- Cynical, Aloof, Calculating

BIOGRAPHY:

Beth Cassel is pleased to find herself married off to Lo Loi. He’s a comely man, kind and rich, and far away from Winterfell in the Yi Ti city of Yin. Unlike her brother, she was never meant for the cold. Lush, verdant rainforests promise adventure and beauty that the young Cassel never associated with her wintry home. It’s not long before the woman is with child; even in the humid, sweltering walls of their home there is time to find comfort in one another.

Serena Lo is born a basilisk’s fang and is a difficult child to parent. Despite her contrarian spirit, she loves with her whole heart and tries her best to show her parents that she does not disobey them out of spite, but rather the thirst for adventure. She is her mother’s child. Eager to explore the world, the girl joins her father on his ship across the Jade Sea. They make many stops: Asshai, Qarth, Dorne, and Pentos before landing in Braavos.

The pair spend a handful of nights there as her father’s dealings span over the better half of a week. Negotiations grow heated and, eventually, break down–sending father and daughter back to their ship unsuccessful. The spiteful crew, displeased with the weight of their purses after such a long trip from home forms a coup that takes the life of Lo Loi, spilling his blood in the Narrow Sea. Some killers have lines that even they won’t cross and Serena is tossed in to the sea–a purpled mix of salt and iron–nearest to the docks. She cannot appreciate the small kindness under the weight of such betrayal.

Soaked to the bone and robbed of tears, Serena finds the only place that will have her at such a late hour. The House of Black and White has a troubling air to it. Once inside, her mouth tastes of copper and smoke. It is here that she spends her days, caring for the dead in hopes of survival and a way home. Vengeance has a sweet taste, but it is quickly beaten from her as harshly as her name.

As time waxes, Serena struggles to recall her father’s face and the faces of his killers are even more elusive. Their names are sharp as blades in her belly and she exchanges her remaining possessions for the contract on their lives once she learns the nature of those House of Black and White. In Yi Ti, the Many-Faced God is the lion of the night and the eager girl lets it sink its teeth into her with naught but a whimper. Vengeance doesn’t fill the empty space between her ribs, and perhaps it never will. Instead, there is a fulfilling allure to the skills learned in the House of Black and White and she accepts them readily. Broken and lost, a sense of purpose does the girl good.

Serena Lo cannot be satiated; she is a girl broken and incomplete, but no one craves nothing. As she grows into a woman, the lives she takes become lost in a sea of disappointment and memories of who she was eat at her carrion flesh like beetles. There is no satisfaction in a life hardly lived. Tired of the tedium and servitude demanded of her, the spirit of her mother within her blossoms and beckons to her. Hired for a contract in Qarth, Serena leaves the task incomplete and returns to Yin to find a grief-stricken and empty woman in the shell of her mother. She is overjoyed to see her daughter alive, but the damage is long done. 

Beth Cassel only sleeps with milk of the poppy and the path of old tears seems to have eroded her face. She is a difficult sight to behold and leaves Serena, not with the warmth of reunion, but with the metallic taste of regret. The reunion is not the idyllic fantasy that Beth had dreamed either; Serena is cold and prickly and stands out like a dead tree in the north. They bring each other nothing but sorrow. When news of her nephew’s death at Winterfell reaches her, both Beth and Serena seize the opportunity. In an effort of encouragement, Beth aspires to move on with her life and, in a show of good faith, pours out her stores of milk of the poppy. They embrace farewell and Beth buries a kiss in Serena’s dark locks.

She wonders if the death of her good cousin is the work of the Faceless Men or some greater scheme. The followers of the House of Black and White do not seek revenge; they do not take the lives of those who are known to them, but people are not perfect and if she could leave and shed the mane of the night lioness she was before then there is no telling who else could leave and pursue her from some real or imagined slight.

There is a new source of death, it seems, spreading across Essos like a plague. Whether her cousin’s last, bloody breaths can be contributed to them, the Faceless Men, or some petty Westerosi noble, Serena cannot say. House Cassel has been loyal to the Starks since time immemorial. A steward’s house, they were raised by wolves. They hold no keep or significant lands. If Serena is to discover who has killed her cousin, she must return to the place where their body lies cold in the ground beneath fallen snow.

Dark wings begat dark words and Serena is greeted in Winterfell by the news of her mother’s death. She takes solace in the peace of it, but chastises herself in her naïveté for believing her mother’s show. She has nowhere left to go. No choice but to remain here and see her goal to its end. There is no love or loyalty in her heart for the north and its people, but such things grow even in the cold, barren dirt of the north amongst the snow and blood.

FACECLAIM: Chloe Bennet

[lecnis-blog]

                           serena lo cassel.                         lady of house cassel                         crownless task 001./??

[lecnis-blog]

🙋 + knives

ya girl loves a dagger. small blades are so much easier to conceal and serena travels light. she will rarely use a sword or other melee weapons over a dagger. she’s loved knives since slicing apples and tomatoes at her mother’s side. she’d deny it if asked, but there’s an intimacy to that kill. for taking lives, serena believes it should be personal. there’s a small honor in that, perhaps. poison could work too, if the occasion called for it, and she does to enjoy the physicality of hand-to-hand combat–the dance that it is.

[randomroleplaymemes-blog]

Send "🙋" + any headcannons you want to know about my muse.

