Amethyst

When Royalty Collides (#YIKES)

OH MY GOSH AAAAAAAA. will copy everyone over when I hop to my computer again.

When Royalty Collides (#YIKES)-Interest Check

YEEE ITS BACK. I am here for it. Bringing the adorable Livi and everyone’s favorite asshole Anton back for round four! (Along with Lusitania and Athens as their respective kingdoms). Also, the newbie Dom is making their debut. ^~^ And I’ll try to tap out with three characters this time.

Ame's Archive!

When Royalty Collides

Livi Viriatus

Liviana Viriatus of Lusitania

"Every new beginning comes from some beginning’s end." -Seneca

💎𝓝𝓪𝓶𝓮
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Liviana ‘Livi’ Decima Viriatus

💎𝓣𝓲𝓽𝓵𝓮
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N/A – Lusitania does not use inherited titles at all, it is rather a cultural – implication, of sorts, that one’s family name be the indicator of their power. That said, in another kingdom she would be called a princess, though she’s at least twenty-sixth in line to the throne.

💎𝓐𝓰𝓮
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Sixteen (Born March 15, 2002)

💎𝓖𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻
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Female

💎𝓢𝓮𝔁𝓾𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓽𝔂
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Asexual

💎𝓐𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮
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Though little Livi Viriatus isn’t much to look at, standing a tiny four feet and four inches and weighing maybe 80 pounds sopping wet, she’s got a lot of attitude about her. Unruly dark-chocolate curls cascade past her hips, when they’re behaving (which isn’t often) and frame a thin face set with enormous, deep blue eyes that don’t flinch away from any form of stare.

In terms of posture, Liv is painfully proper - her back as straight as a board, every muscle tense in a struggle to gain a few more millimeters of stature. Her hands are usually clasped at her waist, behind her, or else held close to her. When she walks, she is careful to make little sound, though her usual soft-soled sandals make that even easier.

Attire is something that all Lusitanians take pride in, and Livi is no exception. Her piles of hair are often braided and pinned up, tucked with all manner of pins and jewels with only a few strands left free. Her clothing is always in Lusitania’s traditional style - long, flowing gowns of chiffon and thin silk that are layered and draped for modesty. Restrictive, yes, but absolutely gorgeous. Many Lusitanian women can pull these outfits off with ethereal ease; on Liv, however, the garments threaten to drown her, at best obscuring any hint of a figure that she might have. She favors shades of baby blue and pink and white, pastel colors that don’t further overwhelm her fair skin.

💎𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓽𝔂
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Outwardly, Liviana is the perfect Lusitanian girl. Quiet and demure, with little opinion about much of anything. Her musical interests are kept quiet, her social ones never spoken of - the only thing she publicly excels at are weaving, spinning, and looking pretty.

Internally, however, it’s a very different story. Equal parts infuriated by her lack of education and fiercely determined to succeed, she has a fiery wit and a thirst for knowledge - but it is crippled by her upbringing, fear of stepping out of line.

Liviana is absolutely devoted to her musical endeavors - cello and piano are by far her favorite instruments. Hours are spent practicing, arguably a majority of her time, even. Second to that is her social media addiction - don’t laugh. After much consideration, and a thorough introduction by her best friend, the 13-year-old Livi decided that the Internet was by far the best way for a sickly, frail princess to be an activist on a global scale.

Loneliness is Livi’s constant companion, though - her best friend’s health is failing, and Liv’s siblings and father scarcely give her the time of day. Though she tries to be optimistic and determined, it’s very hard to stay as such - especially because her activism doesn’t seem to leave a mark. And with her internet presence, she sees all sorts of other young women speaking out in person - and so wishes she had that level of confidence and poise and grace. She just wishes she could do more for her cause - and dares to hope that her engagement is just that.

💎𝓛𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼 + 𝓓𝓲𝓼𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼
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Likes: Tea with milk and honey, tiny creatures, orchestral music, libraries, polite conversation, flowing dresses, sunshine, wildflowers.

Dislikes: Coffee, rock music, radical feminists, protest marches, scary old senators, alcohol, spinning lessons.

💎𝓑𝓲𝓸𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓹𝓱𝔂
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Liviana is the tenth, and youngest, child of the current emperor (Imperator Julius Titus Viriatus Augustus) of Lusitania. She has seven older brothers and two older sisters. Her mother died of complications upon her birth, and thus Livi was named for her - it was only fitting that Lady Livia’s legacy be continued.

Born a sickly, premature child, it was a fight for Liv to survive from the very first moment. The realm watched the tiny princess with detached fascination - it wasn’t as though she was to inherit, or rule, and there were plenty of other healthy royal children should she expire - and sighed in tentative relief as she managed to make it to her first birthday. But the health issues did not go away. Her father, upon realizing she was never to grow out of her sickness, did his best to shuffle her out of the public eye.

When she was seven, she had her first marriage proposal. A crusty old senator's youngest son, who was nonetheless at least five times her age, dressed in finery and anointed in oils that made her breath whistle in her throat. She watched in terror, and in fascination, as her father politely refused the man, taking to heart his confidence in her - "A Viriatus is suitable for only an heir."

As she grew older, however, she realized how - to put it politely - screwed the entire system was. Proposal after proposal offered for her hand, by men as old as her father, who saw her as nothing more than an object to hang on their arm and a fortune to subsume. She watched her next-eldest sister, Valeria, married off at the age of fourteen to an obscenely-rich Athenian investor - and having borne three children by eighteen. Such was not a life Livi wanted, but any statements of this were fielded away as being naive child's wonderings. All things are done for the Empire, silly Livi; for what else do you even exist?

Thankfully, as her body resolutely refused to turn into a woman's, the marriage proposals dried up.

With them, so did her father's hope in her.

She was taught to spin thread from the time she was six and taught the art of loomwork from the time she was ten. Such was what women did, both married and unmarried ones; a young woman's place was on a cushion in a quiet room listening to older women quietly sing and tell stories between the thumping of the looms and scarce whispering of twirling threads. She hated her spinning lessons, but took part in them.

A marry-able woman was quiet, and adept at her work, and so Livi had to be. For the Empire. Certainly, she had the 'quiet' in spades. Few people, save her maids, ever cared to speak to her, and most even seemed to actively look through her. For the most part she was allowed to just exist, slipping out of the weavers' room and into the halls to wander. If her father ever noticed, he never cared, nor said anything to have her stop.

Time and chance had her, at last, make a friend - Lucian Catilina, a nobleman's son, and a pianist-in-training. He saw her as a person, and didn't seem to care that she was small and weak... Though how could he? He was scarcely bigger than her, and had his own small novel’s worth of medical problems. With much pleading and cajoling, he convinced her to come to an orchestra rehearsal with him - where she was immediately plopped down in a seat and handed a cello with little more explanation than, 'it'll be fun!' (which it certainly was, though perhaps less so for the others in hearing distance.) Thus, a remarkably-intense interest in music (and an intense friendship) were born.

