38 year old tiefling, merrymock was gifted his title which became his name and identity by a cruel lord whom he once served as court jester in the kingdom of withermore. now running for his freedom and his life, merrymock hopes to hide among the other criminals who make destarin their home.
merrymock impulsively ran for governor elect for the town of destarin and to his surprise and perhaps the surprise of the courts, won. he began as acting governor of destarin but has since become the first elected king.
ย ย ย ย ย ๐ผ ๐ฝ ๐ช ๐ฝ ๐ผย โฆ
NAME:ย merrymock
TITLE: first king of destarin: the mad king, jester tsar, monarch of traitors
AGE:ย 38
GENDER:ย male
PRONOUNS:ย he/him
SPECIES:ย asmodeus tiefling
FACE CLAIM:ย hale appleman
HEIGHT:ย 6'2"
HAIR COLOR:ย black
EYE COLOR:ย black sclera and gold iris
SKIN COLOR:ย yellow-toned
HORN COLOR:ย black brown
WEAKNESSES:ย ย radiant or holy magic,ย mortal
STRENGTHS:ย resistance to fire, magical prosthetics which provide enhanced strength and mobility in those limbs (left arm and right leg), singing and musical ability with the luteย
PHYSICAL APPEARANCE:ย as a tiefling, he has yellowed hued skin, black and gold eyes and sharp pointed teeth. both of his brown-black horns on top of his head are broken, only the jagged and coarsely carved stumps remain which he can mostly obscure with his medium length black hair. he lost his left arm and has a magical prosthetic beginning at the bottom of his shoulder. he lost his right leg and has a magical prosthetic beginning above his knee at the middle of his thigh. his tail remains intact and measures about five feet long. the prosthetics attach to his body through magic and enable him full range of motion, enhanced strength in those limbs, but no physical sensation of feeling. the prosthetics can be removed. he also has many scars which alter the skin tone in those areas to a lighter shade.
Once known throughout Withermore as a jovial jester and bard, Menon the Merry traversed the kingdom with his fellow band of cohorts and enthusiasts to spread laughter and joy where it was needed most, following after in the wake of tragedy to remind the populace that hope and brightness soon follows. It was common, therefore, for many lords and ladies to call upon this band of merry folk to perform at their court. One such invitation should have perhaps been rejected. There had always been dark rumors circulating the cruel lord of this realm who now called upon them, of sinister temptations and obscenities beyond imagining, but they continued on, naively believing perhaps these were only exaggeration and this was precisely the place they needed to be in order to spread happiness to all the corners of the realm, for who needed to smile more than a lord who supposedly never did.ย
Menon the Merry and his band of fellows arrived at court and began to perform their routine, they were not met with laughter and there was not a single smiling face in court until a crossbow was loosed and down fell the bard singing her song no more. Menon watched in horror as his companion choked on her blood and it was in this moment that the lord at the head of the court began to smile at last, for he took great enjoyment in the suffering of others, and how comical it was to witness the bard once so lyrical now reduced to choking sobs. Menon was petrified. His companions became outraged but fighting against the court guard was useless and one by one, they were all struck down, leaving a trembling Menon behind, so terrified he had soiled himself, for at the tender age of two and twenty, he had never before witnessed such ghastly brutality. When the lord aimed his crossbow now onto Menon, he began to plea for his life, nonsensically, desperate to be spared, willing to do anything and in a fit of panic and terror, began to dance in his urine and the blood of his fallen friends. The cruel lord looked on, no hint of mercy in his eyes then suddenly, a gleam of delight struck him. This display pleased the lord so that he spared the panicked bard and hereby and forthwith dubbed him to be: Merrymock, the court jester. So he was Menon no more and Merrymock he became.
