#cognati:starter

[gildedscage]

🌹 — set during one of the feasts on any day of your choosing. assume whatever and i'll go with it. perpetually open to all.

elanur isn't much of a drinker, she never has been, but she can't deny that she is deeply curious and ever committed to always doing as the locals do on her travels. it's how she finds herself staring down at a most generous cup of black beer, her eyes widening with apprehension as she swirls it a bit, noting its thickness. gods, she thinks. do they really drink this? and enjoy it, too? not wanting to risk chickening out — or worse: be a bad guest — elanur brings the cup to her lips at last and takes one brave mouthful.

which, of course, is the greatest mistake she's made yet.

immediately, no. she will not be swallowing this. she cannot swallow this. seven hells, she could practically fucking chew it if she wanted to. eugh. northerners and their endless curiosities — no wonder they are the way they are. she looks around, fully intending to spit it back in her cup, when she catches someone's eye.

great. now she has to swallow it.

which, actually, turns out to be an even bigger mistake.

“oh,” elanur coughs, unable to stop the way her face contorts with disgust. she shakes her head, nose and eyes both stinging in protest, before she realizes and tries to put on a brave face instead.  “that  is,  um…”  bad,  she  thinks, coughing again.  bad,  bad,  so  very  terribly  awfully  bad,  but  what  comes  out  instead is a warbly:  “strong!  yes.  wow. ahem. how... exquisite, really. i’m  not  sure  i’ve  ever  had  anything  quite  like  that.”  and  she  hopes  she  never  does  again.

[parthenopaed]

setting: first night of the festivities, in the grand hall of winterfell, open (3/3).

sat close to the hearth, one can almost forget what a dreadful place this region is – almost. she still feels a shiver as sweat runs down cold her back under the weight of furs, and she feels tempted to lower them from her shoulders, only to tremble once more at the measured action – something that could pass as enraptument to the tale that is told by a loud voice with a northern brogue. "so this is what war was like?" she can barely tell if the man spoke of the dance or the dornish war, but she'd have been too young to know of either anyways.

[emberedfrost]

where:  wintertown, winterfell

when:  day one, the funeral of the former ruling lord stark cregan stark, midnight

with:  open

it  was  the  hour  of  the  ghosts.

the  procession  for  alaric's  late  grandsire  had  long  since  ended.  most  retreated  to  their  bed  chambers  while  those  who  still  felt  the  need  to  celebrate  the  old  man  drifted  towards  the  tavern.  alaric  remained  behind  standing  at  the  feet  of  the  great  lord  cregan  stark—  or  rather,  a  very  grotesque  imitation  of  the  wolf  of  the  north.

the  statue  looming  above  him  was  gargutuan,  ostentatious  and  entirely  out  of  place.  in  wintertown,  it  felt  like  an  intruder.  a  trespasser  on  what  is  now  his  lands.

this  was  not  his  grandfather.  and  he  despised  it.

at  its  unveiling,  alaric  had  bitten  his  tongue  as  to  not  offend  the  king  and  those  who  accompanied  him,  but  the  bitter  taste  left  him  shuddering.  It  was  an  affront  to  his  family  name.  Deep  down,  he  wanted  nothing  more  than  to  take  a  hammer  to  it  and  watch  the  stone  crack.

the  crunch  of  leaves  beneath  approaching  boots  shattered  his  solitude.  whoever  had  come  to  pay  their  respects  had  enough  sense  not  to  speak  before  being  spoken  to.  the  fist  clenched  at  his  side  slowly  relaxed,  "it  does  not  belong  here,"  he  murmured,  unable  to  conceal  the  edge  in  his  voice,  but  his  gaze  never  left  the  statue,  "i  do  not  like  it."

his  grandfather  had  already  been  laid  to  rest  where  he  belonged—in  the  crypts  beneath  winterfell,  alongside  his  father  and  mother.  one  day,  Alaric  would  join  them  there,  as  would  his  wife  and  children,  and  their  children  after  them.

that  was  the  way  of  house  stark,  not  this.