Through Lucian, she was exposed to a great many things. Clumsy Greek and English lessons, musicianship in all facets - though cello and piano became by far her favorites - and most magically... the Internet. Smartphones (or really phones in general) were a rarity in Lusitania, especially for girls, but Lucian pulled a few strings and cajoled a few people and managed to get Liv an older Athenian-made one, and a generous data plan. She lost countless hours to scrolling through social media, hours of arguing with people (The annoying contingents of Aciran ‘Roma’ fangirls, in particular, were often argued with about their willful ignorance) and starting to break the silence on the real social climate in Lusitania.

Today, she has just under 300 thousand followers on Instagram, which is her primary platform - say what you like, but it is an ideal one for comments of political exposition disguised under pretty, pink-filtered ‘aesthetic’ photos of people and landscapes.

💎𝓕𝓒 + 𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓻 𝓒𝓸𝓭𝓮
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Code: F2AED3 | FC: Jodelle Ferland

💎𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓶𝓮 𝓢𝓸𝓷𝓰
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Invisible Ink - Mandy Moore
_{People say it's nice to meet me
I often wonder why
...
But I still can't draw conclusions
I'm still talking out of turn...}

💎𝓑𝓮𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓭 𝓣𝓸
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N/A

💎𝓞𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻
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Aesthetic board here.
Liv has a pet sparrow named Qvi (pronounced 'kwee'), a gift from Lucian, and she loves That-bird to death. (It's a joke, get it? because qui means 'that' in ancient imperial Latin. Aforementioned bird used to terrorize orchestra rehearsals and was so often called 'that (optional: bloody, or 'fucking', or some other expletive) bird' that the name eventually stuck.

Liv is a proud member of the Lusitanian Women's Forum, a moderate feminist organization that hosts meetings and debates and politely politically protests, by sending petitions and speakers to the senate house and imperial court. They look down on many other feminist groups, seeing their rioting and passionate speech as being overall harmful to the greater good of their mission.

Dom Viriatus

Domitia Viriatus of Lusitania

"I am too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful for anyone to take charge of me." -Simone de Beauvoir

💎𝓝𝓪𝓶𝓮
――――――――――

Domitia ‘Dom’ Annia Viriatus

💎𝓣𝓲𝓽𝓵𝓮
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N/A – Lusitania does not use inherited titles at all, it is rather a cultural – implication, of sorts, that one’s family name be the indicator of their power. That said, in another kingdom they would be called a princess – they (were) second in line to inherit after their father.

💎𝓐𝓰𝓮
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18 (Born September 15, 1999)

💎𝓖𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻
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Nonbinary (prefers ‘they’ pronouns)

💎𝓢𝓮𝔁𝓾𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓽𝔂
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Aaaaa?!

💎𝓐𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮
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Dom is a very stern looking young person, somehow intimidating despite their tiny stature. Though they are notably tall for an afab person born into the Viriatus bloodline, and even stand just above the Lusitanian average, they are dwarfed by most from the rest of the world – they stand at five feet and zero point seven five inches, to be precise.

Their body was once that of an athlete or soldier, toned and wiry with muscle and padded with a healthy layer of fat, but in the last three years it has withered away and become emaciated and frail. Collarbones are starkly sharp against their sallow skin, joints comparatively knobby and bulbous. Once-broad shoulders now are loose and pointed and often bruised – the running ‘joke’ in their family is that a sparrow’s landing on their shoulder would leave a mark for weeks.

Despite their form, or perhaps because of it, everything else about them has a razor-like intensity. Dark green eyes peer out from under wisps of precisely jaw-length mousy-brown hair, over painfully-prominent cheekbones further emphasized by a long, thin scar that traces lengthwise across the right one. Dom refuses to conceal it with makeup, even considering the scar a point of pride – the only injury they ever sustained during their years of military school.

Regarding attire, Dom clothes themself as a Lusitanian lady would – only out of the insistence of their father and grandfather. Their attire is always closely fit to their body - at least, as closely as any Lusitanian fashions ever are – and in the dullest colors they can get away with. They wear no jewelry or hair accessories, and minimal makeup, though their fingernails are immaculate and always have clear, glossy gel polish on them.

💎𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓽𝔂
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Dom is a master of self-control. Everything about them must be entirely, exactly in its place. They are obsessive - hands eternally fidgeting, picking at buttons or brooches or loose threads or, without anything else, their own skin; eyes flickering to every face and object in the room and back over them a hundred times. When something manages to capture their focus, however, it is absolutely laser-like. Dom has been taught to be utterly attentive to every last detail of a situation. At one point, their memory was impeccable as well; the ability to recall any face or name would come in immense use should they ever wind up as the kingdom's ruler - but in recent years that ability has faded. Nonetheless, Dom is a very unnerving person to be around- their eyes seem to linger on all of one's secrets.

In all other regards, however, they are the perfect royal of bygone times. Elegant, graceful, and (perhaps overly) formal, they're not the sort to embarrass or cause offense at a dinner party. That said, there's always something off about them - they do not do well at idle small talk, and have a bearing and posture that never fully settle to relaxed.

Internally, Dom is very introspective and honestly quite pessimistic. Their existence has, for the last several years, been a matter of keeping their head down and just surviving - and now these two months here in Aciras are to be their only chance at escaping Lusitania and finding somewhere to except them for who they are. Pressure mounts - but then, they've always been good under pressure. With that being said, they've never tried to make a personal connection with anyone, certainly not on the level required to get them to agree to a wedding. They just pray they can make it happen.

💎𝓛𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼 + 𝓓𝓲𝓼𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼
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Likes: Pretty, strong girls (!!!!!), gardening, rainstorms, swimming and running, vegetarian cuisine, ’wonder food’ smoothies, indie music and edm, cartography.

Dislikes: Meat, especially fatty Aciran cuisine; fuckboys from their year, idle time, milkshakes (they're lactose intolerant), penmanship lessons.

💎𝓑𝓲𝓸𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓹𝓱𝔂
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The kingdom rejoiced when Servius Titus Viriatus’s wife bore him twins. The heir to the throne had his own heirs, and the fate of Lusitania was secure!

To honor the twins’ mother, they were both named for her father – and the female twin was given her name, in place of the ancestral ‘Titus’ that had been traditionally bestowed to the eldest children for generations. Thus Domitia Annia and Domitius Titus Viriatus were welcomed into the world.

Growing up, the twins were utterly inseparable. They were fiercely doted upon, and guarded, and kept from playing with any of the lesser-born children, and so they became figuratively joined at the hip. They also bore an uncanny resemblance to each other, to the point where if their hair was obscured even their regular nurses couldn’t tell them apart.

As they grew older, they were separated – the girl twin shut inside to learn to weave and spin and embroider and do pretty lady things, and the boy set out to explore and scuffle and run with the hounds and do stern soldier things.