For sixteen years Merrymock serviced his evil lord, performing by extension of his will, cruel acts upon poor victims at court to make his lord laugh. If he refused to perform or failed to do so in a way the lord deemed satisfactory, then he was subjected to torture at the hands of his lord and forced to feign enjoyment for he quickly found that screams of pain and terror only encouraged his lord to do worse.ย
On one occasion, Merrymock almost died to an infection for his lord was not keen on healing or cleanliness practices and cared not for his ailments lest it could serve to amuse him somehow. Merrymock was certain his lord would have let him die from the infection if he hadnโt convinced him how joyful it would be to cut off his leg and watch him hop around. This did bring great enjoyment to the cruel lord, who amputated Merrymockโs leg himself with a smile. As a rare gift, his lord eventually agreed to procure for him a prosthetic for his missing limb. The loss of his left arm, however, was purely due to his lord now having gained an appreciation for amputation.ย
So much cruelty and pain warped the tieflingโs mind and one day reached his breaking point. As a result of trying to make his lord laugh, he broke his horns by ramming himself against a stone wall. The following morning, his lord had the pieces strung up over Merrymockโs bed like a trophy, so when he woke he was faced with their shattered imagery and his lordโs laughter echoed through the chamber. Merrymock took down the hanging vestiges of his horns and used them to silence the mocking laughter of his cruel lord, once and for all, now it was his own manic crying laughter that reverberated through the halls of the castle. He was free but not safe. The death of the lord would soon be known and he undoubtedly hunted to be faced with his crime, so Merrymock fled to the lawless city of Destarin, seeking refuge and an opportunity to heal from all the horrors heโd experienced.
Though Merrymock was anything but obscure, he continued to dazzle and try to entertain those around him, remaining very much in the public eye. So much so, that after spontaneously running as governor for the town, managed to win the vote and thus the title and responsibilities fell to his inexperienced shoulders.
โYes! Yes you should,โ Yazi exclaimed, then gasped in surprise. โA man? I am not a man,โ he replied and shook his head. โObviously I am a Pandok, and I know everything about being a Pandik.โ
Merrymock muses thoughtfully, arms crossing over his chest with prosthetic fingers delicately tapping his chin, laughing softly. "Is it obvious? It isn't very obvious to me. You must be a very smart pandok to know everything there is about being a pandok. I know many men who can't say the same."
Gasping loudly in a clear exaggeration of the action, a hand pressing over his chest and everything before he dissolves into a fit of lilting giggles. "Is that so? Should I know? Because it is what I am?" Merry points a finger toward Yazi, landing squarely at his chest, "And what are you? A man? Do you know everything about being a man because you are one?"
Chaos. It was all chaos. Fiadh loved it. What a turn in her story, unexpected per usual and yet comforting. Part of her wondered if she would have seen this coming if she had actually been paying attention to the court around her instead of only when she was asked but where was the fun in that? Losing herself in the crowd, she was drunk on blood and upheaval. It was a chance to be someone she hadn't been yet. When she heard the voice of her new king, she was surprised but ran with it. She moved in a mock curtsey, pulling at invisible skirts before putting her hand in his. He was a more riveting creature than she imagined. She was realizing how uninterested in others she had been and how much of a waste of time it had been. Now was a time to find out what she had been missing "My liege of course we must! Even without a crown, how could I say no to an offer like that?"
"Delightful, darling! Delightful!" And he is quick to sweep her into his arms, encircling around her waist to draw her close against his body to pull her along to the lull of the music. It is easy for him to fall into step despite the copious amounts of alcohol he has already consumed. Surely it would have sundered anyone else but Merrymock is unlike any other. "This is such a marvelous night for revelry, is it not so? You look absolutely ravishing, radiant! Resplendent!" He laughs haughtily at the repetition.
As an illusionist, Asvari was one who chased perfection. But he did think there were certain limits to it and he couldn't always get things the way he wanted them. His lips to a glass of water - for too much alcohol made him too fuzzy to keep his power going - and his eyes on the hall, the food looked just as splendid as it should, though reigned. "Withholding?" he smirked, then did a tiny bow. "I'd never withhold from you." He stepped closer and placed his empty hand on the jester's chest, smoothing out a wrinkle on his shirt. "Have I not always looked as good as a tasty meal?"
A hum fills Merry's throat at the casual touch and he leans into it, stepping closer so that more of Asvari's palm covers his chest. "You have," his voice practically purring, "A buffet. In fact, if one were to imagine you as a meal. You, my darling," he curls his prosthetic finger beneath the other man's stubbled chin, "are a feast."
