#dishonoredstart

[ladyhierophant]

TIME/LOCATION: late evening; just outside the dining hall STATUS: open to all!

To be an inferni was to be constantly aware of the ticking hand of time; to feel the cold embrace of the Undying One grow a little tighter each day. Kithri had accepted this inevitability long before she had stepped foot into Castle Tyrholm, but it was a reality which often lurked in pre-consciousness: never forgotten, but occasionally ignored for favor of more pressing thoughts. In the wake of the failed attempt on the King’s life, the thought of death had leapt into full consciousness and inserted itself as her forced companion for the evening.  

It was not a question of if she would be accused, but when. The fire which had consumed the would-be assassins promised as much. The bulk of Kithri’s exasperation with this truth was not that her head might soon loose itself from her neck -- though of course she was not fond of the idea -- but instead that there was a possibility she would be unable to burn the castle and all of its blue-blooded leeches before that occurred.

She was not a politicker, but tried to play at one as she sat in her bed and awaited the guard. How would she avoid the accusation? How would she kill them before they killed her? When her mind failed her and no guardsmen appeared, hunger lured her from the humble dwellings and into the dining hall. The mage was quick-footed as she sought out some small foodstuff to take back with her to her room; she could feel eyes on her even as she found her bit of fruit and swiftly made her way from the space.

It was unsurprising when another pair of feet accompanied her footfalls -- the only signal of alarm was the torches that lined the stone walls, which seemed to momentarily glow larger and hotter before dimming to their previous state.

“I have no need for an escort to my room,” the mage said, her tone already hard and hinting at latent anger. “Say what you will, and leave me be.” 

[vasylia]

status: open. location: dining hall, castle tyrholm. date: third day of the tenth month.

She sits in an irrefutable position of honour—does she not? Some nights, Vasylia isn’t so certain. Some nights, as wine spills red and the room twists in roisterous noise, as she lingers at Levana’s right-hand, she must question it. Placed haughtily beside royalty, beside monied nobility, beside power and prestige and property, at times she can only sit half-embarrassed, watching the way that eyes fasten themselves on her, she and Levana both, taking them in. Hesitant, with a heart in one’s mouth, as if wont to catch a chill. There is power in that, to be watched—to be watched at the side of a king, no less. But she doesn’t ache after power. At other things, perhaps.

Tonight, though, she sits alone. As alone as one may be, at court. She manages it easier than most: those born beneath a splendid sun, fond of stargazing and gold satin and rose silk stockings, do not often rush into the company of Death. Vasylia is a great deal warmer than her instructor, but to be at her side still has the feeling of a hearth made in the winter’s cold. Things happen around her, as they always do. The bard sings. Lords parley and drink and, as the night swells around them, they begin to lose their footing, speak in hushed, low drones. King Septimus pulls another favourite onto his lap, laughing with a loud and gluttonous hunger. Still, for all she sits apart from it, picking at her food and sipping at her cup, the night is true to type. In a few moments, the Lord a few seats to her right will boldly saunter over to the woman he has spent the evening ogling, the wine in his bloodstream moving with him. The king will tire of his favourite and select a new one. People will begin to whisper about it, and she’ll pretend not to listen to them. It’s familiar. Stable.

And then, a figure: one that does not quite approach, but looks in wait. This is a less frequent occurrence. Curiously, she entreats them to join her. “Will you sit?” Vasylia taciturnly nods her head to the seat beside her. “You were staring.”

[serpentcrown]

CHAPTER I – THE BURNING MAN. setting: the Rosewood Maiden dating: the eight of the tenth month, sometime in the evening with: #dishonoredstart / open

The Rosewood Maiden remained a port of revelry, despite the Grand Tourney and the ashes left in its wake. Come here, its cheerful windows seemed to say. Wax candles cast merry shadows on the cobblestones outside, as fern frost slowly laced itself across the glass. The somber spirit that laid over Tyrholm could only linger at the door, here – a ghost kept at bay by cups of brandy and the sound of laughter.

A much-loved deck of cards was splayed out across lacquered rosewood, a magpie’s hoard of prizes swept to Zoya’s side of the table. She rarely played for coin: she favoured oddities & trinkets instead, stories & song. The evening’s winnings so far included a silver brooch shaped like a lyre, and six stanzas on the merits of ale against fainting spells – and her personal favourite, a little figurine of an ermine, which its previous owner swore brought good luck. ( ”Can’t be much left in it, then,” Zoya had said, pocketing it; her eyes glimmering as she watched them sputter & flush red in anger. )

So far, no one had managed to win her own proposed stakes: a set of dice carved from bone. Their symbols had been painted to look like actual eyes, inlaid with a shimmering, deep green pigment. As the last of her would-be opponents scampered off, she finally turned her attention on a familiar face.

“Ah! Care to join me for a game of Fox’s Gambit?”

“–– Or are you here for something else?” Idly – and yet with surprising grace despite it – she waved to the chair across from her, not a command but an invitation: come, sit.