Annia wouldn’t have minded such a docile life. But Titus- he aggressively, painfully, did not want to be a solider. And Annia had always looked out for her brother.

In their infinite wisdom, the twins hatched a foolproof plan to switch places. At the tender age of eight years old, Annia cut off her long hair, chopped it up all raggedy with scissors until the nurses had to shave it just like her brother’s.

With that came the sad realization that even their parents could not tell them apart (at least when they were clothed) whatsoever, which made it almost painfully easy for them to trade places. On the fateful day when Titus was to be sent off to Lusitania’s most prestigious military academy, Annia took his place in the car.

So was born the identity with which Annia continues to use today – ‘Dom’ was hungry for knowledge and viciously eager to prove himself better than his classmates, which he did with much perseverance and effort. He soon became a favorite of many of the teachers, who admired his work ethic and discipline despite his lack of physical stature, and found his mental aptitude to be second to none.

As years passed, Dom and Titus were rarely given a chance to interact. But Titus was at least as clever as Dom; he continued his part of the ruse without revealing it, and under much more careful scrutiny than Dom ever was at the Academy.

The twins were approaching their thirteenth birthday. By this time, Dom had become the top of their class. Titus had done so well at convincing everyone that he was Annia that a proposal had been extended. Dom’s heart nearly fell out of their chest.

There was no way they could make the change. The day of the ceremony, Dom tried to get Titus alone, to switch with him once more, but he… either didn’t see, or refused to acknowledge them. Their terror grew as the ceremony progressed, as they were sent back to the school that very same night – feasting was all well and good, but they had to get an education.

In the morning they were awoken to the most horrifying news they could have imagined.

Titus had been found dead in the marriage bed, his throat slit and body mutilated, and the noble he’d been wed to nowhere to be found.

All eyes turned to Dom. Forcibly revealed to be the fairer twin, their father ordered them brought home. It was a riot. Not even figuratively speaking- there were students taking up arms and rocks and standing against the legion with their shields and swords, and the fury was infectious, spilling over into the common people. The riots spread all through Rome, through the surrounding cities, and lasted in force for over two weeks. Dom themself was ordered to lay down their arms and surrender to their father’s guard; they very politely told the guards to fuck off and continued fighting.

The riots eventually settled. Many were wounded, including Dom – they had been glanced across the cheek by the edge of a throwing spear, but refused medical treatment, for fear that they would be returned home – but their father no longer required it. They were allowed to return to school.

Oh, and how things changed.

Teachers who used to dote on and fawn over them were cold, callous, and unfairly harsh in marking their papers. They would consistently ‘lose’ submitted work – Dom began submitting it in hard copy, digitally, and in any other way they could think of, until eventually the teachers got so tired of the eternal spam that they dropped the pretense. The other students, who had previously been in varying shades of awe and envy, suddenly saw them as lesser. Hazing and bullying started at every turn, constantly calling them by their too-feminine name. More than their fair share of scuffles broke out- scuffles which they could not defend within at all, for fear of being expelled.

trigger warnings within

(TW for implication of sexual violence)
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It was perhaps good that the secret’s revelation had been so sudden, rather than a gradual one of budding curves and bloody thighs. But they too soon grew into their femininity, and tenuous though it was it attracted the look of many – and they soon realized what a vile part of the world they really lived in.

Classmates soon found excuses to be near their bed, in the year’s communal bunkroom; found excuses to sneak beside them in the dead of night. Professors, during midterms, in the daylight and dubious seclusion of office hours – ‘there’s a price for passing marks, little girl.’

They grit their teeth and bore it, silently, and graduated with the highest possible honors. To spite them; to spite all of them. To be a stronger person than they would ever dream to be.

What had they learned at school?

Sure, sure. Tactics, history, the legends of the man who dared stand against a tide. How ironic that he who broke the tyrannical Roman’s back is idolized, yet the one who now tries to take more than their due be vilified.

Trying to re-integrate to palace life, having returned home with their medals and uniforms, was… decidedly not easy. There was no rigor, at least not compared to the planned-to-the-minute days they had grown so used to at the academy, and everyone else was altogether too relaxed.

It didn’t help that upon their return they were immediately forced back into the pretty, flowy dresses that they had escaped at the age of eight. Constantly followed by that name – that nameand forced to be someone they were not – until they burst from the halls in a fit of rage and ran, and ran, and did not stop until they twisted their ankle in a pothole and went skidding across ancient concrete.

Seven miles from the palace. How long had they been out there? The agonizing walk back gave them time to think, gave them time to let the pain of the situation ease along with the ache in their lungs.

Not Annia. Annia had died that day she had taken Titus’s place. Annia would have become the quiet wife of that nameless noble four years before. Annia would have worn dresses and curlers and braids and laurels and been content to know that someday she would have children.

Not Titus. Titus was dead. Murdered. Titus would have been an emperor, blessed by gods and revered by men. He would have been noble and just and kind and powerful.

No, Dom was neither the girl they had been born nor the man they tried to become. Rather… stuck in limbo. Incomplete.

The only person they dared reveal this revelation to was their younger aunt – Livi. The sheltered and frail youngest sister of their father. If they expected her to be shocked or confused, they were instead met with a soft laugh and a quiet Internet search on Livi’s ever-present smartphone. Such words as ‘nonbinary’ and neutral pronouns – only ever used in conversation with Livi and a few other trusted friends, of course, the emperor was ill-prepared to deal with a nonconforming child, never mind a nonbinary one! - but gradually Dom became more confident in their personal identity. It was easier for them to don the sparkly gowns knowing that the way they dressed didn’t invalidate who they felt they were.

But with that comfort and confidence came in turn issues with their physical appearance. They were too small and lacking in form and muscle to ever be a masculine enough man, and too few people took them seriously with their increasingly feminine shape. Rome had always prized women with wide hips and generous busts.

tw again sorry

Tw for eating disorder below
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When they had pinpointed that – that the shape of their body was what was causing them so much discomfort – they soon found remedies for it. What started as a healthy diet and conditioning exercise, to get back into the physical condition they had once been, became increasingly obsessive as they started to see results.

Livi grew concerned, as she ever did, and begged them to eat something, to stop the exercise. Dom said they would once there was no trace of their old body. Liv made them swear it. On Titus’s grave.

They barely ate, and when they were forced to, quickly purged it following the meal. Hours and hours in the training fields, on the courts, until their legs were shaking so they could hardly stand. So much self-hatred and anxiety and fear of it- never being enough. Of them never ridding themself of the last airs of femininity; of Annia always being there in the corner of their mind, whispering about what a woman they could have been.

Their figure melted away over the next year. Eventually, the monthly pains and bleeding spaced out, and stopped entirely. Still the relentless regimen. Liv begged them, again, pleaded with them, screamed at them and tackled them down onto the bed – even the child-sized Liviana was stronger than them, by this point – and reminded them what they’d sworn. Would they dishonor their brother, or would they get better?