Tajhana watched him attempt to distract her, and she wondered if maybe himself, from what had been asked. The new King began to play with his words the way that he had on stage and play with his form, dancing about her in a theatrical manner that he had clearly done time and time again but Tajhana did not move. She could be softer with people, people she felt needed it, but even if he did his position now where Tajhana was less inclined for such generosity. The woman had been in Destarin since it had been brought back from the ashes of war and had always known the prophecy she needed to fulfill would be there, she just hoped it was not one of the town's demise at the playful King's inexperienced hands.
"No," Tajhana answered, plainness to her eyes that lacked amusement. "Should you experience revelation in nightmares or visions in dreams, you choose to act in this world and it is how you act that condemns you. I would warn you not to play as though it is a crown you were made for and recall what men who imagine themselves entitled to such power can do to those around them." Tajhana, of course, spoke of the rulers of the other courts, sure he had experienced pain at one of their hands.
"It is not you who will suffer if you indulge in dreams or nightmares, your majesty. It will be the people in this hall."
All this talk is quite simply, above Merry's comprehension. His expression doesn't shift in the slightest, bearing the same broad and sharp toothed smile he always carries and releases a soft throaty laugh at her words, her warning. "Oh you are quite marvelous. I wish to keep you so you can speak ominous riddles like this more often. Perhaps you can follow behind me and whisper them into my ear. Can you do this?"
Yazi had now suddenly completely forgotten about the bloody display outside and the strange manner of royalty that was the jester with a crown. Or well, for a minute at least, as he collected a plate of fish. "What even is the difference between a king and a mayor?"
"You know," Merrymock reaches forward for a vine of grapes, "I don't know. Suppose we find someone and ask them?" Grapes burst between sharp teeth as he bites down on their flesh, copper crown of bells chiming as he chews.
"Do you imagine that is a righteous way to view it?" she asked. Tajhana had not spoken to Merrymock before, did not know him as much more than a tormented performer that seemed to amuse and delight all he came across. There was no basis for her to gather that perhaps the intense way she could speak with people might bother him. "All Kings imagine they were made for crowns, do you think that attitude suits them when it comes to their Kingdom's?"
"Imagine?" Merry echoes the word back to her and then hums and laughs, clapping, "Oh you speak in riddles. I love riddles!" Merry clears his throat and speaks again, voice lilting, "For it's a marvel, by the rood, to my mind, what causes dreaming either at dawn or at evening," he tilts his head to the side, crown of bells chiming, "and why truth appears in some and from some shall never come," he gasps and clutches at his chest, "Why this one is a vision, and that one a revelation," he points with a crooked finger in the air, at her, not at her, near her. "Why this a nightmare, that a dream... and not to every man the same. Why this a phantom, why these oracles I know not; but who of these miracles knows the cause better than me." He's been stepping around her in a circle, in a dance, each step lighter than the last until he ends again in front of her. "Is this what you mean?"
"Congradulations, your Majesty," Tajhana gave an elegant bow. Of the visions she had for Destarin's future she was not sure this was the one she liked being in but she knew the jester had good intentions... "The crown is a good look for you."
Lilting laughter chimes from his throat at her bow. Everyone has been bowing to him lately, it's wonderful. No one has ever bowed to him before, it's only ever been he who has been doing the bowing and he can't the reflexive urge to do the same and so returns the gesture, though his bow is done in jest, for his own humor and so it is a silly one that tilts to the side. "It is indeed, isn't it?" He lightly touches the crown at his head. "I was made for it, wouldn't you say? Not the other way around. Everyone has a crown made for them but certainly, I was made for this crown in particular."
Flittering around like a tingling butterfly, Merrymock, now King, has been making his rounds. It is what he believes a king should do, after all. Be seen by his adoring citizens! They are here for him, naturally he must speak to as many people as he possibly can, so there he goes, meandering around with someone always refilling his goblet with more wine, more mead, more ale and offering him sweet things and pastries and cured meats. "You there! Darling, darling, you stunning creature," Merry practically floats toward her, wine spilling from the edge of his goblet, "We must dance now, yes we must! If you would please, grace yourself with my hand," he extends his hand, a wooden and half metal prosthetic toward her.
