FOR THE REVOLUTION!

Marceline Ash Pelagius. Revolter. Lieutenant of the Guard. The Hermit. In favor of a republic; down with the monarchy!

[blackdelia]

[revoluticn]

shadowrcith​:

Rage spits hot and bright behind their placid expression, behind masks both literal and figurative, like oil on a stove. It is no more an insult than those who call them bastard, those who call them devil, but the mention of their mother ignites that same familiar fury they have buried so deep within themself. The only thing they had inherited from their mother was a certain kind of cruelty they were not eager to show. A cruelty Marceline threatens to bring out in them.

One day, they think, watching her school her expression like a child who does not want to get into trouble; one day you will step out of line and your head will join your father’s, and I will delight in being the one to tell the King what you deserve. They would never say it; they don’t even like to think it, petty and heartless and—and cruel. But they do not have the peace of mind to stop themself from thinking it. 

Everyone has secrets. Marceline is no exception to that. They could tempt it out of her, push and prod until that fire in her eyes flamed hot enough to ignite her. If she had no secrets, an attempt on their life could still be painted as sedition, framed the right way. And who would the King believe? His loyal spymaster, or the spawn of a would-have-been revolutionary whose plans for a better world were never got enough to prevent him from being killed outright? 

     “Are you so like your father? I should think there is at least one particularly important difference between he and you, seeing as you are standing in front of me.” 

A blink - and cruelty cracks across their face. She’s always had an eye for the truth and so Marceline catches it. Or perhaps she desperately wants to know that she can twist the knife in a way not so unlike the knights that ran her father through and imagines the strike of anger. If all she has right now is words, words she’ll use. Her fingers drum across her crossed arms.

They ask her if she is so like her father. Marceline is no stupid creature of the woods, she knows bait when she sees it and she won’t be hunted today. Though Wraith isn’t wrong to try - if there’s anyone who would justify a well placed word in favor of the revolution at the risk of their own life it’s Marceline.

“Not so much” She says with as much snap as she’s said everything else, “I have my mother’s eyes.” It’s meant to be cheeky. It is. She paces the length of the hallway. “I’m more like her in my loyalties as well.”

She taps the lieutenant’s pin on her lapel. Even the vague truth, that exists in that grey area,  feels rotten on her tongue, but Marceline pushes through, if only for the sake of appearances. What she wants to say is, ‘if I were behind all of this, I wouldn’t have failed.’

“I suppose you could say I am as much my father as you are your mother.” She wonders what Wraith’s upbringing must have been like. Marceline is entirely who she is because of nurture, but she watches the way they step through space and maybe there some things nature brings into this world twisted.

“If you’re spending your evening trying to figure out who’s behind this, I can say, if wasn’t me.” She holds up both hands. “There you go. You’ve crossed another person off your suspect list and are thus, one step closer. You’re welcome.”

[burntgcds]

date: eighth of the tenth month location: the courtyard availability: closed to @revoluticn​

The events of the tourney plagued her mind. The past few days were spent thinking about the assassination attempt on the king and what that meant for the future of the kingdom. She had arrived at the court in search of a suitor, but her attempts were much harder after the assassination took place. She couldn’t manage to catch Reynaud alone, and it was making her goal harder to accomplish. A part of her wondered if her parents had caught word of the events, but she wouldn’t want them worrying about her. She was safe, for now, but her mind couldn’t help but flashback to the sight of a man of fire.

Was she destined to suffer the same fate as him? Would her power drive her mad? Or would she simply be burned out by her own light? The skin beneath her gloves ached at the thought. She felt more nervous as the days went by, and her powers tended to announce their presence whenever emotions were too high. She had managed to force the burning down whenever it would arrive, but she wasn’t sure how long she could keep it up.

Tasmin bit into a strawberry as she forced herself to push the concerning thoughts away. Her eyes trailed over her companion’s as she sat on a thin blanket. The blanket offered little protection against the discomfort of the grass, but it kept her dress from being stained and it gave a bit of cushion for the two girls. She pushed the bowl of strawberries towards Marceline as she mused aloud.