After this outburst, their relationship with their aunt much improved. Livi was patient, gentle and quiet; she would distract Dom with drawing or music or internet ‘memes’ when the urges to run got so strong, would entice the kitchen staff to make low calorie vegetarian dishes, knowing that vegetarian food was Dom’s weakness and reasoning that few calories were still better than no calories – and they got better.

They still fear gaining weight; they still exercise too much and eat too little. But gone, at least for now, is the numbness and apathy that once surrounded them.

Several months have passed. This trip to Aciras is going to be… interesting, for certain. Their father has told them they are to arrange a marriage for themself or else one will be arranged upon their return- and they have had altogether too much of the predatory, leering nature of Lusitanian men. Aciras is their ticket out.

They feel awful at the thought of abandoning little Liviana, but – they need to do this, if they want to survive. Britannia might not be much better but as the empress-to-be they would have certain protections that would be unheard of in Lusitania. Everything would be fine.

…right?

💎𝓕𝓒 + 𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓻 𝓒𝓸𝓭𝓮
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Color Code: c2e2a7 | Faceclaim: Alba Galocha

💎𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓶𝓮 𝓢𝓸𝓷𝓰
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Warriors - Imagine Dragons
_{As a child you would wait
And watch from far away
But you always knew that you'd be the one
That work while they all play
In youth you'd lay
Awake at night and scheme
Of all the things that you would change
But it was just a dream!}

💎𝓑𝓮𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓭 𝓣𝓸
――――――――――

Edwin Drakewine of Britannia

💎𝓞𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻
――――――――――

Dia has at times spoken at FF ('Foeda Flammae', or 'the league of the flame' - a radfem organization that advocates for women to take up arms and forcibly take back their rights) rallies, and has accidentally become a bit of a radical feminist icon across the world. They don't agree with all of FF's platforms, and even speak out against how dangerous their 'rekindling the flame of war' would be, and how many women would be subject to horrible violence because of it- but it falls on deaf ears; the organization only ever uses their quotes that appear to support their platforms, and claim to be endorsed by Dom when they're very much not.
They have 10k f
ollowers on Tumblr, and about 12k on instagram, but try to keep a low profile and keep those identities un-associated with their name.

Anton Telesphorides

Andronikos Telesphorides of the Athenian Federation

"There is nothing permanent except change." -Heraclitus

💎𝓝𝓪𝓶𝓮
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Andronikos ‘Anton’ Loukianos Telesphorides

💎𝓣𝓲𝓽𝓵𝓮
――――――――――

Prince

💎𝓐𝓰𝓮
――――――――――

Twenty-three (born 25 May 1995)

💎𝓖𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻
――――――――――

Male

💎𝓢𝓮𝔁𝓾𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓽𝔂
――――――――――

At least bi, if not fully gay.

💎𝓐𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮
――――――――――

Though Anton is not especially tall, and is indeed rather short - standing about five feet, five inches tall - he carries himself exceptionally proudly. His eyes are a deep coffee brown, his hair a dark shade of brown that is often mistaken for black. Much to his chagrin, the bridge of his nose and his prominent cheekbones are dusted with a liberal sprinkling of freckles, which really detract from the whole “severe businessman” look… depending on how desperately he wants them gone, he will sometimes raid his sister’s makeup kit and apply a thin coating of foundation before any formal appearance.

His body is well-built, if a bit on the thin side – his muscles are wiry, not bulky. He’s been through some amount of physical training as the city states require all young men to go through basic military training, regardless of if they intend to stay in or not. In attire he tends to forgo cultural norm in favor of something more stylish and business-conscious – his go-to outfit is a fitted navy or black business suit, usually over a white or blue shirt and a black or metallic gold satin tie.

💎𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓽𝔂
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Charismatic and proud, there’s quite a lot of personality packed into Anton’s pint-sized frame. He’s at times quite arrogant, doing his best to hold himself loftily above everyone around. Massively proud of his intellect, and the depth and breadth of his education, he strikes up many a conversation with the sole purpose of proving himself superior to those around him. This brash, somewhat stoic facade is just that - a facade hiding his own fear of his shortcomings, and his massive bitterness that his sister is set to inherit instead of him.

Hidden behind all of this, so deep that not even he recognizes it, is a cruel cunning and a burning lust for power. He is deeply envious of his elder sister’s inheritance, and seeks to prove himself to his parents as the rightful next ruler, doing so through cunning business and shrewd social deals. His personal moral compass, while strong, seems not to apply in matters of trade and influence - he will stop at nothing to exploit others’ personal weaknesses and strengthen his own position. Highly manipulative, he takes the role of the underdog and victim whenever he can, seeding pity and using that to his own advantage. He refuses to admit that it’s his inferiority complex talking.

With this being said, he does have a surprising soft spot for those actually befallen by misfortune, and is fiercely protective of those weaker than he is- those who he judges are genuine and not just seeking pity.

💎𝓛𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼 + 𝓓𝓲𝓼𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮𝓼
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Likes: Black coffee, organized spreadsheets, chrome anything, tailored suit jackets, precise schedules, the ocean, rain, fancy pens, Eione (His cat), playing piano.

Dislikes: Cream or sugar in his coffee, caramel, milk chocolate (too sweet, bleh), 'traditional' Athenian wear, free time, artistic pursuits (other than calligraphy), guitar music (for some reason it's just super grating on his ears.)

💎𝓑𝓲𝓸𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓹𝓱𝔂
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Andronikos was the only son, the second of three children, and spent much of his childhood in a peculiar state of being doted on and yet still considered lesser. His elder sister Andromede (“Andi” when she must anglicize it) and younger sister Korinna (“Kory”) were lovely, confident girls, but he was always the treasured one- the only son, after all. Raised in a bizarre fusion of the cutting edge of the modern world - every piece of technology and modern wonder at his fingertips - and the classical one, his worldview definitely is… unique.
Growing up, he was a bit pampered. He had anything his heart desired, except, of course, the title of crown prince. This honor was given to Andi, naturally, and Anton had a front seat view of how his only-two-years-older sister had to grow up into a diplomatic, graceful woman before she even hit her teens. He did his best to be there for her, helping her prepare to take the eventual burden of keeping the citystates in line, and the burden of being the first woman to inherit. (Though the citystates’ inheritance ran solely on primogeniture, the luck of the gods had been such that a woman had not inherited in living memory.)

Kory was born when he was five years old. As they grew, he was always much closer to Andi than their… foolish little sister, and the younger girl resented all of them for it, withdrawing from everything. He did his best to put the girl’s pettiness out of mind, and remains frosty with her to this day.

Their schooling was second to none. By the time they were thirteen, they were fluent in English, as well as their own Greek and Latin and knew at least snippets of a few other languages. Business partners were often more receptive when met halfway with their own language being used for negotiations, after all. He was educated in politics and philosophy, math and finance and the theory of investing. All fairly standard things for Athenian nobility.

