☠︎︎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ teeth‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ .

[‎ ‎ ‎ ...‎ ‎ ‎ ]‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ there's‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ a‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗼𝗻𝗮‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ swelling   .

[toothd]

☠︎︎ THE NUMB SENSATIONS, CREEPING SLOW, REPLACE THE WARMTH I USED TO KNOW. MY PULSE, A TREMOR, FAINT AND WEAK, AS NATURE'S COLD BEGINS TO SPEAK.

#TOOTHD  ,     a     dependent   blog   written    by    paige     —   @   ikeaslut   on      discord    —   for    103ac.   dni    if    you    are   not   affiliated    with    the    group.

𝑖. LORD JACKS BOLTON : introduction , pinterest 𝑖𝑖. LADY MELA REDWYNE : introduction , pinterest 𝑖𝑖𝑖. SER WILLAS HIGHTOWER : introduction , pinterest 𝑖𝑣. LADY DESMERA FOSSOWAY : introduction , pinterest

[nectarial]

indy lewis in house of david

[toothd]

☠︎︎ AND ALL WILD LONGINGS OF INSATIATE BLOOD BROUGHT ME DOWN TO MY KNEES. O WHO CAN BE BOTH MOTH AND FLAME?

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆    (   fossoway e ,  indy lewis ,  twenty - five ,  demiwoman ,  she/her  )  the  hand  of  the  late  king  welcomes  desmera fossoway,   the  lady  of  cider hall,  to  the  kingsmoot.  the  realm  knows  them  to  be  curious  and  passionate,  but  the  master  of  whisperers  has  unearthed  information  that  speaks  to  their  cryptic  and  delusional  tendencies.  to  dream  of  them  would  be  to  dream  of  black  soil  in  between  the  sharp  of  your  teeth,  its  grit  flavoured  like  ash;  the  glint  of  wide  eyes  in  the  darkness;  a  voice  that  sounds  like  a  purr;  a  fist  clenched  around  a  bright  red  apple,  its  juice  running  down  your  wrist;  and  the  cloying,  spiced  scent  of  hair  oiled  with  lyseni  perfumes.  they  themselves  dream  only  of  house  fossoway  on  the  throne.  time  is  an  unwieldy  mistress,  and  only  she  may  tell  who  will  sit  the  iron  throne  when  the  dust  settles.

☠︎︎      BASIC    INFORMATION   .

full name    lady desmera fossoway of cider hall pronunciation    des - mare - uh title(s)    lady of cider hall age    twenty - five date of birth    the first day of autumn, 78 ac religion worships pantera, a six breasted cat goddess from lys place of birth lys, the free cities, essos place of residence cider hall, the reach, westeros gender & pronouns    demiwoman, she / her languages spoken    the common tongue, lyseni valyrian allegiance    house fossoway

☠︎︎      FAMILY    INFORMATION   .

father    lord lorence fossoway mother    lady serenei fossoway of lys siblings    rosalei lannister née fossoway, fossoway a, alienor hightower née fossoway (half - siblingss), fossoway c, armond fossoway (niblings) relatives    house bar emmon of sharp point (step cousins), fossoway b (good sister) marital status    unmarried, unbetrothed issue    n/a

☠︎︎      PERSONALITY    TYPE   .

abilities    extremely light on her feet and thus is adept at espionage, can make friends with almost any animal, a very fast reader, can delude herself into believing anything moral alignment    chaotic evil positives    cautious, curious, passionate, fierce negatives    delusional, stubborn, cryptic, off - putting pass times    wandering off on her own, reading whilst curled up in a ball, climbing rock faces, collecting rocks, making amateurly fashioned jewelry, bitchcraft wields    a dagger fitted with a big onyx stone at its pommel, used more for practicality than combat character inspirations    therese raquin (therese raquin), aerion brightflame (asoiaf), wildcat (wolf), skade (the last kingdom), olga of the birch forest (the northman), agnes hathaway (hamnet)

