O' DRUNKEN GODS OF SLAUGHTER;

good and evil are distinguished in the process of achieving what you want.

[spuriuse]

all my family knows is consume, devour, destroy.

 craving gnawed at me  ( a desire so sharp it gouged )

# SPURIUSE  ⚘  a dependent writing blog for roslyn snow, affiliated with @103ac, written by meg  ⸻  our blades are sharp.

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[rcttenfruit]

it's her way of speaking that makes priscella turn and look — how out of place it is in such a room. "yes," she muses, almond eyes roaming across the length of her, taking her in from head to toe. not to size her up, but... merely to observe her. she does not bark, this one. not like her brother, she thinks. "a most troubling thought, that. one cannot look forward and back at once. the time has come for new beginnings; perhaps new furnishings, too." the arbor gold has blunted her senses some, but not enough to subdue that incessant inclination to fawn and make merry. she offers her a smile: small and practiced. "are you a betting woman, by any chance?"

[spuriuse]

colour her (somewhat) intrigued. in truth, she had not expected such perspicacity from the runt of the red keep, a glaring example of her hypocrisy laid bare, and of something that runs deeper, too, some thread that coils and burrows it way deep down to her own core. the thought of some resolve for this trip springs forth, there and then: a decision to not pass judgement quite so quickly, perhaps to even allow her opinions to be malleable to a certain degree. she's unlikely to be successful, and roslyn knows this herself, knows her own mind and her own nature, but there is sure to be no harm in making an effort, nor any benefit in failing to.  "it depends on the bet."  lips curl slowly into a smirk, lopsided and cryptic, at the sight of the other's polite smile, no realer than the genteel air of civility that pervades every corner of the keep tonight.  "and whom my fellow wagerers might be, of course."

[steelworn]

closed.    for  roslyn  snow,  @spuriuse. location.    just  outside  of  lion  gate,  within  the  fields.

daemian  was  not  happy.  not  that  he  ever  was,  happiness  was  a  lost  concept  for  him,  one  he  did  not  really  care  for  anyways  because  he  did  not  need  happiness.  he  needed  grit,  determination,  and  a  thirst  for  blood  to  survive  where  he  had  been,  where  he  had  longed  to  go  back  to.  for  he  knew  being  in  westeros  was  not  for  him,  that  it  had  not  been  home  for  as  long  as  he  could  remember  and  granted,  essos  had  not  been  either  as  he  had  spent  his  time  traveling  more  often  than  not,  but  at  least  it  did  not  remind  him  of  things  he  had  crossed  the  narrow  sea  to  forget. so  being  back  here,  soon  to  be  amidst  the  noble  houses  of  westeros,  was  not  something  that  excited  the  young  lord.  if  he  was  not  being  threatened  by  his  family,  if  he  had  not  been  shackled  to  a  marriage  he  did  not  wish  for,  daemian  would  have  never  come  back.  he  would  have  kept  to  himself  in  essos,  even  if  it  meant  being  slightly  lonely  (something  he  would  never  admit),  even  if  it  meant  killing  for  coin  for  the  rest  of  his  days. seven,  he  was  tired  of  thinking  about  the  what  ifs  and  no  amount  of  assault  upon  the  wooden  post  with  his  sword  was  making  it  stop.  a  rough  yell  slips  past  his  lips  and  the  crunch  of  the  dirt  behind  makes  the  sound  die  in  his  throat,  sword  pointed  towards  the  intrusion  by  the  time  he  has  spun  on  his  heels  to  face  it.  instead  of  annoyance  crossing  his  features,  at  least  more  than  was  already  there,  his  head  tilts  to  take  in  luscious  curls  and  a  face  he  could  never  forget,  "hello,  roslyn,"  he  does  not  sheath  his  sword  back  into  his  scabbard  as  he  would  if  another  lady  had  happened  upon  him,  "i  should  have  expected  to  see  you  out  here  sooner  or  later.  care  to  join  me,  my  dear?  or  have  you  gotten  rusty  in  my  absence?"  perhaps  if  he  ended  up  under  roslyn,  her  sword  pointed  to  his  neck,  his  head  would  finally  shut  up.