His world was turned upside down when he was fourteen. Of course he knew of the revolution in the neighboring Luxieme- they’d been following the news of the bloody revolt quite closely- but he never expected he would be the state delegate sent to the scene, after the Athenian soldiers had forced the insurgents’ surrender.
Amid the crowd of paparazzi and elite soldiers, as he took the symbolic first shovel of earth in the ruins of the capitol building, pledging his people’s support for the reconstruction of the kingdom of Luxieme… he saw her. A little girl, spindly, hungry, disheveled, and peering at him from half behind a pillar with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. He faltered in his speech, faltered on national television, his diplomat’s smile slipping for one single second.

His mother had been furious, having seen his reaction on the television, his momentary slip of poise as though he’d seen a ghost. He’d tried to defend himself, but no one believed what he said. A few days later, one of their medical units dragged in the same girl he’d seen. Edelessa D’Argent. Valentine. She was sent to their home soon after she was found; they thought raising her in the more… sheltered and structured Federation capital would be good for her, would give her confidence and some semblance of perhaps a normal childhood - and give her a jumpstart on becoming the crown princess her kingdom needed.

He expected Kory to be all over the new girl, but if she was distant to him she was downright frosty to the errant princess. So it fell to him to keep the young princess of Luxieme company. Grudgingly at first, but he slowly won her over with little gifts of books and sweet things, and spending time just close enough that she grew to tolerate his presence.

He taught her to ride horses, and on a whim bought her a polaroid camera- he’d seen the way those pretty eyes would latch on to birds and especially butterflies and insects- and when that was a success made a small investment of personal wealth to acquire a very nice digital camera for the girl. This turned out to be the proper turning point of their friendship. The promise of artistic opportunities seemed to be what was needed to get the young princess out of her shell.

Four years ago, his mother dropped the bomb that they were to be married, and Luxieme finally, officially annexed. He was horrified - at nearly twenty, when Blue herself was only twelve - but Mother’s mind seemed made up.

He took the issue to Andi, who gave her soft, already-matronly grin, and ruffled her baby brother’s hair, and told him not to worry and that she could give him some time to figure something out. She’s undermined the king’s authority and gotten Anton an invitation to attend the festivities in Aciras. The unspoken agreement is clear, though - he needs to strike up a deal when he’s there, or else he’ll be wed to Valentine upon their return.

💎𝓕𝓒 + 𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓻 𝓒𝓸𝓭𝓮
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Color code: F2E9AC | FC: Cameron Boyce

💎𝓑𝓮𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓭 𝓣𝓸
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N/A yet!

💎𝓞𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻
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Aesthetic to be added later!

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Lusitania

The Empire of Lusitania

💎𝓚𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓭𝓸𝓶 𝓝𝓪𝓶𝓮
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Commonly called simply ‘Lusitania’

💎𝓚𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓠𝓾𝓮𝓮𝓷
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Julius Titus Viriatus is the reigning Viriathus, currently in the forty-seventh year of his reign at the age of seventy-two; Livia Aelia-Viriatus was his wife of thirty-one years and died in 2002 at the age of forty-five.

💎𝓚𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓭𝓸𝓶 𝓒𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓼
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Tyrian purple and gold

💎𝓦𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓚𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓭𝓸𝓶 𝓲𝓼 𝓚𝓷𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓕𝓸𝓻
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Lusitania, and famous? In the same sentence? Ha. At any rate, the only reason Lusitania is relevant is because it’s so old. They do some agricultural export, handled by Athenian shipping lines, but for the most part they’re a sleepy (and stagnant) kingdom primarily fueled by a tourist industry – again, they seem to be very much stuck in a prior time that foreigners love to experience (and can’t wait to leave.)

Lusitanian soldiers still fight with swords and shields and armor out of the classical era. In the 1800s there was a brief surge of gothic-plate style knight’s armor, but it was soon abandoned as being too expensive and intricate. (That said, many centurions and those of higher ranks own a suit worn for ceremony, and some prime decani can be seen wearing greaves and gauntlets in that style, in addition to their traditional uniforms.) It should be noted that their military serves in place of a police force; otherwise their role is solely ceremonial.

Overall, they’ve got a mishmash of basically 2000 years of aesthetics happening. Don’t even look at their coin system, where they’ve got several differently-named coins that have the same values.

They’ve become a biiiit of a meme on the Internet, with their quite frankly backwards policies and their blatant lack of such notions as ‘equality’ – they have become ‘the wet-dream of incels’ to quote one scandalous Britannian tabloid, a statement which might have some truth when one considers the proposed changes to Lusitanian immigration law.

A radical feminist symbol has increasingly cropped up in social media even in other kingdoms – a rust- or bronze-colored brazier, shaped as a horseshoe or perhaps a crescent moon, with twisting flames erupting from the top. It’s the icon of Foeda Flammae, the League of the Flare (though with the dual meaning of ‘foeda’ there’s often less-favorable translations. Regardless, it plays well into the Aciran Nasty Women and other such rough-and-tumble feminist cries.)

💎𝓡𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓽/𝓡𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓿𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓚𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓭𝓸𝓶 𝓗𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂
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In northern Italy, extending down to Rome.
Technically they have the whole of Italy but the southerners are being a bit secessionist/ wanting to join with the Athenians.
Most recently in the world news about them have been the Ludiia Riots of 2013 – after the murder of Domitius Titus Viriatus and revelation of his twin sister’s deception, students at the school she had been attending rioted for her right to stay there rather than face discipline at home.
The empress died in 2002 while giving birth to Liviana Decima. The kingdom had the customary two years of mourning at that time.
Became an empire in 1466.
Last external military conflict was finished in 1615, a decisive loss.

Excessively Rambly History

The Romans would have had you believe that the Lusitanian War ended decisively with the assassination of Viriathus.

But such was merely misleading propaganda, spread by a cowardly, sniveling empire, in terror of the divine retribution they had wrought upon their own heads.

Viriathus. Viriathus! The rallying cry that united the tribes of the Lusitanii. A god-king amongst mortals; a hero of eras long gone past. The gods would not allow such a cowardly, conniving act to bring to heel their chosen people. No; Viriathus rose with the dawn, with blood still seeping from his wounds, and sent the Roman traitors fleeing back to their masters.

The year was 133 BC. The Romans reported that Viriathus was dead, that the uprising of the Lusitani had been quelled- meanwhile, they marched through Iberia, casting off the shackles of Roman oppression and leaving those perfumed senators, leagues away, quaking in their sandals at the news. The cry of Viriathus became their rally.

The gods recalled their hero in his old age, as they eventually do with even those divine; upon the dawn his graced grandson, in bearing and temperament a likeness to the hero in his prime, came before the assembled army. ‘I am Titus Viriathus; and with your blessing I shall lead you in our quest against the tyrant.’