☠︎︎      PHYSICAL    ATTRIBUTES   .

height    five foot four, 162 cm build    petite, thin - limbed, slightly lanky despite the fact that she's shorter hair    curly, dark and falling to her tailbone, never styled and often left loose —  here, here eyes    a plum so dark they're basically all pupil unless you're looking at them in direct sunlight notable features    eerily cat - like eyes, eerily sharp canines, a vaguely feline gait and way of holding her body, wears only black wardrobe    here face    indy lewis

☠︎︎      BACK    STORY   .

born basked in the golden glow of the lyseni sun, you were welcomed back to westeros by your father not long after. your mother had insisted upon birthing in lys — it was how she'd imagined it as a girl, she'd claimed, knowing that her new husband would allow her her whims. why she left the paradise of lys for westeros, her kin could never understand. the westerosi were opposites in every way — in climate, in culture, in faith. to leave the perfumed, balmy stresst of lys for acres of grass an infighting was a choice one could only possibly have made in the name of love. it was love for lorence that drew serenei to westeros, but it was her love for her daughter that has kept her there for the better part of twenty - seven years. even still, she made sure you gre up knowing her culture. hardly a word of the common tongue passed your lips before you were old enough to join your siblings and niblings in their studies.  

as a child coming of age in the reach, you were so blatantly lyseni. you could hardly play at fitting in, not with your strange purple - tinged eyes, your foreign accent despite having hardly known your mother's home island, and your sharpened canine teeth not even common amongst the lysene. you were different, and you ventured to know how different. long nights and early mornings were spent pressing your mother for information, poring over tomes on lys, its native culture, and its multiple faiths. you were most drawn to the goddess pantera, a kinship easily formed, an admiration turned girlhood fantasy. your hours were spent acting like a cat — convinced that you, with your devotion to panthera and your likeness to the women rumoured to use cats as spies and transform into cats themselves, would grow into your shapeshifting abilities. the act was committed to in a way that grew tiresome quickly. from teh ages of three to ten and two, you would not eat or drink out of anyhting that was now left in a bowl on the floor of cider hall's kitchens.

in your adulthood, the cat - like mannerisms have become habitual. stalking the halls of cider hall, your feather light gait allows you to gather many a secret. in monotonous moments, you will often be found running your fingers through your hair in a humanistic attempt at grooming. oh, you would never admit it, but there is a small sliver of yourself that still believes you will shift someday, that your distance from lys is the reason for your ability's stunting. the youngest of the fossoways, these are the worries that fill your days — not the standing of your house, the death of your half-sister's husband, nor the iron throne. those, you leave to your elder siblings.

☠︎︎      EXTRA    INFORMATION   .

honestly? just a weird girl. loves speaking in riddles, oversharing, overstepping, or remaining silent when the right thing to do would be to speak. slightly off - putting in nature, but it is not rare for people to be drawn to her strangeness. an ambivert — prefers to be alone, but capable of socializing (weirdly) when the situation presents itself.

that being said, she's often difficult to maintain a relationship with because she is capable of convincing herself of absolutely anything, even if it isn't true. she's often lost in her own world, and thus she tends to try to mould the world around her into something that resembles her preferred reality — ANNOYING am i right?

very connected to the reach and its rocks/minerals and believes they each have their own alchemical forces behind them, definitely would be a crystal girly if she lived in our universe. will often give them to people, and stays decked out in jewelry fashioned from different rocks she finds around cider hall. keeps them kind of as pets more than items.

that said, her heart lies with lys and as she's grown older she's started a campaign to get there — will do anything to get there. literally anything