“When do you suppose things will turn back to normal?” 

[revoluticn]

She did not for one moment think that a girl like Tasmin and her would be friends. Maybe back in her noble days, she would have brushed shoulders or skirts, but even that was a stretch. Even then Marceline has always felt like Tasmin would break if she even looked at her too forcefully and Marceline had never been very good at handling porcelain. 

When had she even last been on a picnic like this?

Meraud. Her last real picnic like this had been with Meraud.

Personally, she hoped that things never returned to normal. She hoped that this would be the first of many shifts, that there would be more and more assassination attempts and that maybe that one of them would even work. Marceline yearned to live in interesting times. She yearned to be the cause of interesting times. 

“Do you want to live a normal life? Doesn’t that sound awfully boring to you?”

She accepted the bowl of strawberries, grabbing one before falling back on the thin blanket to peer up at the sky. She bit into the fruit here, only vaguely aware that her hands would be sticky later. She didn’t care. She looked at Tamsin, her strawberries had stained her lips red. Marceline chose her words carefully.

“Times like these show us who we really are. I think that’s exciting.”

And who was Tasmin? The kind of woman who ate strawberries at a picnic when someone had just set themselves on fire and tried to kill a king. Marceline propped her head up on her hand and reached for another strawberry. She twirled it between her fingers. 

“Are you worried?”

[revoluticn]

valeriavalmont​:

Mead doesn’t taste the same when it’s served in a crystal glass, ornate carvings lining the stem as if it’s nectarine for the gods. The castle guards were the first to teach her how to drink; they knew her mother, or knew of her mother. It was their duty, they claimed, to teach the child of Sexta the Serpent how to match them drink for drink. Today, Valeria does so with a laugh and a challenge in her eyes. Back then…

She takes another long swig of the pint in her hand, as if to drown the memory. Not of the guards’ hearty chuckles and welcoming clap on her back as she took gulps too big for her frame — but of Septimus the day after, and how disappointed she’d been with herself at the sight of his disdain. Then, he had been her uncle. Just her uncle, who favored her and seemed in his kindest moments to even care for her.

Once, Valeria cared what he thought. Valeria, the king’s pride and joy, once gleamed brighter under his reign, and believed.

A guard passes the table and moves to sit across from them. “Not tonight, Caldor.” Valeria dismisses him before he has the chance to speak. “Go find another to listen to your woes without a word.” They don’t watch as he bows his head and scurries away. When they sense the presence of another looming over them, Valeria does not bother looking up. “Caldor, even a child knows to run from wolves before they’re bitten,” they huff with thinly veiled impatience.

But then the figure speaks and Valeria realizes it’s not Caldor at all. They lift their gaze to meet Marceline’s, and a tinge of a smile touches their lips. Marceline is not Caldor, a squire desperate to prove himself; she is a noble who turned to the sword many years ago. In her, Valeria sees their mother. In her, Valeria sees a kindred spirit, though the two have shared little more than a passing conversation with one another.

“No, it had enough space.” They don’t offer an explanation or an invitation to sit with her. She has yet to decide, exactly, whether Marceline’s company is welcome at all. But she has yet to order her away, either. For that, Marceline ought to be grateful.

Worthy of a smile, unworthy of an explanation or and invitation to sit. No matter. Marceline has no intention of staying or going on Valeria’s whim. It’ll be on her own terms, thank you. She won’t lose any more autonomy to a rancid political system; she refuses to contribute to the rot by upholding something she doesn’t believe in.

She scoffs at Valeria’s statement. The Receiving Hall had enough space and yet they are still here. Of course their dining hall wouldn’t be enough, they just had to encroach on the guards space too, didn’t they? Though a snide comment threatens to slip from her lips, Marceline does have ulterior motives for striding over here. She reminds herself it takes importance to her petty comebacks. Invitation or not, she slips onto the wooden bench across from Valeria. 