[lecnis-blog]

◐ ˚⊹ wyatt stark.

The tourney in the North was the talk of the kingdoms, even the brave men at the Wall were talking it about it. It seemed that ravens had been send back and forth to Winterfell to carry the messages of winners and fallen throughout the tourney, just to give them a nice distraction from their, at times, uneventful days. While the King hosted, the prince had taken this opportunity to travel to the Wall with some of the thieves and other misbehaving scum to see their safe arrival. His true motive, however, was to check up on the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and see how things were going. A raven would have carried that message, but Wyatt believed that showing up every once in a while, would strengthen their alliance, preventing it seeming like the people south of the Wall were dismissing their good service.

But the days of forging relationships further North and escaping the festivities taking place a little more South were over. Wyatt had now been well on his way home with the handful of guards riding beside him. The fresh air was cold enough for it to feel like punches in the face, but Wyatt did not bother. Winterfell was in sight now, even in hearing reach. He could hear the loud roars of laughter and giggling women already, as well as the massive clings of steel swords connecting with each other. Right next to him, was his furry companion, they exchanged looks. They knew they were home now.

They passed the gates of Winterfell and a natural cordial greeting was given to him, but he barely paid attention. Wyatt merely gave them the polite, acknowledging look and made way to the stables near the castle. When he left the stables, he noticed some eyes turning his way and he couldn’t help but connecting. Wyatt approached with a slight smile. “It’s good to see you,-” He paused suddenly, before extending a surprised expression.

the sigil of house cassel felt foreign to her--as foreign as the lands that her mother had been born in. the smells and tastes of the north were nothing of that back home, far from winterfell and beyond the jade sea. before this, she had been no one for a long time--an agent of the night lion. before than small, capricious serena lo--the curious merchant’s daughter who had never feared the basilisks in the forest nor the men she’d slain over the years. now, the silver brooch with the ten white wolf heads across the field of gray that pierced through her supple leather armor felt heavy upon her chest. she wondered if her cousin had ever felt the same, even if only as a boy and it pained her slightly that she would never know him.

perhaps that was for the best. honor seemed more at home in the north than did snow and serena lo was more basilisk than she was lioness of the night or winter’s wolf; she did not belong anywhere. raised without the refinery of a true westerosi lady and lacking her father’s gentle guidance, which had been spilt from his throat into the braavosi port, serena possessed neither the charisma to network nor the desire to do so. it was different when she had worn another’s face as if it were her own--she was not truly herself. as no one she could become anyone. as serena lo--now serena cassel for her mother’s house--she was unsure how to be herself or anyone else.

feeling the strain of performance, serena retreated towards the kennels, which lay beyond the stables, hoping to find some comfort in the blind loyalty of hunting dogs. she had heard the return of the prince, an auspicious event to be true, but had hoped to pass by undetected. the familiar and unsettling sensation of another’s gaze betrayed her as she met the eyes of another and stopped, realizing that she had caught his eyes long enough to require a pleasantry before passing. she was sure by the look of him that he was sure to be the returning stark.

“your grace.” stiff yet elegant in posture, serena took a deep bow and wondered if he had heard of her cousin’s passing and her arrival or if he was only speaking out of courtesy. she stuck out like a sore thumb and she had no doubt, with the rumors of the prince’s keen mind, he’d place her if he had heard. “i hope the roads fared you well.” her accent is nearly untraceable, both yitish and braavosi tones blending together in an odd sort of harmony.

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

She talks with wolves, without knowing what sort of beasts they are: Where have you been all my life? they ask. Where have I been all my life? she replies.

Margaret Atwood, from Good Bones and Simple Murders; “Let Us Now Praise Stupid Women,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[lecnis-blog]

more death. it coated her tongue and throat like ash and stole the voice from her. it had not been house cassel alone who sustained such loss. nor was it relegated to the tragedy of her mother’s death that haunted her like the whistling winds of winterfell. whatever had taken the lives of so many people was no fault of hers after all, but the machinations of some other sinister force. somehow it was worse. worse that more people had died senselessly and worse that she could not blame herself. with a frustrated huff let loose a barrage of fists upon the training dummy in the dark, deserted courtyard. there were few things that brought her comfort over violent physicality.

the sound of her own fists, rattling the man made of wood and cloth, drowned out the footsteps of the other as they made their way across the courtyard. it was not until she turned to wipe her brow that she laid her eyes upon them, annoyance clear in her stiff smile--a greeting and a reflex. “i did not realize anyone was awake at this hour.” the changes in time had not evened out harmoniously within her yet and she still found herself still sleeping during the day and up at all hours of the night, pacing in her restlessness. “i cannot adjust to the time here near as easily as the weather.” it had not been an easy transition either, by any means. “what is it that troubles you at this late hour?” an intrigued brow punctuated her question, serena did not care for the sensibilities that kept curiosity at bay.

[thewinedarksea]

[lecnis-blog]

thewinedarksea:

the seven deadly sins | wrath

uncontrolled feelings of anger, rage, and even hatred.

requested by @x-i-a-t

[liquidlightandrunningtrees]

Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where you are going.

Neil Gaiman, Instructions (via myrandar)

[theblogcold]

[emauxetcamees]

BELLADONNA, n. In Italian a beautiful lady; in English a deadly poison. A striking example of the essential identity of the two tongues.

Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary  (via ardeea)