[ofaeth3r]

             lyanna   wasn't   ashamed   to   say   that   the   arrival   of   the   hightowers   had   rattled   her.   the   moment   her   former   …   family   stepped   through   the   doors   like   the   saviours   they   all   liked   to   believe   they   were   lyanna   had   shrunk   back   into   herself   ,   hiding   in   the   shadows   to   remain   unnoticed.   it   was   one   of   the   reasons   she'd   avoided   the   sick   wing   ,   even   though   her   sister   had   resided   in   there   for   some   time.   lyanna's   need   for   self-preservation   had   far   outweighed   anything   else.   but   ,   duty   had   a   way   of   coming   for   everyone   and   lyanna   had   begun   to   make   the   uncomfortable   walk   toward   her   sister.   as   she   was   climbing   the   grand   stairwell   someone   brushed   past   her   ,   knocking   into   her   shoulder   with   an   unnecessary   force.   lyanna   was   about   to   snap   at   the   man   ,   even   as   he   belatedly   apologised   ,   but   the   stranger   made   her   stop   in   her   tracks   with   a   confused   tilt   to   her   head.    "is   that   all   i   get   ?"    she   asked   ,   voice   softer   than   her   usual   bite.   he   was   a   memory   more   than   a   living   thing   ,   but   lyanna   could   still   see   the   boy   she   once   knew   hiding   behind   the   dark   eyes   and   sharp   features.    "you   used   to   like   me   ,   once.   did   you   forget   ?"

[toothd]

it feels nearly impossible that he would brush past lyanna and not know her by touch. they had known each other in the way of siblings when he had spent those months in the eyrie — thirteen and gangly, still sweet - faced but buried beneath the weight of his secret. he had told them, then, his secret turning covenant once it had reached the ears of the arryn twins. jacks puts his ignorance this night down to a deadening of his animal instincts, sitting by amaya's bedside acting an iron tether to his humanity. " lyanna, " he heaves a sigh, the lady arryn's name exiting his lips with it, a boat helplessly caught in the rapids. " you look well. " it was not true. she looked dulled, her dinner plate eyes not so sharp as they were the last time he'd looked upon them, still set within her youthful features. but what else was there to say, when so many years separated you? so many leagues? an entire region and a feud between parents long gone? " better than your sister, anyhow. "

[faatedones]

harlon  is  one  of  the  lucky  ones,  to  not  have  been  struck  down  by  the  strange  illness  that  suddenly  sweeps  the  keep.  neither  is  his  kin,  not  that  he  seems  to  care  too  much  about  that.  it  is  a  cruel  thought,  but  for  just  a  moment,  some  part  of  him  had  hoped  that  it  would  take  falyn  or  her  twin  –  the  only  ones  standing  in  the  way  of  what  is  rightfully  his.  he  is  quick  to  dismiss  the  sick  thought,  for  as  much  as  he  may  detest  them,  it  would  be  a  sin  to  wish  such  an  awful  thing  upon  them.

he  makes  his  way  through  the  keep,  wracking  his  brain  for  what  he  might  be  able  to  do  to  assist.  that  is  when  he  stumbles  upon  her  –  mela  redwyne.  gods,  it  has  been  some  time  since  he  had  last  seen  her.  many  years  yet,  too  many  in  fact.

the  sight  of  her  tugs  at  his  heart.

“mela,”  he  speaks  her  name  plainly,  no  trace  of  formality  in  his  tone.  “do  you  think  they  will  recover?”

[toothd]

when it is harlon's voice that comes, mela's eyes flutter shut. she no longer pushes back the images that float to the forefront of her mind —  not like she might have in her youth. their backs pressed together as they woke, how fat, warm, arbor raindrops on her shoulders would have once reminded her of the pads of his fingers in the same place —  she lets them come in vivid technicolour, and lets them leave as well. he had sharpened her like a blade, his absence taking a whetstone to her personality. his marriage had been him twisting the knife to the right, and his wife's death had been mela's angry, youthful prayers twisting it back to the left. " i do not know. " she is reluctant to speak his name aloud. " your father's health wavers back and forth, " petulantly, mela pokes at his most tender spot, mentioning the grandmaester. a small revenge.