(She does, however, consider knocking their knees with hers under the table if only to say that it’s as much her space as theirs - and alright, maybe her foot “accidentally” kicks an ankle.)

Truly though, she’s hunting for answers and a hunter’s gaze furrows her brow. There are too many people of the Court, Marceline thinks, that are avoiding scrutiny simply because of their station in life. Marceline, who works hard to be patient with things, finds it particularly difficult to be patient with this phenomena specifically. So she decides to somewhat take matters into her own hands. She can feel some the knights watching her from their table. Even her little wolfdog has sat up, ears at attention, looking directly her way. 

“You know we live in interesting times when men set themselves on fire and try to kill kings.” Marceline says, as she removes her gloves and pockets them. Her tone has a distinct a take-no-prisoners manner. “I’m sure you’re aware of the interrogations Captain Andros is conducting in attempts to find out more about who did this. I am of the opinion that no one in the castle should be spared of them. As far as I’m concerned, everyone is a suspect.”

Marceline has never been one to hide the truth from the sun, but she thinks the implication of ‘You included,’ is pretty explicit, so she doesn’t say it. She blinks and lets her eyes fall their features; to the clench of their jaw to their eyelashes like brambles to the dark of their eyes. She tries to see past these things, as if the answer to the following will be found somewhere there. Plain and simple: does Valeria have any reason to want to kill a king?

“So I’m rather eager to know your opinion on what occurred at the tourney.” 

[thoranda]

You didn’t have to kill that boy. You didn'y have to kill Ambassador Rafel. You didn’t have to kill Pike. Pike got what he deserved.

[revoluticn]

shadowrcith​:

Wraith is used to barbed jabs, pointed comments; they are sister to the crueler utterances, the nicknames spat at their feet, the explicit insinuations. If Marceline wants to lay the blame at their feet like the King did and expects them to feel anything at all about it, she will be disappointed. 

She looks like her father had looked; the same boastful pride. Her hand on her sword, her eyes full of fire. If Wraith has watched her closely since she came to court, it is only natural, only logical; revolutionary blood runs strong. But she has not yet stepped out of line, not yet said a word wrong where they could hear. Nor have any of their sources reported a slip or any sign of revolutionary sympathy.

They wonder, for a moment, if she has something to do with the burning man. If Saif and they are both so close to the one responsible. If that fire in her eyes is something more, a kind of devotion like her father’s. 

     “The lieutenant of the guard can do as she wishes; that is her prerogative. Just as it is my prerogative to question the motives of anyone who looks as if they’re sneaking about where they don’t belong. I never knew the guard encouraged you all to look so suspicious on your patrols.”

Words formulate that the forefront of her mind and slip past the tip of her tongue with little objection. People think Marceline has no impulse control. She has plenty, she’d be dead in the ground if she didn’t, she just has a greater taste for truth. Perhaps this is why she despises Wraith so much; Marceline stands in the sun, with almost nothing to hide, while Wraith has found no greater home than in the shadows. Who’s this shifty-eyed leech calling suspicious?

“No. Most who knew him say I inherited that suspicious look from my father. Hand over heart I was sure you’d be one them.”

She completely removes her hand from the hilt of sword and places it over her heart before letting her arms cross over themselves. There’s daring burning deep in the gesture.

“Just as I’m sure you inherited your charming personality from whatever,”  she censors herself here, some etiquette her mother’s instilled in her will never leave, “birthed you.”

She cocks an eyebrow. Censored or not, there’s no denying to the fight to them and she knows it. Fighting words haave always come so easy to her, even when she was a lady - she was quick to her feet, and quicker to snap back (Reynaud’s broken nose is proof of that.) More recent years have replaced her sharp tongue with a sharp sword. As a knight, Marceline found that her words had to be as forceful as her sword-strokes if she wanted any chance of surviving the social politics of the barracks. 

But as fearless as she acts and as fearless as she is, Marceline is not a woman with nothing to lose, she’s simply a woman who’s willing to risk it all - 

- and tonight is not a night she wants any of this getting back to her mother, or risking her safety. So she bites her tongue and huffs a stray hair from her in front of her face. Her boot taps the stone of the ground. 

