#jadednoble

[analytical-speculations-blog]

✎ <3

[rigelsprince]

Among Lions [Berkut & Fernand]

starter for @jadednoble

      Only half the names on the list had been crossed off, proclaimed officially dead after the battle at the capital. The other half, notably Zofians who had decided to save their own skins by pledging themselves to the Empire, were still unaccounted for, and very likely disappeared into the chaos when they realized that not even joining Rigel could protect them.       “Are all Zofians this fickle?” Berkut asked pointedly of his new retainer, who was among those Zofian knights who gladly renounced their loyalties to their motherland. In the end, the knight Fernand had chosen to follow a wiser, stronger leader, and Rigel would not turn away extra manpower, but it still did not abate the suspicious glances thrown toward him and all the other the turncoats. After all, if they had deserted one country, what would stop them from deserting another? The half-marked list was evidence enough of that.       But Berkut gave it no more than an unconcerned glance and the question was rhetorical at best. His expectations had been set low, and he would have been a fool to think Zofians possessed any sort of integrity. Running away was simply in their nature, like the rats they were. Could he really blame them for acting on such inveterate instinct? At the very least, it didn’t surprise him.       The camp had lulled into an untroubled quiet - not one of peace and slumber, but one that signified that the rest of the soldiers were diligently at work - and for several moments, there was nothing but the crunch of gravel beneath their boots, and the distant clang of steel.       “Tell me…” Berkut stopped at the entrance of his tent and faced Fernand wholly now, dark eyes sharp and penetrating, but offset by a shade of indifference. “Have you any regrets?”

[bluecollarednoble-blog]

X finds Y visiting someone’s grave/a memorial. (You know very well who is who.)

@jadednoble

It was a tragedy that befell the manor. Destruction from a group of angered peons that worked for his family. Frustration over a poor season, and frustrations from the hunger that gnawed at their bellies caused them to pick up their weapons and raise their arms against the family. 

Was it a curse or a blessing that Fernand lived that day despite his mother, father, and younger sister perishing in the carnage?

No one was left after the memorial, the sole survivor remaining there to stare at the graves. Clive had given Fernand the space he needed, but found himself yearning to comfort his old friend, watching him sadly for a few moments before gaining the courage to step forward.

Wearing black, the knight walked over to him, moving to stand beside Fernand without a word, watching him with a sad expression. Gingerly he rested a hand on his back, showing that he was indeed there for him. Words weren’t needed in that instance.

[vaalkyrja-blog]

🐣

send “🐣” to meet my muse as a child — 8.

ooc. i decided to go for something a touch different, with a scene set in the past. so they’re both kids here, cause i thought it’d be cuter hehe.

she has already been officially recognized as her father’s page; why should she still be made to attend these showy parties where all eyes find something to scrutinize about her? she recalls finding them much more enjoyable when she had been littler, riding on her father’s shoulders and wide-eyed at each lady’s sparkling dress and perfectly coiffed hair. then, everyone had paid her only positive attention, and mother and father would praise her for how pretty and proper of a little girl she was.

fed up with the party and with the uncooperative clasp where the lace drape fastens to the sleeve of her dress, she tugs a little too hard to get the silly thing to pin back into place — and the clasp snaps with a soft click.

❝ ugh, i hate this! ❞ she cries out to no one in particular, having ducked into a little secluded alcove to fix her wardrobe malfunction out of sight, flushing with fury as she feels tears of frustration well up in the backs of her eyes. now mother would be cross with her for ruining a good dress. ( but who cares. it’s not as if she had wanted to come to this ball in the first place. )

the sound of someone approaching behind her snaps her quickly from her pent-up temper, though, and she spins around with a quiet gasp. a boy stands in the entryway to the little space she’d found for herself — he must be the son of one of the other families here.

quickly, she straightens up and banishes the annoyance from her face, hoping he hadn’t caught her burst of anger ( but the lace still dangles uselessly from her sleeve, making her appearance less presentable than she would have liked ); she thinks she recognizes him from functions she’s attended before, but there have been so many, and so many of the noble families look the same, that she can hardly recall. 

                                                           ❝ . . . who are you? ❞