Oh, greatest of kings, indulge me in this friendly Christmas game. Let whichever of your knights is boldest of blood and wildest of hearts step forth, take up arms and try with honor to land a blow against me. Whomsoever nicks me shall lay claim to this my arm. Its glory and riches shall be thine. But… thy champ must bind himself to this: should he land a blow, then one year and Yuletide hence, he must seek me out yonder to the Green Chapel six nights to the north. He shall find me there and bend a knee and let me strike him in return, be it a scratch on the cheek or a cut in the throat. I will return what was given me, and then in trust and friendship, we shall part. Who, then, who is willing to engage with me?
oh, it doesn't. it scorches, walls and floors coated in smoke and ash. it still burns, just not in the way you think of first. what really burns is all that made it Highglory Castle.
furniture burns. wardrobes housing clothes for several generations burn. chairs and tables commissioned for the many great banquets burn. all burn. all gone. cinders and ash. gone.
tapestries burn. woven tales of Highglory history eaten by those hungry flames. windows melt. stained glass and not stained, once depictions of history, now cooling lumps of glass. all burn. all gone. cinders and ash and stories. gone.
people burn. screaming, crying. king, queen. advisor, servant. crowns melt on the royal heads. all burn. all gone. cinders and ash and stories and flesh. gone.
no one escapes. no one lives. Highglory burns. gone.
there was a... princess? wasn't there?
perhaps.
what happened to her? you didn't mention...
she dies too. not in the fire, not in flames. not burned.
she dies in the forest, at the hands of those who burned her home, three years past the day it happened.
slit throat. lost arm. scars, on her face, on her back, her arms, her torso. scars inside. blood. too much. should be long dead.
death comes. she out runs. it burns. slit throat, can't scream. lost arm, rely on the one she has left. she has her wits, and her legs, and one good arm. she can adapt. she will. she must.
it burns. vengeance and anger sit in her chest. three years of abuse, three years of suffering. fair crow no longer. this fire won't be put out so easily.
the fair crow princess of the Highglory family dies. her smiles and laughter, innocent and sweet, perish. all the things she was taught, embroidery and music and dancing, are lost to her. days spent eating summer fruits lost. gone. burned away. she won't return.
the crow survives. assassin, mercenary, hunter, murderer. all fit. scarred, one arm. she isn't pretty anymore, not in the way royalty thinks matters. not soft, not gentle, not unmarked. hardened and rough and scarred. still, she's beautiful. can't speak, except for sometimes. throat scars ache, voice grows fainter. her arm hurts where it was cut, still she endures. one armed woman who never loses at arm wrestling. how does she always wear her hair in a braid? how does she use a crossbow? answer: magic.
Ana?
yes?
are you the Highglory princess?
perhaps. once. no longer. the Highglory family is dead. its line ends with me.
if you didn’t already know, my main account is @itsmeemilio. it consists of mainly sims 4 custom content reblogs, but also occasional sims edits. go give me a follow if you haven’t already! ;)
also, as you can see by the title of this post, i will start making different sizes of moodboards. i will make mainly the 12 image ones, but mega (24 image) and mini (6 image) will be coming soon.
