Fynn!

Tiny child gets an rp blog lol

[plush-candles]

Some time ago.

…

Despite what his demeanor may imply, Prince Finnean of the Eastern Woods has many friends.

Friends made of wood, friends full of stuffing, friends of plastic and sticks and bone. Friends in the trees, in the grass, friends with exoskeletons and feathers, friends in the river that runs by his house. Prince Finnean has many, many friends.

He is surrounded by such friends now, loyal subjects of the kingdom mapped upon the paper spread before him, lines drawn in meticulous colored pencil and marker. A frustrated huff escapes him, evident only in how it flicks his messy blonde hair. The affairs of state have him bored, today, as a wooden peasant with painted eyes bothers him about some banal argument about a fence. 

“Couldn’t you just settle this between yourselves?”

…sigh.

“…oooof course not.”

Prince Finnean has had a long day fighting invaders and navigating cutthroat politics in the greater courts, the courts run by Kings and Queens, like his siblings. Alas, the elder heirs to the Wood are gone on quests, battling the dragons of the distant lands of…he sounds out the word in his head.

“You-niv-ver-sit-ee.”

Thus, he had been left in charge of their sprawling lands, with almost no clue how to manage it. He’s done well, aiding construction efforts and watching the population grow steadily. The flower crown weighs heavy on him, but it must be done. He must go on, for the sake of his little kingdom. 

He opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off by a voice not his own, instead rushing to the ramparts.

“FIIIIIIIIINN!?”

…

Finn Nightingale doesn’t have many friends. However, he is at least tolerated by two of his classmates, the same two who stand below him. He places his hands on the wooden railing of the treehouse, giving them a blankly surprised look.

The louder of the two waves her hands. Her sleek black hair is tied into a loose braid that falls near her waist, and her sundress is simple, white, and already stained at the hem with grass. Knowing her, she fell three times on the way over here and yet still showed up first. Finn normally doesn’t like loud people, but Yuki somehow managed to grow on him.

Finn waves. “Hi, Yuki. Hi, Archie.”

Archer’s name is, to be honest, kind of unfortunate, considering how passive and softhearted he is. Finn once saw him cry over a moth whose wing he accidentally stepped on, and then cry harder when he was told it’d likely die in the wild. Archer is wearing his usual soft sweater and white beanie hat. It’s barely autumn and the leaves haven’t really started changing, and yet he already looks ready for November. He waves quietly.

“Your mom sent us, cause you were late!” Yuki begins to scale the ladder.

“She said you were coming at twelve-thirty!”

“It’s one in the afternoon, Finnie,” she retorted, “Also, what’s with the flower crown? What’re you doing up there all day?”

“Um…”

He feels a familiar, embarrassed warmth crawl up his face. Even for a kid of his age, the amount of time and effort he spent in his little world was…concerning, especially for the kind of nice guidance counselors who’d take him aside and ask him questions at school. They didn’t know that his family was cursed, nor did they believe Finn when he told them he knew it was all real because his big brother went there and never felt the need to return. They always gave him the same smile with the same sad eyes, writing down something in their notebook or whatever, but he knew. What Finn lacks in social skills, he makes up for in observation.

Yuki snaps him out of his thoughts. “Hellooooo? Didja hear me?”

“Y-yeah, I’m- um. Running the kingdom. Y’know.” Finn’s frazzled brain, caught mid-thought, blurts out the truth instead of the lies people would rather hear from a normal kid.

“…the what-huh?”

“You know, the woods, someone’s got to run them.”

“…like…a game? You’re playing a game without us?!”

Archer perks up at this. “Can we play with you?”

“Um…I suppose so…?”

…

Prince Finnean is not used to entertaining guests. The closest thing he ever got to that was when his siblings came back from their questing for the summer, regaling him with stories of distant lands and the affairs of nobles afflicted with the madness of young adulthood. It reminded Finnean of why he had, years prior, decided he would never allow himself to be infected with the disease of maturity.