[aiyshas]

setting: sometime in the first week after the feast, w. @toothd

the sick yard is a place of delirium – it is a struggle to keep her face from twisting upwards in pleasure, for some of the sick truly are amusing. even amongst a friend, however, aiysha knows she ought not to show her true feelings, and, so, lips remain tight in a line as she looks upon the tintures offered by the maesters – they are to try their findings today. "do you wish to begin with your sister? you must be concerned for her sake."

[toothd]

mela's thoughts swirl like leaves caught in a riptide of wind, circling, circling, circling only to be plopped back down unceremoniously. never has her knowledge in botany come with such unbelievably high stakes. the grapevine speaks of her house's involvement, claims that it is they who poisoned their own wine —  poisoned their own blood, vaiora laying limp in a sickbed with the rest. mela's fist clenches at the thought, and she loosens it with some effort. she hums slightly at aiysha's query, looking over her shoulder at the other woman, tearing her eyes from her work. " no, " she answers after a moment of silence. " if it does not work, i would not subject her to any ill effects without knowing of their possibility first. "

[antagonistzz]

FATED  FOR  …  mela  redwyne ( * @toothd . )

FOUND  IN  …  the  sick  rooms.

the  lady  of  redwyne  had  died  long  ago,  but  these  days,  her  presence  seemed  to  be  stuck  to  her  youngest  daughter  like  a  shadow  seamed  to  her  spine.  her  voice  soft  against  her  ear,  a  hand  pressed  to  her  head  —  sela  was  with  her,  sitting  there  on  the  stool  next  to  her  bed,  eyes  warm  in  a  way  that  mela  never  looked  at  her.  her  head  turns,  slowly,  like  retreating  prey  on  low  haunches;  backing  away  from  the  stranger's  beckon.  she  cannot  say  for  certain  if  the  mela  she  looks  at  now  is  real,  or  if  she  as  has  conjured  her  too.  but  it  is  easier  to  look  at  someone  she  knows  is  still  breathing.

"sister..."  vaiora  says,  heart  feeling  very  small  in  her  chest,  always  disliking  to  ask  her  sister  for  anything  at  all,  "can  you  hold  my  hand,  please?"

[toothd]

mela remembers their mother dying. she remembers nearly every second of sela's last few moments. she remembers her hand, fading cold despite it being clasped between both of her own. she remembers how the gods did nothing, heard none of her prayers. she remembers it so well that she cannot think of it these days, cannot speak of it —  but now, she relives it. it is so like vaiora to fall ill, to put herself at the centre of a great tragedy. mela is as frustrated as she is terrified, the cold hand of fear grasped tightly around her throat. she had brought obsidian stones, had placed them beneath the corners of vaiora's sickbed such that she would not have nightmares while she faded in and out of feverish consciousness. she had spent time hoping, wishing that her sister's health would improve. she had applied poultices to her forehead to draw out the heat. none of it had been enough. at the croak of vaiora's voice, mela exhales a breath she hadn't intended to hold. " you are overly sentimental, " she chides, but the backs of her eyes burn incessantly. she picks up vaiora's hand in both of hers, holding it close to her stomach. " how do you fare? are you comfortable? "

[toothd]

          located  in  the sick rooms, where willas has been moping at her bedside for as long as he is allowed   &   fated  for  lady vaiora redwyne , @antagonistzz.

willas's chest aches like a bruise pressed sadistically, over and over and over. it is early in the day for such misery, but he partakes willingly, drawn to her bedside like a moth to candleflame. the grey early morning light filters through the red keep's ornate shades, casting patterns across the stone floor at his knees. he quite liked the hazy half - darkness, everything not so illuminated. in the dimness, he is forced to recall each one of her features rather than gaze upon them like others must. it is easy, a game he has long been the master of. it was second nature, to willas — to think of her in a variety of manners. as a childhood friend in memory, as a companion in hastily penned correspondence, as a lover in his most private of dreams. he remains where he is, stooped over a candle placed at her bedside, knees pressed to stone. next to the puddle of its predecessor, lit too by willas's hand, the wax is still pristine. he cannot bear to look at vaiora any longer, to feel the repulsive need to be something more than he was settle in his stomach like a hot stone. like most of those who sat vigil at bedsides in the rooms nearby, he could do nothing to remedy her illness himself. unlike most, his father could. had, but on a delayed schedule.