It's the most marvelous night, not only because there's a party and Merrymock naturally loves a party, but because this party in particular is the best sort of all. The kind that celebrates him! He's already consumed enough alcohol to inebriate an ogre but Merry's tolerance is unlike any other and so he only has his usual wobble to his step as he approaches an attractive yet familiar face. "You!" He points like an accusation to the illusionist. "Have been withholding to me! Indeed you have been." Merry waves a flourishing arm toward the decor, "Your skills are positively exemplary!"
The succubus smiled, sheen to her lips reflecting the light that remained while her eyes in their cool tone were warmed by the yellow of Merrymock's, giving them a slight green tinge. "I need to keep up some appearance, even around one of my stars," she stated, drawing the liquor he had poured to her lips and taking a slow draw, allowing the warm taste to wash over her tongue and burn down her throat.
Evelyn did not wish to confess to Merry that, on occasion, his own arousal made her feel sort of ill. It was not as though it was absent, the way a lack of consent seemed to rip all energies from the air, but rather like his want was not fit for her. Maybe it was her, like a warning sign in her body that what he would desire from her she would not be capable of giving, or maybe it was something worse within him, but in truth Evelyn suspected it was something else. Something worse. Hate. Not at her, the arousal she felt was always someone's own. The sense of it rather...inward. People could dislike themselves, in moments, but this felt like it stuck to all of him always, clung to any other emotion he might be capable of. However, as it was not a common sort of taste, and this was merely her assessment based on her interactions with him, and her words with her father and sisters, she was not sure how to mention it to the man who was already lost in his mind.
"I suspect you would prefer inside out," Evelyn instead responded to his offer. "And there are more playful individuals out there who might concede to this."
Her son.
Evelyn's son had his own sort of inward dislike that came out in ways she was never quite capable of dealing with. Merry was, in her interactions with him, very well intented, even if misguided, and so her hope was to not mention that she felt her son might be capable of handling whatever clung to his wants until it seemed Dracoth was in the mood not to lean too much into the strange persona he had taken on as of late. She wanted Merry to see the sweet but indulgent side of him, not the narcissistic and ambivalent show he had taken up.
Unlike Merry her drink was only half empty. "I have someone in mind for you," she assured him of her own disinterest, not wishing to grow whatever was within him. "Almost as pretty as myself, certainly more handsome, far more likely to turn you inside out, and less expectant of mundane sense."
"Oh ho ho," the tiefling draws back from his lean in order to knock back his second glass. Alcohol seeps between the seams of his lips and he licks it clean. "You tantalize me darling. Someone who is almost as pretty as you and likely to turn me inside out," he balances his empty glass on the point of one sharp nail. It tips precariously to one side but he quickly and deftly corrects the balance so it does not fall but this almost falling is quite amusing and so he taunts gravity a few more times, laughter bubbling lowly from his throat.
"I simply must know who it is," Merry tosses the glass into the air, it spins in a pretty arch before he catches it behind his back. "No, wait! Let me guess!" The glass clinks as he places it back against the bar top. His features momentarily shift from their usual broad grin to a placid looking smile. "Could it be... is it possible... but then again no, certainly no. Perhaps then maybe... no, no. Hmm.. Then perhaps... is it... that fine looking fellow from the other day? The one with stars for eyes. You know the one," he doesn't consider that perhaps she does not know.
Shout out to characters who want to be used. Shout out to characters who are so desperate to be worth something that they'll endure anything. Shout out to characters who build their entire self worth around being useful, being a tool. Shout out to characters who don't care how they are treated, as long as someone pays them any attention at all
Ablutions in a cold river bed lift away the layers of grit & crimson that stain him, and he is reborn, pale and perfect, from plumes of red and ash that swirl away in his wake. He dresses methodically in the darkness, stark white in forested shadow, and leaves behind the death he wrought as if it is nothing at all. Acts like this should make him feel more human, awaken his senses from the haze sloughing through his mind, but it only reminds him he is dead. What he feels is a suggestion of biting cold. An echo resonating through resurrected sinew and bone โ like a stone hitting the bottom of an ocean. A distant knock, forever unanswered.