[spuriuse]

her mouth holds something rancid, the taste of bile coating her tongue and the ever-present metallic tang on her lips, brought about by the carelessness of top teeth, digging deep down into her own flesh.  the culprit?  not the sheer throng of bodies milling about the keep, nor the repugnance of the lieges and their luxury—no, it was the gleeful derision that some serving girls had levelled in her direction in passing, the slights she has perceived herself as being the recipient of so far, the staggering and stifling atmosphere of what feels to be half the realm squeezed into one god-awful keep in the crownlands. why, in the name of all that is sacred, had jorah insisted that they attend the kingsmoot? (she ignores, of course, or perhaps forgets, the fact that she had needled and pestered and all but demanded that she be included in the bolton retinue.)

roslyn knows she is being childish, but she cannot help her pinched mouth as she strides beyond the grounds of the castle itself, matching and mirroring the imperious gazes that are cast her way by gold cloaks. in truth, it is more than a little foolish of her, given she is not at all familiar with the layout, but her pride is far too grand to admit as much and ask for directions, or gods' forbid, turn around and retreat so soon after making the fuss of retrieving her cloak and all. 

no, she instead deigns to follow her nose. where one road leads to the stench of sweat and fish, and another of baked refuse and poverty, and yet another of sweet incense, she resolves to avoid them all. she needs not a slum or harbour or, worst of all, a sept. the air, stale as it is, happens to be working at balancing her mood, and so her pace slows a little as the city walls and another set of grand gates begin to appear in her eyeline, becoming less frantic than they had been this whole excursion. and yet, a little further on, the sight of a familiar head complete with a cropped mess of valyrian silver sees her lithe foot quickening again, not even trying to mask the sound of her steps.

"daemian,"  there's something both insolent and saccharine sweet in her greeting, a smirk beginning to curl wide just as boots comes to a stop across from him, legs aching some from the relentless exertion that she's put them through these past minutes alone.  "rusty? you ought know better than to speak out of your arse, i would have thought. more fool me for believing it."

[rcttenfruit]

🐚 — during the feast, priscella stands at the edge of all the dancing; watching, waiting, wanting. feel free to assume whatever you'd like. ♡

flush - faced, gem - crested goblet in hand, and eyes having taken on a glassy look, priscella has never once looked more like her lord father than she does now. he's pleased as punch, fool that he is, downing more of the arbor's finest than is befitting someone of his station, and she... her throat tightens, jaw clenching from the force of trying to hold back her grief. wishing to drown it once and for all, she takes a hearty sip of her drink and swipes her tongue across the plump of her bottom lip before steeling her face into something lighter and more like herself. in a room full of vultures, she simply cannot afford to look weak — not here, not now.

elsewhere, her fingers tap along to the beat against her goblet and still only when she senses another nearby. "it is all quite a sight, my liege, is it not?" just beyond them are a number of lieges each dressed to the nines, twirling about in a sea of multi - color and endless delight. it would be nice to dance, she thinks then, gaze catching on one such lady in particular. her fingers twitch, chest burning at the sight of them all. "even in death, nestled in the mother's embrace, i'm sure, our late king still manages to bring the realm together." for now, at least.

[spuriuse]

king's landing is interminably grotesque, roslyn has since concluded, her days in the realm's capital thus far few but eventful. its stench rivals even the dungeons of the dreadfort, all nightsoil and smoke and sweat, its slums rotten and congested. there is nothing like the disappointment of travelling weeks on end in anticipation of a grand harvest feast, her first time any further south than moat cailin, surrounded by nobility from all the different kingdoms, only to be met with—well, this. drunken lords and presumptuous heirs all looking down their noses at her in one sickening way or another, sweet wines dulling and loosening tongues and perfumed air mingling with what lingers out below.

"most of the realm, i suppose."  so she is willing to acquiesce as much, figuring it would not do to strike up a doctrinal argument on the very first night (the night is still young, by any means). her own goblet remains untouched, still as full as it was when first pressed into her hand by some attendant and wielded more like a prop than a source of imbibement, distrustful of the arbor golds and the dornish reds alike.  "why, to take a look around, one would almost swear his grace is still sitting the throne."  indeed, she has looked upon the billowing silk dragons with almost as much disgust as she has looked upon the grey direwolf, each one needling away at something deep within her.

[relentlessescapism]

ABBIE HERN as BESS MY LADY JANE | 1.04 'BLUEBIRD IS DEAD'