By 280 CE, the Lusitanii had found themselves against the Rhine, against Rome itself. Within four seasons, what had been left of Roman ideology and influence crumbled away; those who shared in its sentiments in some form were allowed to flee eastward, to Byzantium and the ‘Eastern Roman Empire’.

The Lusitanians did not want to conquer; they simply wanted to empower others to cast off their shackles. They remained as a loosely federated republic, and took up proper residence in Rome. However, as time went on, and the Roman threat faded into distant memory, they soon forgot their values.

The title of Viriathus had been an elected one, though especially dynastic; it seemed to be passed from father to son or grandson or nephew. Their dynasty has ruled, with the gods’ blessing, undisturbed for millennia. As time went on, the vote became increasingly a formality; the title handed down from father to son irrespective of the peoples’ wishes.

Taxes and tariffs were levied on the member states, to fuel the growth of eternal Rome. The conscription of soldiers from the member states, to fight inroads into the territory by the Goths, was the last straw for many. The Iberians, where Castilya now stands, seceded not long after these reforms were formalized. How could Lusitani have so horrifically turned their back on – the values that made them Lusitanian in the first place?

So began the end of Lusitania’s stretch across Europe. Other people and places followed Iberia’s lead, despite Lusitania frantically tightening their grip, dispatching legions right and left to try to force their hand. In 1466, the first Julius Titus Viriathus declared himself emperor, to better circumvent the increasingly-bloated bureaucratic nonsense that was making it hard to dispatch their troops, convinced that it would fix everything.

They had lost almost all of their territory by the dawn of the seventeenth century.

Today, Lusitania is a shadow of its former self, no longer containing any part of its ancestral origin. It occupies the northern half of the Italian peninsula. Though they technically hold the lands south of Rome, those isolated cities on the southern end feel they have more in common with the Athenian city-states than they ever did with the now greedy and gluttonous Lusitanians, and welcome a revolution.

💎𝓞𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻
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To be added as more comes up. Can present a family tree upon request; it is very big and confusing and inbreeding is kinda a thing. Oops.

🎀 𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓻 . 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓰 . 𝓚𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰 . 𝓜𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓮𝓼 . (a steampunk RP of petticoats, poison, and propriety)

whAT YES HI SORRY IM HERE I HABENT BEEN ON IN 5EVER BUT IM HERE NOW TIME TO READ STUFF OVER AND MAKE A CHAR

🎀 𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓻 . 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓰 . 𝓚𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰 . 𝓜𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓮𝓼 . (a steampunk RP of petticoats, poison, and propriety)

I’m here! Probably with Evan, again, but who really knows atm.

Prized Bride (A New Beginning)

Nenra Corislen

_{Interacting with a bunch of people, NPCS, deceased brides, and Vonnath Mors @Zahrale}

The lord who stood before her said nothing for an impossibly long time, studying her, scrutinizing every inch of her. Try though Nenra might, she could not stop herself from fidgeting, self-consciously smoothing her hair and puffing out her chest to try to give the illusion of a more ladylike figure.

Still he said nothing, not until he drew closer another pace. He slapped her. Only his fingernails caught her cheek, though the force of the blow still turned her head and sent her staggering. Four perfect crescent-shaped cuts slowly filled with beads of blood, stinging pain and ringing in her ears swelling in her head as she slowly straightened to face the lord, horror plain on her face.

“I demand a different tribute. Look at this one. Did you deliberately seek the least beautiful whore in all the land? Did you mean to humble me? Humiliate me?” The warlord’s voice rang out through the room. His hand went for the blade still suspended on his belt-

And as swiftly as he spoke in defiance, he was silenced, a silver spearpoint streaked in crimson suddenly protruding from the gap between his neck guard and chestplate.

Nenra gaped, wordlessly, silently staring as the lord (whose name she still did not know) crumbled to the floor, the faceless royal guardsman behind him turning an emotionless stare upon her.

“Come.”

She briefly thought to refuse- she did not want to wind up as the royal soldiers’ plaything, as she figured was the likely next step - but an iron grip clamped down on her wrist and all but yanked her along, her feet tangling in her skirts as she stumbled and tried to follow. The guard scarcely acknowledged the other Drakken in the room, guiding her from the dwindling crowd. Not a word was spoken but a scrap of parchment traded hands as they approached the main gate, the guard who guided her pausing to read by the flickering torchlight, his scowl apparent to even the mostly-blind bride he kept his death-grip on.

“Sire?” the questioning word escaped the bride’s lips before she could stop it, and she gasped in pain as his hand tightened to the point she could feel her bones threatening to snap. But the question bubbled out of her lips unfettered by the pain. “What is happening? Where- Where are we going?”

He didn’t seem to hear her for a moment, quickening his pace as they stepped out into the downpour - Nenra shuddered as the water drenched the lovely gown and her hair in mere moments.
It was not until they were well down a winding, narrow street that the guard spoke, his words monotone. “I am delivering you to your husband.”

“Husband?” She shuddered. “You killed the man who was to be my husband, I thought, sire.”

“I did. Your new husband.”

Despite her running effort to not get herself killed, Nenra quit walking, entirely confused. “Sir?”

The guard sighed, looking around to make sure no one was nearby and dropping his voice. It was clear he did not want to be seen speaking to his charge. He slowed enough to turn to her, tightening his already-painful grip on her and leaning down to hiss in her ear. “Every year a handful of other lords are requested to attend the Capital city during the Reaping. Hard lords, competent ones, full of brutality and cruelness yet untempered by high society. Eager to claim a rejected bride. Does that make the current situation clear?” With that he shook his head, yanking her along and nearly dislocating her shoulder in doing so.

She wanted to ask even more questions, but now she had the grace and mental faculty to keep her mouth shut. Besides, they were nearly to their destination.

Proper terror filled her as they proceeded up the walk through the heavy iron gate. Laughter and the stench of strong beer was already wafting through open windows, and she faltered in her step. The guard yanked her along again with a muffled curse, approaching the door and pounding on it with a heavy iron knocker.

A small Drakkan who seemed to be some sort of footman opened the door, a wide, toothy grin breaking out across his face as he took in the royal guard and the fragile girl he pulled along.

“Lord Bandor will be very happy to see you.” He gestured for them to come inside, but the guardsman did not, instead pushing Nenra in before him. The footman turned, and wrapped his arm around her possessively, hand snaking around to her hip. She shuddered, but there was a strength in his arms that meant she should not pull away.

“You’re a pretty little thing…” he whispered in her ear. “Perhaps I could sample you, before giving you to my lord… I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t think your lord would appreciate it if you soiled his prize.” The words caused a wave of revulsion to build in her throat but she swallowed it. She tried to push his hand away, a futile effort that made him chuckle. But she’d stalled him for long enough.

The corridor widened out into a great hall, a hall full of drunken laughter and too many bodies. The laughter stopped, at least, as they walked in. Nenra flinched, cowering against the doorman’s side, trying to hide from all the suddenly lustful stares turned on her and the clinging, soaking wet evening gown she wore. She didn’t have to be able to see to feel their eyes on her, mentally undressing her and ravaging her.