Tonight, the voice of the Scorn-raven is lost to him, leaving him an empty, hollow vessel in dreadful silence, aching. Even that stentorian thrum which buzzes in his limbs, borrowed energy from a higher source, has gone quiet, and he is torturously free of all his usual purpose & distractions. He is truly alone. Errant. Lost. It's nights like these when he feels the need to claw at the ivory cage of himself, to see if he can break free, feel anything, recover something. He is, all at once and without warning, a slave loosed from his shackles with no concept of what it is to be free.
The drive to run when there's no escape makes it impossible to rest.
Lasher finds his way into the heart of Destarin, some old rote buried deep within him taking over and directing him towards a nondescript tavern. Perhaps in the life stolen from him, he drank his fill every night, enjoyed the company of a shapely woman when she'd have him, brawled tactlessly with his brothers at arms. Perhaps he laughed, fucked, scrapped, and howled at the moon like the others and felt a perfect sense of belonging and rightness with the universe when his head hit the pillow after.
But now, he sits stiffly at the bar, his scarred palms flat on the surface โ strange, white-knuckled appendages that once were his to wield, just extensions of Nรญรฐhrafn. Acts like this should make him feel more human, but only remind him he is dead. The warmth of the hearth within doesn't chase the chill away, and the lively music doesn't move him. The din of patrons drunk and red-cheeked around him is only a miserable static. He is but a vestige of human, a starless abyss that rips and tears.
His woolen hood masks his citrine eyes when he addresses the barkeep, ordering the most vicious whiskey distilled. His voice is gravel and growl. When he shifts, the greatsword between his shoulders glints silvery white.
Blood, Sweat & Beers is a nightly haunt for Merrymock. He flits around the spacious tavern, fluttering with the crowd, the loudest and brightest in the room for he always shines. A walking spectacle. He dances with the music or without, more often without than with. He picks up a lyre and delights with a raunchy tune about hares in winter and excessive copulating. He balances a chair on his nose and absorbs applause ย from those around him like oxygen. Attention, smiles, laughter, these are his life bloods, and a good ale. Lots of ale. And wine. Lots and lots of wine. No one escapes his attention for Merrymock, though appearing to be a flighty thing incapable of maintaining focus on any one thing for too long, is always keenly and intensely aware of everything around him.
He hears the hollow spaces of the room that do not ring with laughter as a warning.
Landing like a bird with a broken wing against the side of the bar ย beside the white haired man with his glinting great sword, Merry exalts with a great heaving breath, โMy, my, my, you are a lively one!โ Laughter bubbles from his throat. His grin stretches wide. Merrymock is never without his signature smile, all sharp teeth and curled edges, wrinkled cheeks and glittering eyes. Kohl and grease and sweat nests beneath the creases of their yellow flame. โOh, oh, but I know you. Yes? Mm,โ Merry hums thoughtfully, a clawed finger taps his chin. โOh, darling of moonshine, oh warrior of ash, would I were as dazzling as your dying light.โ
Doran laughed. He couldn't help it. Merrymock was a spectacle, a spiraling tower of feathers and glitter and babble, and whatever gods governed the foggy hours of midnight surely had a special affection for creatures like him. The mayorโs words were nonsense and poetry, cotton candy stuck to the bones of some ruined ledger Doran had dared to mention. This wasnโt an audience; this was a performance. โOh, sweet saint,โ Doran murmured, catching one of the flung hats before it hit the wall. โYouโve outdone the whole city.โ Merrymock collapsed into the couch as though gravity itself gave him a special sort of attention, and Doran crouched beside him, coaxing one of the mayorโs beaded curls away from his mouth. โCome now, darling, rest your head.โ Doran cooed, as if talking to a child. โYouโve had a long night ofโโ he glanced at the wreckage of hats, โโexistential poetry. And upholstery.โ He patted the arm of the couch gently. โJust rest, mm? Iโll do the boring thing. Find that silly little book.