“But if you’re so insistent on questioning me Wraith, get on with it. No point in flirting around the matter.” Determined not to cause any more trouble, she is still no saint. “I’m eager to know what you think of my motives. You know how much your opinion matters to me.” 

[revoluticn]

👀 + do you wish you'd died instead of your father?

She answers without hesitation as if this truth has been trying to claw its way from her for a very long time. It has. “Absolutely. I’d take his place in a heartbeat. He knew what he was doing. He spent years as a teacher and then a scholar - and then there were all those years writing. He still had so much left to say. Now the world is robbed of all those words. I ... he understood himself in ways that I have yet to. I wish for it all the time. Maybe certain …causes…would be further along if he were here instead.”

[revoluticn]

WHEN: sixth of the tenth month, six hours after the attempt WHERE: Castle Tyrholm, Greenhouse WHO: @maidenhoods

While Saif begins his interrogations, the Guard moves the body of the charred man to the dungeons. The warden, more than familiar with the knights, offers up an empty cell to use and they lay the body on the cot there. The man is dead, but even Marceline knows that nothing ever truly dies. He’s foolish if he really thinks that something as simple as passing from one side of the veil to the other is enough to keep her from unearthing the truth of his actions. She wants to find the nearest necromancer, and have them reach through that very veil, pull him back, and ask all the questions she wants answers to. 

It’s easy to mask her true intentions with concern for Septimus. The horrid King’s brand of justice and her brand of justice are two very different beasts, but Marceline can make them seem one and the same with her fevered search for answers right now.  She wants to know who did this, because it seemed their motivations lined up up with her personal ones. Who else here, wants to kill a king? She wanted to shake hands with those that were bold enough to try, wanted to look those who wanted to commit such acts of treason in the eye. Find a necromancer so that you can find out who’s behind this, she thinks and then immediately corrects herself: Find a healer first. 

She knows just who.

“Make sure no one touches him,” she says to the two guards standing by the stone walls. And then she’s off. There’s something thrumming in her own blood at the sight of all this death and tension sits tight in her shoulders, buzzing like a wasp’s nest. Marceline does her best to ignore it. She doesn’t have time for for whatever objection that strange magic that sits in her may have and she strides up to and into the the greenhouse, looking for for those familiar flaxen locks. 

“Ms. Mallorian,” she says when she spots Maiden’s thin frame. “I’m in need of your assistance.”

She notices the distant gaze in the young woman and wonders if the events have shaken her. Concern pinches Marceline’s brow - and she takes a step closer to make sure that the healer doesn’t herself need a healer - but she wastes little time with the matter at hand. 

“How is your constitution when it comes to examining dead bodies?”

[revoluticn]

who you wanna bang baybee

“Bold of you to assume I don’t already have a list. What do you think knights talk about all day?

Alright, if we’re going to do this Princess, we’re going to do this properly. With parameters and guidelines. ‘Who do I want to bang.’ Let’s be clear: this is for matters of fucking. One night stand, no emotional attachment, I never have to talk about this with them again.

Here’s my ranking from highest to lowest.”

Roland Alexander Bishop (Strength)

“An easy one for the top of the list. He’s someone I wouldn’t be afraid of being too rough with. I wouldn’t have to apologize for the bruises.” 

Reynaud Valmont (The Emperor)

“When I was 15, I broke his nose during an annual gala. One of the most satisfying feelings I have ever felt was when my fist made impact with his face. I would fuck him just to do that again.”

Kithri Barwin (The Heirophant)

“Something tells me we’d just sit there talking, and the conversation would even be pleasant. Which, honestly, is more than half the kingdom can offer.” 

Canis (Seven of Swords)

“If we’re going purely off judge of character, you’d be hard pressed to find a better man than Canis.”  

Tasmin Declair (The Magician) 

“I imagine this would be rather lovely, you know? A real pleasant affair. Polite. She would probably thank me right after too.”