A low laugh from the high table directed her stare, and the footman kicked her in the backs of the knees, causing her to crumple to the floor.

“It seems lord Sorrak has blessed us tonight!” The call was met with raucous laughter. “Bring her up here, my good man.”

Fingers grasped at the wisps of her hair, tangling at the back of her head and nearly dragging her off her feet. She let out a soft cry of pain, squirming and trying to get her feet back under her, finally managing to and being half dragged, half-shoved forward onto the dais.

The lord pulled her down onto his lap, his breath soured with the stench of heavy mead as his teeth grazed her throat, his calloused hands dwarfing her slender neck and waist as his fingers settled there, roughly pulling her against him.

Two of his fingers hooked into the back of the gown, and with a simple motion the fabric was torn, loose halves of the dress falling down and tangling around the legs of the chair. She let out a yelp, squirming to cover herself, but the lord quickly seized her already-abused wrists, a laugh escaping him as he pulled her arms away from her exposed body, looking her over hungrily.

It took several moments for what happened next to be processed. He shoved her off of him, pushing her to a group of his soldiers - saying something about how they’d earned a night of fun, and since he was such a benevolent lord, they could have their fun with his prize, so long as they didn’t do too much lasting damage.

Fear seized her, fear and revulsion, and she tried to flee, scratching and kicking at the guards who caught her, kicking and squirming like a rabbit caught in a trap-
A trap that was suddenly motionless. There was a clattering bang of a door being flung open, and the raucous hollering that had filled the room stopped, the room drawing so silent a mouse’s sneeze could have been heard.

True bellowing filled the room, screeching words that Nenra’s brain refused to process, and the soldiers that held her let go in a hurry, shoving her to the floor and scurrying away, no longer nearly as brave as they had been just moments previously.

The stone floor was cold on her naked body. She shivered, not daring to get up, waiting for the sudden ringing in her ears to subside enough that she could stand.

A large hand settled on her back, another under her elbow, seemingly helping her up. She scrambled to her feet and whirled around, terror making golden-green eyes wild and harsh, her arms hovering in front of her like she couldn’t be sure whether to cover herself or take a fighting stance. But the imposing armor-clad figure in front of her chuckled, removing his helmet to reveal a young Drakken with rather short horns, very clearly just out of his youth. “Relax, child. I mean you no harm.” He settled his helm over her head, holding her up as she nearly buckled under the weight of it and the fact that it now rattled loosely on her head, and in a smooth motion removed his cloak and tied it around her shoulders.

He admired his handiwork, nodding slightly. It wouldn’t pass any sort of proper scrutiny, but to a quick glance, she could have passed as a recruit soldier.

Realizing the girl was still flinching away, the youth extended a hand. “I’m Baeloth. Recruit, as of a few weeks ago. In service to Warlord Vannoth Mors, whose estate this actually is. You will suffer no harm within these walls, so long as he maintains his dominion here.”

She gaped up at him dumbly, finally managing to spit her name out. “N-Nenra. Nenra Corislen. I- thank you. I...”

The man clapped her on the shoulder, the sheer strength in his form nearly buckling her knees again, and guided her over to one of the tables. Four other young men of similar stature and bearing waited, starting to help themselves to the remains of the feast that had been laid out.

“Shouldn’t I go speak w-with the lord of the house? Sir?” the words welled up timidly, and he looked her over. Several of the others looked at her, throwing their heads back and laughing.

“Ye need t’ give ‘im time to cool down, pretty Gem. E’ll take yer ‘ead off, if ye go t’ talk to ‘im now.” That was an older soldier, denoted by the artful engravings on his suit of armor, who scarcely seemed surprised as he walked by their table. The youngsters snapped to varying stages of attention as he walked past, but quickly focused on Nenra again.

“You’ll likely be bunking with us tonight, we’ll have you talk to the lord in the morning.” Baeloth spoke quietly, guiding her to one of the benches set at the table and handing her a roll, which she chewed on automatically, not tasting it. The bread was coarse and rather bland, but it was food. She hadn’t properly eaten since well before Shadow Worth, which now seemed a lifetime ago…

“Vonnath is not going to be happy.” That was one of the other recruits, who’s name she didn’t know yet.
“Crix is going to get his head handed to him.” one of the others agreed. Silence soon lapsed, Nenra very carefully focusing on the rough wooden table and feeding herself slivers of bread underneath the helm, and not on the five recruit soldiers who now sat around her like there was nothing at all out of the ordinary.

“Oi! Little lady! Baeloth here’s bein’ a twat, didn’t bother to introduce us. What’s yer name?”

“Nenra.” She blurted, her face coloring. “Nenra Corislen, and I’m hardly a lady, sire.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, little lady. Now, Baeloth, mind yer manners and introduce us.”

Baeloth nudged her shoulder, causing her to turn around to look at him, and started introducing his other comrades. Their names were becoming hopelessly jumbled in her head already - Talon, who’d just spoken, Zerin, and-

“You imbecile! Six weeks together and you still can’t recognize us? I’m Riccar!” One of the burlier recruits shook his flagon of ale. The one sitting across from him, quite identical in appearance and demeanor, rolled his eyes.

“Whatever he says. I’m Riccar. That’s my little brother, Biccar.”

“Little?!”

After several minutes of looking back and forth like it was a particularly-enthusiastic tennis match, Nenra shook her head, slumping down in the seat and drawing the cloak tighter around her. She was still shivering, but whether from fear, exhaustion, or cold, she wasn’t quite sure. Chatter had resumed in the hall but it fell on scarcely-hearing ears and nearly blind eyes.

Some immeasurable amount of time passed, before a heavy hand on Nenra’s shoulder startled her out of her reverie. The room was emptying, the cacophony quieting as soldiers trailed off in companies and pairs to find their barracks, and Baeloth (She could tell it was him from the sandy-russet mop of hair on his otherwise bare head – most of the others had put their helms on after eating, but she still wore his.)

“We don’t have an extra bunk in our barracks, unfortunately, so I think you’ll be sharing my bunk.” The hulking youth’s expression was arranged in some apologetic expression. Seemingly he saw her freeze, forgetting how to breathe as she considered all those implications, and he extended a hand in an effort to calm her. “I stand by my promise of earlier. No harm will come to you in the halls of my lord, so long as his soldiers are here. I will place a blanket roll between us so that there will be no accidental contact, if that will put your mind at ease? Come, let us retire – the morning dawns early and I’m certain my lord will have questions for you.” He put his arm around her shoulders in a gesture of companionship, causing her to wince and her knees to nearly buckle as he leaned a portion of his mildly-intoxicated weight against her.