โ Doran slipped off, already certain the answer would not be found between drawers and knobs. A quick look, thatโs all he needed. A glance through drawers. A paw through some half-crushed parchment. The ledger, surely, was real. A thing with pages. A thing with answers. It would be easier if he just found it himself. He was so wrong. The house made no sense. One room had a chandelier on the floor, its crystals stacked into a pyramid like a tomb offering. Another had a spiral staircase that led nowhere but up into the ceiling, like the ghost of ambition. One room was blue. Just blue. Blue walls, blue chairs, blue cups on blue shelves. Even the air felt blue. One room had a dollhouse in the shape of the house they were in, but he did not check if it had a Merrymock inside. He gave up shortly after opening a closet to find three umbrellas tied together like a bouquet. Back to Merrymock he went, whose limbs were draped like they had never known bone or dignity. Beads glinting, one slipper gone, mouth parted in a dreamy curve. Not human. Not quite fae. Not quite real. But Doran had learned something during a siege at the edge of the world, where the wind came in black and the rivers froze overnight: you can push a body past its limits with the right sort of blood. He unbuttoned his sleeve and slid it down. The skin beneath was pale, veined with tar. A soft sigh left his lips, almost a prayer to the strange moment. He lifted his arm, turned it, and bit down. Teeth sank in, clean and precise. The wound bloomed black and vivid. A stimulant. A memory. A curse. A promise. He knelt beside the couch again. Merrymock looked impossibly still, eyelashes fluttering faintly as though dreaming of songs not yet sung. โI need you to be sober now,โ Doran whispered, brushing a thumb over his cheek like a secret. โI need you to remember. The books, Merry. The ledger. Itโs important.โ He offered his bleeding arm. The blood dripped down slowly as a secret. โDrink.โ Whether this was a flirtation or a battlefield bond, only the saints would know. But the blood knew what it was meant to do.
Memories are silly fickle things, like birds. Sometimes they fly close to the surface, sometimes they land upon a branch and peck at bark, other times they find a squishy but delicious worm or a seed to crack open, but sometimes they fly high into the sky and soar and what a marvelous feeling it must be for they flit about in the sky for so long they forget to land. Merry often forgets to land, or would rather not. So when something liquid touches his lips and he licks it away reflexively, something in him wakes.
Itโs being thrust into ice cold water and shocks the system. His body twitches, curling, fingers grasp the bleeding arm to throw it away from himself but another part of him, the stronger part, draws it in closer.
Merry is flying.
Oh, the sky is here surrounding him like a lover, like a friend. Clouds break against his skin and tickles his lashes, fluttering open like heโs seeing light for the first time. His pupils inflate so quickly they nearly snuff out the fire in his eyes and leave only a thin ring of flickering amber. Merrymock has tasted blood before, usually his own, almost always his own and his own blood is delightful enough as it is but it does nothing for him. Itโs the same as drinking water.
This blood is different.
This blood ignites his tongue. Tastes like nectar and sin and Merrymock has always had a fiendish sweet tooth for both.
He laps against cool skin, dignity was never his companion, and moans against this bloody forearm. Coated lips drag, smearing deep crimson. โWhat is thisโฆโ he inhales with his mouth bared open like an animal, sharp teeth peaking from red coated lips like a half concealed secret, โโฆthis delightful ambrosia?โ His tongue flicks out again for more, โThisโฆ is you?โ Eyes like fire land upon the man, this creature whose blood tastes like divinity and murder. โMore,โ he yearns for it, licking his lips and drawing blood soaked fingers up the length of Doran's arm, โI want more. Will you give it to me?โ Sensuality drips from his lips, purring out his throat like the caress of warm satin. โPlease.โ Two things Merrymock adores: euphoria and begging and he is an expert in both.
โค๏ธ - Kink in Destarin that is the most overplayed and vanilla for you?
"Bondage."
"It can be a delight when done properly but so many are lazy. Don't just restrain my arms and legs. Remove them. Dislocate what remains of my limbs and hogtie me so all I can do is roll in place. Or, or, or order me not to move for hours, or days! Force me to wallow in my own excrement! Ahhh. Reminiscing like this makes me miss my Lord."