a maester approaches from behind, willas recognizing him for what he was by the swish of his robes, the clink of his chains. " leave it, " he commands, knowing that on the platter which he carries is her allotted second dose of the antidote that had ridden along with his father's retinue from oldtown. his voice is curt. he emulates his brother. oh, but willas is not the steady - handed smith. he is the warrior, signalled by the sword that lies discarded on the floor a few feet away. vigilance, its green - tipped hilt black in the shadows of the chamber. he is the warrior, shown in the way that he spills the potent liquid down her chin as he lifts it to her lips, wiping it away with the soft pad of his thumb —  too soft, for a knight's. he stares at the red droplets that stain the collar of her bedclothes. crisp and white as they once were, made golden by the candle's lame flicker, now made a pseudo - bloody mess by his foolish hand. " gods, " he exhales, picking up her hand as if it were a fragile thing, like to break. he presses his lips to her knuckles, feeling their feverish heat, and then his forehead, burying his face in the darkness of her blanketed hip.

[firedreamt]

♱ CLOSED STARTER : in which, despite the horrors, TALIESIN WATERS & WILLAS HIGHTOWER meet for their semi - annual game of cyvasse, long since not finished . @toothd

“…  it's  your  move,  your  lordship.”  mocking.  as  most  things  with  taliesin  tend  to  be,  although  he  leans  and  pours  the  NOT  FUCKING  RED  wine  into  their  goblets,  on  the  verge  of  asking  for  peach  juice  or  plum  preserves  instead,  but  committing  now.  the  game  is  in  its  earliest  stages,  their  pieces  aboard,  and  willas  has  that  particular  hightower  forehead-wrinkle  that  happens  when  they  stare  at  one  spot  for  too  long.  taliesin  purses  his  lips.  hides  a  chuckle.  the  smirk  breaks  through.  “  dear  me,  what  in  the  seven  hells  are  you  thinking  about  so  deeply?  it's  a  fucking  trebuchet  on  the  board,  darling,  not  a  real  one  smashing  you  out  at  the  gate.  ”  but  even  this  needling  …  damn  it,  taliesin  can't  help  but  give  a  flying  whit  about  him.  if  something  was  bothering  him,  then  taliesin  truly  wishes  to  alleviate  it.  it  only  so  happens  that  the  methods  are  rather  unorthodox,  that's  all.

[toothd]

the taste of wine lingers on the back of willas's tongue as he surveys the board, but he does not swallow it down. mineral and steely, astringent and bitter. the haziness of wine drunkeness does not yet touch him, but his thoughts still manage to find things to stumble over on their way to forseeing taliesen's ensuing moves. he so disliked carrying a heavy heart onto the cyvasse board. the tip of a long finger rests on the back of an elephant for a pregnant moment, stalled. he drags dark eyes from its minuscule stone trunk at the sound of his companion's voice, cutting his dwelling quite short. he takes a long swig of his replenished goblet, sighing his satisfaction, imagining the swirl of tannins in his mouth to be the bite of poison. " do you think we're ever truly forgiven, taliesen? " he questions, the melodrama dripping from his words like melted butter from fresh bread, still hot from the stone. it was a worthy question, nonetheless. discussion swirled of blame, of withholding, of death and who bore responsibility for it. the gods were surely angered, surely stirred from their peace. willas wonders if he should be in the sept rather than here. he wonders if candles truly could do more than repentance of the self-flagellant kind. he moves his elephant to answer one of taliesen's light horses at the other's beckon nonetheless, sitting back in his chair. it creaks beneath his weight, adjusting to the shift.

[arcan3ly]

「  ⚔  」   STATUS  ﹕  semi - closed. 「  ⚔  」  LOCATION  ﹕  pestilence, the hightowers are arriving. 「  ⚔  」  WITH  ﹕ @firedreamt, @toothd, @theygods, @verithaunt, @woundedstatue.