Maiden Mallorian (The Moon)

“Maiden would be higher on this list, but I am almost certain she would find a way to hurt herself before anything remotely fun began.”  

Feivel Asturias (The Tower)

“The adventures of the high sea - bought to your own bed (or haystack, whichever.) It’s quite a sales pitch, don’t you think?”

Naenia (The Sun)

 “To literally court death, now doesn’t that sound like the evening of a lifetime. What’s sex without a little danger?” 

Zoya Nathair (Death)

“The Prince of Snakes? If that old rhyme is anything to go off of, it’ll at least be an interesting experience. Besides, I refuse to believe that someone owns a tavern or a brothel and doesn’t know a few tricks of the trade.”

Cleric Francis Daumantas (Judgment) 

“Constantly being reminded of the sins of your past while simultaneously sinning is certainly one way to live life. You know, with enough ale in me, I might be in the mood for that.” 

Levana Morrigan Morrell (The High Priestess)

“By that age, one assumes they know what they’re doing. I imagine the pillow talk would be full of secrets too.” 

Armel Hadrien-Marceau du Vauquelin (The Star)

“Would he write a poem about me if I did? Worse, would he recite poetry to me in bed? At least he has a way with words. There’s little worse than bad poetry. No, that’s the end of the statement. There’s little worse than bad poetry. I said what I said.”

Viktor Daegal (Justice)

“I doubt that man has brought pleasure to a single woman in his whole life. Pass.” 

Cleo Sepherene Nystrom (The Lovers)

“Boring. Middle of the road. Bloody hell, she’d probably tell me how much she adored the crown too while we were in the middle of it too. No thank you.” 

Vasylia (The Wheel of Fortune)

“Have you ever tried to fuck someone who takes no risks? Better question, do you remember them? History remembers the bold.”

Aurelia Valmont (The World)

“It feels too easy to call Aurelia boring as well. I’m sure it would actually be perfectly fine. There’s just nothing there that particularly catching my eye, you know? Actually, something tells me she wouldn’t stop till she was assured you had a good time. A perfectionist. Maybe she should be higher on this list.”

Meraud Cyrielle Azenari (Temperance)

“Been there, done that, was easily the best I’ve ever had. I don’t need the reminder of what I’ve left behind….” A beat. “Besides, I’d probably accidentally tear her dress and we’d spend the whole evening arguing instead.”

Calliope Evelyn Valmont (The Empress) 

“Sharing a meal with Septimus… I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s too much even for the hypothetical. Let’s move on.” 

Wraith (Devil) 

 “If only I got to slit their throat right after.” 

Saif Andros (The Fool)

“No. A coward in the streets is probably a coward in the sheets.”

Valeria Valmont (Chariot)

“Who?” Absolutely. Most gorgeous person in court. 

[revoluticn]

👀 + What is a circumstance that leaves you feeling completely out of your element?

“Love, romance, call it what you will. It’s is just a series of sacrifices you make for someone else - and I cannot afford to sacrifice any of my morals. There’s too much at stake. Haven’t you heard? I was engaged once. For a moment there I had almost fooled myself into thinking I could make it work; that I could’ve gotten married, settled down, lived a rich and complacent little life. That ended… poorly. For the best, but poorly.” There’s a beat, then she laughs. “To be clear though, I think we all know there’s a big difference between true love and a good roll in the hay. I’m a little more willing to find time for the latter.”  

[revoluticn]

👀 + What does Marceline hate most about herself?

One might think the answer would be ‘she hates how uncompromising she can be in her ideals,’ but Marceline actually feels very confident about herself in that regard. If you ask her what she hates the most about herself, Marceline would tell you about how she has too great a love for the truth to be that good of a liar. Marceline hates that she’s not a better liar. She knows how to keep her mouth shut and not divulge information, and she’d literally die before compromising the revolution, but when it comes to straight up deceit, it’s not her style.

