#tc.starter

[twitch0famel0dy]

OPEN STARTER.

in the bitterness of post-battles, piperette falls upon her pan pipe to ease in the mornings after. sure it was an accquired taste but even she had begun to be one herself in between the hostility of her dornish links, yet she couldn't bear to end up like them in all factors of impatiences. was that foolish? whose to know. but the tune to grace the rising dawn was simple, made to perfect the glow in between her eyes before a sudden nudge beside her, "do you mind?"

[rxgality]

open to all! in your character's domain!

She stepped onto land, having spent what felt like an eternity at sea, and was utterly ready to go full tourist mode and sea what each place she went to had to offer. And right now? Her first stop was somewhere with decent food. "Excuse me," she said as she ran up to the first person she saw, "you look like you know your way around here. Do you know a good place to get some food?" she asked, tilting her head with a raised brow

[ofchrysalism]

location: cultural exchange pavilion open starter to anyone! closed.

esra had been weaving her way through the edge of the crowd of the pavilion, attention pulled in several directions at once.  there was a harp melody drifting from one corner, a cluster of nobles laughing nearby, and the occasional flash of bright fabric from the performers.  perhaps that was why she didn’t see them.

rounding one of the pavilion’s cloth-draped corners a little too quickly, she walked straight into someone.  “seven hells---!”  the words escaped before she could stop them as her forehead knocked lightly against something far less forgiving than air.  she stumbled back a step, one hand immediately rising to rub at the spot she’d just bumped, eyes squeezed shut in reflex.  then, slowly, the realization caught up with her.  esra’s shoulders straightened just a touch.

“oh---”  she started quickly, voice suddenly far more careful.  her hand still pressed to her forehead, not yet looking up.  “i mean--- i’m terribly sorry.  i should truly watch where i’m going.”

[bloomingrcse]

Open Starter Setting: Before the tourney started

The tourney grounds had begun to stir long before the first horns would sound. Knights passed between pavilions with pieces of armor slung beneath their arms, attendants hurried along with banners and cups of watered wine, and the distant clatter of steel carried easily through the morning air. Rosalyn had chosen the quietest corner she could find, claiming a small table that had since disappeared beneath flowers, silk ribbon, and a length of pale linen stretched neatly between her hands. Her needle moved with careful precision through the cloth, a small golden rose slowly taking shape in one corner of the handkerchief. Every so often she glanced toward the wreath of woven stems and blossoms resting beside her. Comparing the two favors as if the decision required very serious thought.

“Tell me,” without looking up from her work, she addressed the figure standing nearby, assuming it to be one of the attendants passing through."If you were a knight, would you rather receive a handkerchief or a wreath as a favor?” She paused, studying her work from another angle before continuing. “Pardon the presumption, of course. I do not know if I will be asked for a favor at all,” A faint smile touched her lips. “But I would rather be prepared than embarrassed.”

[shambleslily]

some time in the aftermath of the royal hunt, somewhere in the red keep | open starter

Find who did this. words that now seem to be causing him stress that he had not anticipated for. any contingence he had seemed to walk out the door the moment other cogs started to turn and get involved. no fucking shit he was going to do whatever he can to get to the bottom of this. the king always commanded things to him and the others. always demanded and yet, he complied. like always. like the dutiful noble he pretended to be. he had to deal with managing the Dornish, nobles who were growing restless, and other factors. and so he stood in a corridor staring out a window as if to try and catch a breath before he heard footsteps. "if you are here to ask if you can leave the premises, I would advice against. I would hate to have the guards throw people into the dungeons this late into the festivities. if you want updates, that will have to wait." Lucifer said not even bothering to look up.

[glittxeringgold]

Open to: Everyone Where: After the plot drop in the pavilion

Eleana sat in the corner with tears. The performance was awful. There was always a risk when one danced with fire, she just wished her mistake did not look so symbolic.

Who even convinced her fire dancing was a good idea?

It was not a secret that Eleana hated the conquerors and all they stood for. But Eleana did not plan to make as large of a public statement as she did tonight!

"How could I be so foolish?" The Princess managed to utter past her shame.

[missbluebiird]

open! 1/5 (but i'm easy honestly)

Dorne could piss off.

Myriame sat perched on the lip of a marble fountain. The heat of the air suffocating her. Her skin,usually the pale cream of winter, had ripened to an angry, stinging pink. She fanned herself with a desperate, rhythmic vigor, but the lace fan only served to blow the same stifling hot air.

She eyed a trio of beautiful Dornish ladies stroll past, their silk gowns whispering against the ground. They glanced her way, she was certain of it, and their laughter sharpened. It wasn’t exactly clear if they were laughing at her but it certainly felt like they were. They faded into the distance, their laughter ringing in Myriame’s ears. 

Dorne really could piss off.

If she had thought Kings Landing was hot eight months ago, this was on an entirely new scale. Give her the North. Give her grey skies and biting winds, the sharp breath of the sea and the blessed chill that seeped into bone. Anything but this.

She glanced over one shoulder, then the other. The courtyard was momentarily empty, the guards retreated to the deep shadows. With a low groan, Myriame abandoned all pretense of being a high born lady. 

She lunged forward, plunging her head into the fountain. 

Oh it was bliss.

She held her head underneath the water and let peace take her. The water was tepid by Northern standards, but against her scorched skin, it felt a mercy sent by the gods themselves. She stayed submerged, ears filled with the dull thrum of the fountain’s pulse, letting the silence of the water drown out the oppressive heat and the memory of those gorgeous ladies. For a few moments she wasn't a lady out of her element, she was just a creature surviving.

The feeling of a presence behind her broke her momentary tranquillity. 

“What?” she snapped, wrenching herself upward.

She looked a drowned rat, and she knew it. Dark, sodden strands of hair clung to her cheeks, and water cascaded from her chin, darkening the bodice of her gown. She blinked rapidly, droplets clinging to her lashes as she glared at the intruder through a blurred, watery veil. Although she couldn't quite make out who it was, “Have you never seen a woman try not to melt where she sits?” she demanded, her voice sharp.  

[drvmm]

Location: The Red Keep (a public balcony overlooking the sea)Open!

The sea calls to him like a siren, like the arms of his mother. Yorland misses the uneasiness below his feet, misses the taste of salt in his mouth. He misses the sound of waves drumming against the creaking hull of his ship, now tied down like a prisoner in the bay.

Yorland eyes the horizon in silence, the blackwater sparkles like Tyroshi sapphires in the midday sun, but the smell is off-putting. Like shit, he thinks, the sea shouldn't smell like that. The Islands don't smell like that. There's no salt to be found in Kings Landing, it seems. Yorland suddenly, feels so far away from home that the melancholy of it settles deep into his bones and gives him a chill. His bad leg aches and he wishes he had listened this morning when his beloved had told him to take his cane.

He's a picture. Trussed up in his red surcoat and wearing finger bones as a belt, he no more belongs in Kings landing than any other Ironborn. Do not die so far from the sea, he remembers his father saying before his first raid, come home to me. Yorland drums his fingers on the balcony railing and thinks of Old Wyk and then, horrified, thinks of a pale haired man on Dragon back laying it to waste. He does not hear the person approach, so engrossed in his horrors, nor does he feel them at his elbow when they stop.