“let   me   at   them ! ”   despite   steffon’s   attempts   to   look   tough,   to   shape   himself   into   something   bordering   intimidating,   they   simply   clucked   and   chirped   like   the   small   bird   they   were.   pacing   the   now - empty   halls   of   the   keep,   all   others   bedridden   or   tending   to   the   sick   or   isolating   from   the   threat,   his   thoughts   had   been   set   alight   ;   the   hightowers   may   have   been   arriving   with   tinctures   and   balms   to   rid   the   spreading   illness,   but   to   steffon   their   arrival   was   poison   in   itself.   “if   they   talk   to   me,   if   they   look   at   me,   i’ll   —   well,   i’ll   —   ”   it   was   then   that   they   stopped,   motionless,   spying   the   shadowy   figure   emerging   from   one   of   many   doorways.   no   longer   was   it   simply   them   and   their   unruly   thoughts.   they   wondered   how   long   the   other   had   been   there,   how   much   they   had   heard,   whether   they   saw   the   threats   as   empty   and   thin   or   would   turf   steffon   out   into   the   streets   for   such   an   outburst.   so   instead   of   saying   anything   further   he   simply   stood,   hands   at   their   sides,   waiting   for   inevitable   consequence. 

[toothd]

" you'll do what, steffon? " jacks's voice is as shadowy as the door he emerges from, curtains drawn and candles snuffed such that no fearful next of kin would have to lay eyes on the truth of the sickly pallor of their loved ones. their symptoms spelled death, even to jacks's untrained eye. he had not been present when his mother had died, but in between the dreams in which he was a hound, in which he was his gyrfalcon — when he dreamed of his mother's death, it looked much like this. it had been long, since he had seen the arryn twins. it had been long since he had felt a part of a pack. " you will do nothing. leave them to the hounds, " he insists, the sun glinting off of his single iron canine as he grins, stalking forward to place a steady palm on their shoulder. the contact is unfamiliar, the wish to reassure even less so. it would be easier, jacks thinks, if they were in the eyrie. if they could go back to when they were children, when he had only just confessed to steffon and their sister the weight of his dreams. no matter the nerves he had endured then, they would not stand up to this, the red keep a mess of premature grief and fear. " amaya fares the same. i have been in to see her. "

[toothd]

          located  in  the sparring yard, while the negotiations for the antidote are ongoing elsewhere in the keep   &   fated  for  @fromashe , @graveruins , @valarrghulis & @hretiks.

there was peace in being where one was supposed to be. supposed to be, in willas's case, referred merely to where his father would expect him to be —  would prefer him to be. it had little to do with his divined path, or where he himself felt the most comfortable. he longed for the darkened corner of a tavern, where he could sit, be unrecognizable without his height on display, and do whatever he pleased. instead, his brain thrumming painfully in his skull and his ass still sore from the saddle, he leans against a barrel and wonders at the roster of sick. his father and elyas had disappeared into conversation directly upon their arrival to the red keep, leaving no time for questions. he trusts that ceryse will do the seeking of information, that she will know all it is that he does not  — but ceryse is not here. forearm rested on the pommel of vigilance, its carved green flame leaves angry indents in his skin. " do you know any of the names of those who have fallen ill? " he asks, gaze angled downward towards the red dirt at the tip of his boot.