Unfortunately, there are plenty of people in Tyrholm who are incredibly good at the art of being snakes in the grass. And while Marceline works to keep a level of discretion so she doesn’t blow the roof off the whole insurrection, she hates that she’s not better at playing that aspect of the game.

Marceline also hates her own magic. It’s this unknown, twisted part of herself and she sees it as her body betraying her more than anything else. In her opinion, she feel completely capable without it and often seems like it hinders her more than it helps. She wishes it would just go away. She hates unknowing and her magic is the most unknown thing about herself.

[ofhotheads-blog]

Send my muse “👀 + a question” and they’ll have to answer with 100% honesty.

No deleting questions, either!

[effervs]

date :   the  ninth  of  the  tenth  month

location :   the  armory  and  blacksmith 

 (  @revoluticn​  )

SWEET  SCRAPING  SYMPHONY ,  METAL  on  metal.  some  might  find  madness  in  the  way  acute  ears  perk  up  to  the  sharpening  of  a  blade  or  the  pounding  of  a  hammer ,  but  canis  has  never  made  a  habit  of  minding  what  some  might  find .  after  a  lifetime  of  restless  streets ,  without  the  mercy  of  silence  behind  stone  walls  and  cobbled  roofs ,  canis  finds  comfort  in  the  noise.  pleasure  in  watching  sword  attach  to  hilt  and  metal  become  mold.  he’d  be  fine  with  only  seeing  in  grey ,  he  thinks ,  for  no  beauty  is  lost  to  a  weapon.  

it’s  under  the  guise  of  visiting  the  blacksmith  –  and  what  a  thinly  veiled  plot  it  is.  who  would  believe  the  dog  in  need  of  any  more  arms?  –  he  hopes  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  lieutenant.  their  association  to  any  on  looker  is  strictly  professional ,  for  what  is  one  high  commanding ,  military  underling  to  another.  but  canis  feels  the  ebb  and  flow  of  revolution  that  winds  between  every  word.  that  their  discussions  are  strategy  fraught  with  rage ,  looking  in  a  mirror  and  seeing  a  snarling  reflection.  

and  when  she  does  enter  he  grunts  at  the  blacksmith ,  as  is  cordial ,  prods  on  light  feet  to  flank  her  side.  “exciting  tournament,”  he  starts ,  a  whisper  under  the  clank  of  metal.  “have  to  say ,  i  was  falling  asleep  in  my  boots  til  that  magician  came  in.”  with  a  smile  that  doesn’t  meet  his  eyes  and  a  small  laugh  that  startles  even  himself.  “whoever  hired  him  must  have  paid  more  coin  than  they’re  paying  me.”  speaking  in  script ,  because  loud  will  never  mean  safe ,  not  within  castle  walls.  not  with  someone  he  only  half  trusts.  “sorry  the  pack  couldn’t  stick  around.  a  lot  of  drinking  to  be  done  after  parading  around  a  castle  for  the  better  part  of  an  entire  afternoon.”  dramatic ,  a  mouth  that  twists  into  a  relaxed  smirk.  “have  fun  on  cleanup  duty?”

[revoluticn]

For years she’d wake up every morning and paint on some lacquered veneer - the perfect image of a tightly-laced lady in the court of a king. Every day, a new coat, a new layer, till the truth of her was well-buried. In the last few years Marceline’s worked hard to reverse the effects of nobility - worked to chip away at all those layers that had built up over to years and strip away the wooden bits of her old personality - to reveal the wild and untamable thing that had been lying in wait underneath it all for so long. Now, the once-lady feels at home here at the smithy, where hands get dirty and sweat beads brows; where even the strongest metals can be melted and molded into something new. If that’s not an inspiring image for the future she doesn’t know what is. Little Wolf sticks to her heels and snaps his jaw, as friendly as can be. The young woman is here to fix a sword ( one that’s snapped clean in half - but that’s another story ) and it’s coincidence she spots Canis amidst the clanging and ash-filled air.  