Princess Yuki giggled at the table, twittering about the sort of epic adventures she got up to in her ample free time. Finnean found her stories of expeditions into fae territory and her face-off against the siren queen fascinating. Prince Archer quietly spoke of how he preferred to stay in his home territory, sorting out scholarly debates during long stretches of peace. Fitting, considering his kingdom was surrounded by a protective layer of snow and mountains. Finnean, in turn, told tales of the dragons he’d slain or befriended, of daring rescue missions, daily battles against invaders on the borders, and snickering nobility who’d hide their violent intentions behind the veil of verbal sparring. His guests exchange glances, and the princess speaks up after a moment.

“Is…that why you have so few friends?”

“…No? I prefer to be alone.”

“Why?”

“It keeps my kingdom safe, if nobody knows about it.”

Prince Archer considers that for a moment. “But…we know. That’s why we’re here. Are we making your kingdom be not safe??”

“…I am aware of the danger.” Finnean stretches the limits of his princely vocabulary to mask the pleading tremor building in his voice. “…please do not make me regret this.”

“Whyyyyy would we do that? The other kids- um. The other nobility don’t particularly like us either.” The princess shrugs, smiling.

“Yeah, besides, this is really cool. You’re real good at making flower crowns.” Archer smiles.

Prince Finnean resists the urge to wipe his eyes. “…you mean it?”

“Yeah!” Yuki pumps her fist in the air. “You’re our friend, silly!”

She sticks her hand out over the middle of the table, and the two boys place theirs over it before they all throw their hands up, laughing.

…

Fynn the Orphan sits up, breathing heavily. He draws his blanket up around his shoulders, stifling his tears. He’s been having strange dreams for weeks…still, the aching, hollow feeling persists. He’s misses his friends. He misses his siblings. He misses his parents. He misses his little kingdom. Exile grates on him like a festering wound.

Something inside him protests, screams at himself and at the world, raging pitifully against the odds. He grits his teeth. Now is not the time for a tantrum, it’d just make him even more pathetic than he already is. He forces himself to his feet. Maybe Verie will still be awake, or Joy, or anyone else.

Fynn the Orphan had many friends, once.

[plush-candles]

less time ago.

…

Cold. It is very cold, here.

Fynnean The Exile has known almost nothing but cold for his relatively short existence. The wood he awoke in is smothered in a blanket of sparkly white, silencing all but the most adventurous of creatures.

Normally, he would assume he was made to inhabit such a place. His hair is frosted white, his clothes are fluffy and well-insulated, and he’s known no other season. And yet, a faint ache of unfamiliarity remains. A loose string of memory and grief he has had little time to unravel. He calls himself exile, for that is what he must be. There is a home waiting for him, somewhere, he simply must get back to it.

There are a few things he has learned in his time here. He cannot starve. He does not need water. If he needed either, he would have died a long time ago. “Home” is currently a little hollow in a tree, more a warm nest of fluff and feathers and a stash of makeshift tools than anything akin to a traditional place of living.

He sighs, and watches the snow drift to the ground.

…

Noise. Someone is traversing his lost kingdom of sleepless nothing. His ears perk up, and he peeks out of his hollow to take stock of the situation.

Human. White dress. Magic staff. Tiara. Knee-length braided hair, also white. Winter cloak. Noble, at the very least. Struggling against the snow.

He emerges from his hiding space, but blanks on a proper greeting. Solitude has rusted his etiquette. The stranger turns to him in mild surprise.

“Oh, hello, little one!”

Her voice is soft, but haggard from what he assumes are long days walking alone. He knows the feeling, and his own voice comes out quieter than he intends.

“Hullo.”

“Do you live here?”

“Only because I must.”

“What is your name, dear?”

“Fynnean.”

He stops short of giving himself a title. He is no prince, here.

“I’m Guinevere, though you may call me Verie.”

He nods to her, a small bow of respect. She laughs softly.

“No wonder I didn’t notice you sooner, you’re awful quiet. Must serve you well, in a place like this.”

“Does indeed, Miss.”

“Do you mind leading me out of here, then? If it’s not too much trouble.”

“If I knew where civilization was, I would be there instead.”

“Hmm…well, a child your age shouldn’t be out in the cold alone. You may join me, if you’d like.”

“Join you to where?”

“Anywhere that will have me. I do not have the privilege to be picky”

“Hmm…alright.”

…

Their conversations often carry on like that. Manners and elegance come easily to Fynnean’s traveling companion, less so to Fynnean himself.