[toothd]

          located  in  the grand stairwell, on his way back from sitting like a guard dog at amaya arryn's bedside   &   fated  for  @ofaeth3r , @spuriuse , @balonstrong , @eclipt1cs & @woundedstatue.

the stench of impending death in the sick corridor had been overwhelming. it had been difficult, then, for jacks to take his leave, for fear that it was amaya for whom the gods had come to call. sickly sweet, like a flower decaying and shoved below your nose, he had endured it as long as he could, sat in dialogue with the old gods —  his thoughts to their shift of the breeze coming in through the window he had thrown open mere seconds after his arrival. jorah would not die. that much jacks knew. he was too stubborn. too pompous. too full of himself, to die in a manner so unbecoming of a bolton lord. if there was not blood, his passage into death had not been properly paid for. for the lady arryn, it was not the same. as his path on the stairs becomes blocked by another, jacks reaches out to remove them instinctively, hands to their upper arms as he manoeuvers around them, roughly holding them in place. " pardon, " he mutters belatedly over his shoulder, an empty platitude that echoes.

[toothd]

          located  in  the corridor nearby the sick rooms, after it becomes apparent that the antidote she worked on with aiysha is not very effective   &   fated  for  @firedreamt , @faatedones , @arcan3ly & @cancrorum.

mela's jaw has been clenched since the first dose of the elixir she and the lady greyjoy had mixed slipped past the throats of the sick. healing had never been what she had gravitated to when it came to practical uses of her knowledge of botany. ironically, she preferred poisons  — things that would help the elderly, frail, and injured pass in peace, without pain. the weight of not knowing pressed heavily upon her now, pushing down on her shoulders as she lowers herself to perch in a nearby windowsill. how exhausting it was, to heal. how fruitless, when your efforts did not come to pass. within her skull, the backs of her eyes ache with unshed tears. was it sadness, that brought such emotion to her door? or was it frustration —  anger at her inability to control the nightmare that transpired before the eyes of the court? rolling the thought over in her mind, mela cannot decide. " i have no good news to offer, " she speaks only at the sound of footsteps, insistent and echoing off of the red keep's stone walls and out into the courtyard below, the open windows carrying in a breeze that she might have found comforting, under normal circumstances. " we must wait. "

[amerie-wadia]

LITTLE WOMEN 2019 dir. Greta Gerwig

[toothd]

@antagonistzz

[daily-men]

DAMSON IDRIS 📹 32nd Annual Actor Awards

[chvrlesmelton]

JACOB ELORDI Wuthering Heights (2026) dir. Emerald Finnell

[toothd]

☠︎︎ FEEDING THE FLIGHTLESS BIRDS ON THE PIER, HOPING YOU MIGHT RETURN TO THE FOG AROUND HERE. BUT I LOOK OUT AT THE WRECKAGE OF YOU, FOR AS LONG AS THERE'S LIGHT — FOR AS LONG AS YOU LAST.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆    (   hightower d ,  jacob elordi ,  twenty eight ,  cis  man ,  he/him  )  the  hand  of  the  late  king  welcomes ser  willas hightower,   the  lord  of  oldtown,  to  the  kingsmoot.  the  realm  knows  them  to  be  pious  and  compassionate,  but  the  master  of  whisperers  has  unearthed  information  that  speaks  to  their  envious  and  brooding  tendencies.  to  dream  of  them  would  be  to  dream  of  pressing your thumb into the most tender bruise on a peach; a light - drenched windowsill acting crypt to the sun bleached bodies of dead flies; within the furnace of your heart, you burn in your own green flame.  they  themselves  dream  only  of  house  tyrell  on  the  throne.  time  is  an  unwieldy  mistress,  and  only  she  may  tell  who  will  sit  the  iron  throne  when  the  dust  settles.

☠︎︎      BASIC    INFORMATION   .

full name   ser willas hightower of oldtown pronunciation    will - us title(s)    lord of oldtown, knight age    twenty seven date of birth    the fourteenth day of winter, 76 ac religion the faith of the seven place of birth the high tower, oldtown, the reach, westeros place of residence the high tower, oldtown, the reach, westeros gender & pronouns    cis man, he / him languages spoken    the common tongue allegiance    house hightower, the reach

☠︎︎      FAMILY    INFORMATION   .