The man speaks subtly with such ease. Meanwhile, Marceline always finds it takes a great effort to be anything other than truthful. She forces herself to, of course, because while her own safety means little to her, preserving the safety of others can inspire her to move mountains. She follows Canis’ lead and sticks to a level of discretion that would make any spymaster proud. 

“I feel like I’ve seen most of those party tricks before - but the finale? Whoever paid the magician certainly didn’t get their money’s worth.”

She can feel her own grin tugging at the corner of her lips. Alright, she sees how he has so much fun with these veiled conversations. With a wave of her hand, she dissipates his explanation for the Second Fangs leaving so quickly.

“I wouldn’t dream of keeping a pack of wolves cooped up for too long.”

She means that, even if her face twists at the comment about the clean up crew. The thing about fire is that it managed to burn most things in its path - leaving very little need for a clean up crew… but also leaving only so much evidence to draw from. This is the dead-end she’s currently found herself up against and it is only a matter of time before Marceline attempts to scale the metaphorical wall bare-handed. She plans to examine the charred remains of the body tomorrow, to see if there is anything conclusive to be found, but other than that, she is at a loss when it comes to figuring out who issued this hit on Septimus. 

And she very much wants to know who they are, if only to thank them. 

She places the sword wrapped in canvas and watches the blacksmith unwrap the neatly halved pieces and exclaim: ‘what the fuck happened here!’ Marceline doesn’t answer, her attention fully on Canis. 

“You know what this means though, don’t you? It means it’s working.”

There’s no denying the smirk on her face now. She’s not hiding this one in euphemisms. It’s a plain truth about the nature of the revolution, vague enough to still throw off any unwelcome eavesdroppers. Can he see the small glint in her eye when she says this? Surely he must. Does he feel that same excitement too, the way she does? Like a flame that won’t go out? Surely he must. May there be many, many, more attempts to take the king’s life. After all, they only need one to be successful.

“Here’s to finding more reasons to celebrate in the future, hm?”

Marceline doesn’t want to think about her father and how this is for him. 

[revoluticn]

astrid-sloan​:

[revoluticn]

WHEN: eleventh of the tenth month WHERE: Castle Tyrholm, Dining Hall WHO: @valeriavalmont

Marceline is not much one for relaxing. She gets restless too easy and too quick, and she’s used to a schedule packed tight on every side of her. Raised that way, she only relaxes when she can steal time for herself - when a window of opportunity cracks open juuuust enough for her to wiggle through and disappear into the night, off to play cards with Keegan and her mates, to spar on the training grounds, or to race through the Volkun forest on the back of Angus.

She is no longer a lady but her schedule persists. If she isn’t on duty with the guard as their lieutenant, she is training some wide-eyed youth to wield a broadsword or she’s heading down to the tavern to hear Lowtown’s distaste for the current state of things...

But there are the occasional nights. The nights on which that window cracks open for Marceline, and through it beckons the dining hall, for warm food and pints of beer with the rest of the Guard. They’re her closest comrades these days, and sitting down with them for a proper meal is like sitting down with family.

It’s evening now, and Marceline finishes up her patrol and walks into the dining hall with nothing short of a flock of Guards, Little Wolf pawing along next to her. The hall is a welcome shelter against the winter night with all its noise and all its people and Marceline unclasps her cloak as soon as she feels this warmth wash over her. The plan is to scout a table when she’s see Declan, a new squire, at one instead.

“Marceline, there you are! I thought you folks were standing me up! Been here for ever,” Declan exclaims as the crew moves over. He’s all limbs at 15, the age most boys turns to squires, and he’s growing like a weed. 

Marceline laughs and tugs the hood of Declan’s cloak so that it goes over his eyes. “Listen you ol’ ballhead, you’re early.  We said we’d eat two hours after sundown. Which it is now.”

“Wha…? Oh!” Declan says. He throws back his hood and laughs along up with her. “Well good thing I’m here now now, then. Thank the Undying for that, huh, Marceline!”

Ah, classic Declan. One of the other knights jostles him playfully as they settle down for dinner.