They don’t come across many other people, and the few they do find tend to assume the mismatched travelers are siblings, just based on appearance. It’s an assumption Fynnean doesn’t care to correct, based purely on apathy and surely not the faint sense of warmth it gives him to have something akin to a family.

He stares at the modest campfire they set up by the frozen river. While neither of them are survivalists, his companion has a knack for spellcraft. They’ve never had to worry about finding things to start their fires with. It flickers softly, the most color and light he sees in this white-on-white world.

“Fynn, do you remember where you came from?”

He fights the urge to smile a bit at the nickname and fails.

“Not much. You?”

“Sadly not…just faint Deja vu and my skills with the staff, unfortunately.”

“…m’sorry.”

“Do not be, my memory may return in time. Besides, I remember our little journey so far quite well, and I’m glad for it.”

“…me too.”

She lightly ruffles his hair, and instead of flinching away, he scrunches up his face.

“Ah, an expression! My dauntless knight truly does have a heart!”

He lets out a huff, but can’t suppress his smile.

“Pardon me, but I wouldn’t be very dauntless if I had as much mushiness as you, Miss.”

“I say, what are they teaching the youth these days?! What, have your English classes been replaced with Entry To Sarcasm?”

They both snicker in a failed attempt at being refined. Fynn wonders how on earth any court could have forced someone like Verie into exile. Surely, it must have been a mistake.

Surely, this must all be a mistake.

…

Candleton is very bright.

Fynn likes it, though. It’s so warm, so colorful, compared to the endless silence of the forest.

An abandoned manor, they had said. On the edge of the lake. Possibly haunted. It suits the exiles just fine, although it’s a bit big for just the two of them. Fynn even has the attic all to himself, with its old dollhouses. It’s cozy, despite the cobwebs that they are working on eradicating, and the yard was good for practicing spells.

Verie smiles at him from across the empty dinner table.

“At this rate, I think you’ll read just about everything in the library by winter’s end. I’d send you to an actual school, if I could.”

“Thank you, but…I like staying home.”

“I should have assumed as much…I never asked- is there any particular reason for your solitary nature, or is it just how you prefer things?”

He frowns slightly, shifting in his seat.

“…I’m…I don’t know.”

“Huh, alright. Well, you know I don’t mind it, I was just a bit curious.”

“…is there a reason why you always wear white?”

“No, not really, it’s just my second-favorite color. Goes with my hair, hehe.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“Pink. Yours?”

“…Don’t know yet.”

“Well, you have plenty of time here to learn.”

[plush-candles]

How did you end up here

”I ran away, just like my big sister.”

[plush-candles]

Hello child

I would like to ask about your past

”…All I really remember is my sister…she was always real nice to me. She used to read books to me…I miss her.”

[plush-candles]

almost what?

”Spooky day!”

[plush-candles]

she's full of energy, as usual.

”I hear it’s almost spook day.”

[plush-candles]

HAI!! watcha doin?

“Nap.”

[plush-candles]

nuzzles for the silly fox boy!

“Hiiii!!”

[plush-candles]

indeed she is and LEST THERE BE HUGS UPON THEE.

He yelps, before returning the hug. Happi child :)

[plush-candles]

JOY

to the world, the bird is here!

[plush-candles]

he is on a trikecycle with training wheels

(based on a joke we had in call)

he falls over :(

[plush-candles]

she snuggles closer and is asleep before they even realize it.

he is the best protecter in the world to her, even if he doesn't think that.

He yawns one last time before all but passing out.

[plush-candles]

she adjusts herself so that her wing can be used as a fluffy blanket for both fynn and herself.

yawwwwwwn…

he’s pretty annoyed at himself for not being able to stay awake. What kind of protector is he that he can’t even keep his eyes open?

[plush-candles]

he leans on his shoulder, also really tired from running around and dancing.

Fynn flops backwards and stares up at the stars.

[plush-candles]

joy sits next to him and amethyst lays down nearby.

He yawns. It’s late…

[plush-candles]

amethyst finds them and nuzzles them both.

Fynn sits by the railing of the balcony.

[plush-candles]

she smiles, that was good enough for her.

He beams back.