father    ruling lord perceon hightower mother    lady rohanna hightower née hewett siblings    lady posey tyrell née hightower (deceased), liege hightower, lord orland hightower (deceased), liege hightower, lady seraphina hightower, lady aelora hightower relatives    house hewett of oakenshield (maternal cousins), house tyrell of highgarden (good family through posey), house arryn of the eyrie (good family through orland) marital status    unmarried, unbetrothed issue    n/a

☠︎︎      PERSONALITY    TYPE   .

abilities    shitty terrible knight, really not good at it, does not have an ounce of bloodlust in him, not even to protect the innocent, too sensitive to hurt other people, but he's a really good cyvasse player, very strategic moral alignment    true neutral positives    pious, compassionate, reliable, quiescent negatives    envious, brooding, naïve, standoffish pass times    prayer, cyvasse, laying down in the shade, being deeply sensitive and pouring his feelings out in his journal, avoiding his duties as a knight wields    vigilance, the ancestral valyrian steel longsword of house hightower character inspirations    this picture of anakin skywalker, jack marston (rdr), bear bailey (obsession), paul atreides (dune), daeron the drunken (akotsk)

☠︎︎      PHYSICAL    ATTRIBUTES   .

height    six foot five, 195 cm build    giant, has flat feet hair    dark, kind of grown out and unkempt at the moment eyes    brown notable features    giant, also has big, wet, mournful brown eyes and a cunty hoop earring wardrobe    here face    jacob elordi

☠︎︎      BACK    STORY   . (TW ALCOHOLISM, MENTION OF TORTURE)

the fifth of the seven hightower children, you were intended to be raised in the image of the warrior. the mother, the father, and the smith before you, your father's reincarnation of each face of the seven through his progeny is his life's passion. your childhood is bookmarked by sparring, by roughness, by playing at violence that you have no taste for. as the years melt by, you grow bigger and bigger, and your father's expectations for you expand in perfect synchronicity. never does the thirst for battle imbue your body, and never does the desire to protect manage to make up for that lack. vigilance is strapped to your waist at the tender age of ten, as soon as you are tall enough that the longsword's valyrian steel tip would not drag in the dirt whilst worn at your belt. it weighs heavy, but not so heavy as your father's ire when he catches you without it.

your squiredom is spent in insert region here (subject to plotting), trailing after a famed knight who wanted little to do with you other than the coin that your house offered in exchange for a swift knighthood. all told, your time as a squire spanned only eight moons, its end marked by your ten and sixth birthday. people marvelled at the speed at which you managed to earn yourself a knighthood, their congratulations abound — but all you could ever muster in response was a nod, a thin smile, a muttered thanks. it had not felt short to you. you had lost so much in the pursuit of gaining the epithet 'ser.' how could they not see it on your face? you had lost the child - like roundness to your cheeks, lost the opportunity to spend the last summer of your childhood in the gardens with your friends, lost the ability to claim you had never spilled another's blood, lost the feeling in your toes more than once, lost the picture of yourself that you had in your mind.

you would rather read, you would rather write, you would rather spend your days at the citadel, you would rather pluck every hair off of your head one by one, you would rather be drawn and quartered, you would rather be tarred and feathered — that much became obvious after your return to oldtown. if only you had been born in another's place, born to be the smith, the father, the stranger. you can imagine yourself a maester, you can imagine yourself with children, you can imagine yourself cast out from your family most of all. you languished in the shadow of the high tower, avoiding your father at all costs. you took to oldtown under the guise of patrols, only to end up drinking in taverns across the city  — sequestering yourself in darkened corners, scribbling in your journal.

your drinking only worsens when your siblings die. though their deaths are nearly two years apart, they feel closer in succession than two beats of your heart. it is better to avoid thoughts of your father's plan, refusing to lend thought to the regime that he put in place for your family before posey came forth from your mother's womb. it is better, in the eyes of your father, that you remain a drunken knight rather than an obviously reluctant one. you only hope that the true seven, the god that you have remained loyal to all your life despite your father's bastardisation of their power, are more forgiving.

☠︎︎      EXTRA    INFORMATION   .

sad mopey sad boy so sad :'(

more later