Marceline figures she’ll order a pint for the poor bloke (not that he needs it, bless his heart) as well as the rest of the men. The air of the Castle has changed thanks to being cooped up, and though the events of the tourney have yet to leave Marceline’s mind, she wants her men to rest. The drinks are being poured when Marceline notices them - 

- No, that’s not true. She’s always been acutely aware whenever they’re in a room and so she’s noticed them the second she walked in - off in the corner, with their own pint. Marceline just fools herself into thinking she’s not going to do anything about it for this long.

Then she allows herself the truth. She’s never been one for deceit, Marceline always reverts to the truth before long. And she’s never one to let an opportunity go unchecked. She turns towards them. 

Pint in hand but untouched - she slides it over to the one of the knights next to her. “I’ll be right back. Keep an eye on Little Wolf you? Make sure if he’s going to take a bite out of anyone it’s one of the ones we hate.“ Before making her way over to Valeria. She stops in front of them, more curiosity than callousness. Like a flame, every conversation Marceline begins has the potential to be the fire that warms you the fire that burns you down.  

“It’s a surprise to see you down here. Did the receiving hall not have enough space?”

[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.

[shadowrcith]

     time. ninth of the tenth month, evening       place. the halls of the castle           ( @revoluticn​ )

There are places in the castle where no one thinks to look: shadowed corners, behind open grand oak doors; velvet drapery pleated over windows with enough spare fabric to disguise a slim body; nooks and crannies that aren’t given a second thought. After nearly twenty years, Wraith would have thought anyone who frequented the halls of court would have known to keep their secret behavior more hidden, keep their eyes on these places for any sign of smoke or black robes. But nobles and courtiers, it seems, never learn. 

Not that any of those nobles or courtiers have been particularly forthcoming, today. Not that they’ve overheard anything at all of use. Perhaps it is everyone being trapped in the castle and on edge that has them all holding their tongues more than usual. The King instilling so much fear in his servants that none of them dare slip up. 

And yet, they do notice… they don’t seem to be the only person slinking about the hallway unseen. Though the soldier they’ve spied is far less adept at it than they are. They could drop to the ground behind her easily, startle her that way, but it wouldn’t have the same effect, so instead they step from their hiding spot and fall, into a whorl of black smoke, plummet through the void, and rematerialize on the other side, standing several feet in front of her and walking towards her, hands behind their back, face placid behind their mask.

     “Looking for something?”

[revoluticn]

Some animals will jump when startled, Marceline is the kind to bare her teeth.

“For a court spy, you certainly have a proclivity for making yourself known. Don’t tell me you need me to give you a lesson on discretion.” Marceline says as she forces herself to loosen the grip that’s jumped to the hilt of her sword. She’s a little disappointed in her self control. Sometimes this all seems like it would be a whole lot easier if she could just beg for forgiveness after she’s “accidentally” slashed through them. But she stills her hand now.

On this night, the castle walls find her wandering in the name of ‘patrolling’ - because evidently ‘Get some rest’ roughly translates to, ‘Here is some extra time to try and understand what occurred three days ago.’ Marceline is absolutely looking for something - anything - out of the ordinary, hoping to deduce who was behind the incident at the tourney. 

Her hostility at this unforeseen obstacle isn’t entirely undeserved. Wraith deserves her ire. If matters of deduction are the subject of tonight, then Marceline’s deduced more than enough about their role in her father’s death. Her eyes snap up to theirs, like a torch. She knows it’s too much to say that she’s here to handle a mess they should have prevented, but, truly, she holds her tongue because she wants them to get no better at their job. Should it really be this easy to kill a king?

“Looking for something?” Marceline repeats, “Can’t the lieutenant of the Guard patrol the corridors simply to ensure the safety of her king? If the events of the last few days are any indicator, it would seem we don’t invest enough in the prevention of these sorts of things.”

Now if only there was someone who’s job it was to prevent assassination attempts. 

Yes, when it comes to Wraith, Marceline finds it difficult to offer any level of warmth short of something meant to burn.