[calliopevalmont]

&. GROWING PAINS LOCATION: entrance hall TIME: the sixth of the tenth month, a little bit after the attempt. AVAILABILITY: open! TW: mentions of blood, the assassination attempt

As with all things related to her husband, nothing happens until everything happens all at once, in a harried sequence of actions all rolling into the next, moments crashing into each other with no breath or respite, tirelessly marching on; Calliope is unsure why she had thought this tourney exempt from this rule in the first place. Perhaps it was the rare weather at the time, blue skies peeking out from behind white clouds, sun radiant enough to encourage the flowers, perhaps it was the rapture and joy on everyone’s faces as Valeria and Reynaud competed. She was a fool, then, for thinking that moments could ever be more than just that: a moment in time, ready to move on, already half-forgotten.

There is a list of people she means to call on after all the dust has settled: Viktor topping the list, and Francis following, and continuing on to a great many people, but for now, she is exhausted. There’s nothing she wants more in the world than to change out of today’s choice of royal finery: mercifully black so that the grime of the day does not show, even though she can feel as the would-be assassin’s blood stiffens the folds of her skirt. But for all intents and appearances, she’s no more than a couple stray hairs out of place from her usual fare. But severely out of place are the guards in all four directions relative to her as she sweeps through the entrance hall; there would’ve been more, but she has little patience for feeling like a petty treasure to be transported, and they indiscriminately clear the way for her, not much allowing anyone into a certain radius.

She sighs as the guardsman in the front none too kindly shoves an unfortunate page out of her path, and the boy stumbles, and she stops to check on him, duty worn and weary in her eyes. The guards, too, like a well-oiled machine, stop as one with her, practically bristling at all passerby's who look prone to stop. As always, she shelves her wants, puts them in little glass bottles and caps them -- maybe one day she can pull them back down, blow the dust off their shoulders and see to them, but today is far from that day -- and after some gentle questioning, the page rushes out that he is quite alright and bolts off in the other direction.

She means to keep moving, but there is some sliver of a familiar silhouette that she can see peeking through the consolidation of her guardsmen as they move to stop any movement close to her. “Stop,” she says, firm and quiet, never one to raise her voice, always sure that she will be heard. “Let them through. There’s hardly a need to treat everyone as an enemy.” Yet, she amends in her head; it is the tenth month, of course, and autumn winds are blowing. “How might the night find you?” she asks, as her guards part at her words. “As well as can be, the Undying willing.”

[valeriavalmont]

when: seventh of the tenth month, in the evening where: the receiving hall status: open to all

Victory makes a stomach hungry for sustenance; battles make their body ache, even effortless skirmishes with their rapid puppy of a cousin. Valeria’s abdomen churns and heaves ravenously, their body’s punishment for skipping meals the day prior. The castle lies on unsettled ground, and the duty of becoming a stronghold for the king’s sanity falls to his entrusted inner circle. 

How easy it is to assume great Valeria, solemn and obedient Valeria, belongs in this band of loyal few. As the king’s advisors murmur of their loyalties and steadfast faith, Valeria remains silent. They know that their words are never needed; they thank the Undying God for making it so. Septimus wants only their solid presence, as if Valeria symbolizes a steadiness they do not feel. Their loyalty is loose sand in their palm; it follows the wind where it blows. Likewise, Valeria floats away from their body, away from the castle and Tyrholm and its treacherous sea, as they wait for their uncle’s temper to recede. 

When he finally dismisses them, Valeria retreats to the Receiving Hall. Their plate is piled high, unladylike for a princess but entirely fitting for the champion of the grand tourney. They sit at a deserted table and begin eating, looking up only when a shadow appears above them.

“Sit, if you must.” Valeria nods to the seat across from them with only a touch of impatience. 

mentioned: @emperorvalmont​

[meraudazenari]

recorded  /  several days past the tourney with  /  open​

Tension tied knots around her spine, but Meraud refused to let it overtake her. The whispers hadn’t ceased in the court since the tourney, endless discussions of the day’s events, of the violent, abhorrent thing which had taken place. She’d not witnessed it, changing out of her soiled gown as she had been, but she’d hear of it, oh, far more times than she wished to count. It didn’t bear thinking of, frankly — she’d forbade the girl who tended her morning fire from speaking of it, and she just couldn’t understand why the court was so consumed with something so awful.

Even now, seated as they were scattered about the courtyard, morning sun peeking through clouds that’d plagued Tyrholm for weeks, she could hear tentative murmurs, of fire, of the King... She had little interest in any of it, vastly preferring far lighter, far less political topics — fashion, art, trade, none of which seemed to be to be of much interest to any of the groups around her, much to her disappointment. Well. She could certainly change that. Smoothing a furrowed grimace into a polite, neutral expression, Meraud turned to the person nearest her, offering them a polite topic that had nothing to do with that damned tourney. “I grow rather tired of such stressful topics in the morning, don’t you? The new shipment of fabrics they’ve received down at the docks, however... Simply gorgeous, and the needlework is exquisite. I attend the Tyrholm seamstresses’ new creations with them with baited breath, I must confess.”