She did not recall the walk to the soldiers’ wing of the palace, nor did she recall being handed the rough linen shirt, the recruits all turning away while she removed the heavy cloak and put on the tunic. It was designed as a proper shirt but fell past her knees, the shoulder seams falling halfway to her elbows and the sleeves draping down over her hands. It was undeniably designed for a brawny Drakken youth, not a gem of her own especially-slender form, but she was grateful for the yards of heavy clean fabric that now draped loosely over her, masking her figure and preserving her modesty.

As promised, Baeloth constructed a barricade of extra bedding between them, splitting his bunk in two. After bidding her goodnight he fell asleep almost in the same breath, and gradually the recruit barracks settled in to the sounds of soft snoring and deep, even breathing.

Nenra couldn’t sleep. How could she? Even with the words that Baeloth had spoken, as much as she thought she should try to trust him…. She could not bear to fall asleep and be left defenseless and unaware should someone decide to take their pleasure on her.

The bunk was lumpy and hot and her body floppy and cold. After much restless contorting and flailing about, she had just begun to find a comfortable position when she heard a loud, slurred voice outside. She could not recognize the words, but her blood ran cold as she recognized it as belonging to the man she’d been given away to, and in a panic she flung herself from the bunk, fumbling with the straps of the recruit’s armor until his sheathed sword and long dagger fell to the floor with a clatter, causing her to hiss and duck into a corner, but no one stirred. She reached for the sword but the flimsiness in her feeble arms made it so she could scarcely lift it. With the long dagger removed from its sheath in hand, she crept to the door, pressing her ear against it so that she could hear the words.

Heavy thumping of boots, as though the speaker was pacing. His words were muffled now, but some were distinguishable.
“….the liver-rotting maggot….show him….first his girl….find the sniveling whelp….make her take…”

Thunder roared in her ears and she felt she might topple over backwards, but she tightened her awkward grip on the long knife, hand inching towards the door that separated them. She had to tell someone. Not the recruits, no – they wouldn’t know what to do. This lord had an air of battle about him, something her new friends lacked, and she couldn’t make them risk their lives. Baeloth had said that he was merely fifty – still a child by his people’s standards. She couldn’t make children fight what sounded like a drunken berserker.

A breath she didn’t know she was holding escaped her, her feet relaxing and her heels coming back into contact with the cool wooden floor. With that contact came a rushing wave of calm, and she shut her eyes and thanked the Mother for the sudden epiphany.

Rushing back to the armor stand, she lifted the helm and cloak as quickly and quietly as she could manage, settling them over her thin frame. Steeling herself, squaring her shoulders, she eased the door open, sliding out into the hallway with silent footfalls. Having made it a good ways down the hall to what she could only assume was the noble’s wing, she was then stopped by a heavy footfall catching on her borrowed cloak, yanking her around and nearly off her feet.

“Where do you think you are going?” The words were sharp and gruff and filled her with terror. But she turned, glad the tangled cloak obscured her body and knife-wielding hand, and glad the helm covered her face. There was a chance he thought she was just an exceptionally runty recruit, right? “State your name.”

In desperation she pitched her voice as low as she could, making a raspy, quiet croak. “Baeloth, on orders from… Warlord Mors.” The petty lord stepped menacingly closer and she quickly, without properly thinking, added, “My lord Crix.” That seemed to appease him for a moment, and he stepped back, removing his foot from the cloak.

She hurried off, making it all of five paces before a blade shot out of nowhere, razors’ edge carving through cloak, tunic, and sending white-hot pain into the point of her shoulder, causing her to cry out in agony and stumble, losing her footing entirely and hitting the floor with a clanging noise. The helmet, far too large for her, rolled off her head, leaving it suddenly plain for all to see that she was clearly a Gemmenite.

The momentary spell was broken and the warlord snarled, drawing his arm back again, spitting something so horrible Nenra’s brain refused to comprehend the words he spoke. In pure desperation she scrambled to her feet, keeping a death-grip on the dagger, and bolted down the hall.

A guardsman burst out of one of the corridors, sword arcing down towards her, and her vision went white as she brought the dagger up, blindly slashing at him to make him stop in his advance. A yell of pain and spatter of blood against her face and chest was her reward, soon followed by a numbness in her arm and a dimly-realized clattering of her dagger hitting the floor.

Her feet seemed to carry her of their own accord, flinging her down the hallway towards the ornate doors that she prayed led towards the warlord’s rooms. As she flung herself against them, Crix and a few of his retainers hot on her heels, they opened with almost-no resistance and sent her half tumbling—

Into a bloodbath. Time seemed to stop as the flickering torchlight from the hall revealed the scene. Everything was washed in crimson, crimson Gem’s hair indistinguishable from the crimson that still slowly seeped into the blankets and dripped onto the floor from pale, extended limbs, emerald eyes glassy and wide in fear and death.

The lord of the house slept beside the corpse, unaware of the carnage – or perhaps the cause of it.

But before she could process that particular thought, the state of suspended animation shattered. A shrill scream bubbled out of somewhere- was she screaming? – and her legs began to crumple as her body stopped, falling towards the crimson-red floor as though sinking through molasses.

A hand seized the remains of the cloak, yanking her back and causing her cry to be strangled off, moments later replaced by a glowing red-hot hand closing around her throat, slamming her against the wall, cutting off her air with a touch so hot it froze her and enveloped her entire form in agony. In the seconds before her vision went completely dark she at last glimpsed the cruel vassal lord’s face in perfect clarity, features marred with hatred, fury, and lust.

The sickening taste of charred flesh and gritty ash coated her mouth, those few seconds stretching out into an eternity of agony as the lord leaned in as though through molten earth, flames licking at his face and clothing and eyes as his rage consumed him.

“You would ruin me, so I have ruined you….”

The darkness settled across her vision, and with its coming all thought and pain faded into oblivion.

---

---

Scyrvensrel Talyrrth-Gunnvaldr

_{Interacting with: Gwillim Gunnvaldr @tracyarmav, Hestia and Tempest @eclecticwitch}

The pretty dark-skinned gem, now introduced as Tempest, came to sit beside her. Scyrven flashed a slightly toothy grin at the gem, offering her strips of roasted meat and a thick slab of the heavy, doughy flatbread dusted with bitter herbs and spices. Ordinarily Scy would have scarfed down her plate and likely half of what was left on the table, having had such a light supper and a healthy day of fighting besides, but she was attempting to control her appetite. She was to fight in the day’s opening match, the way the brackets had fallen, and at least two more rounds besides.

Dimly she became aware of Hestia, wearing the soft dress that had been left out for her, sneaking down the stairs and settling beside Alfhi. The poor girl seemed entirely too focused on her plate, but she was being well-tended by Alfhildr. All would be fine for her.

Scyrven made an attempt at small-talk with the pretty Gem beside her. “So where in Gemmenia do you come from?” she asked, between bites.

After the breakfast plates had been cleared away, Alfhi’s petulant words circled at last into Scyrven’s head, pushing out the idle thoughts of fights and the soft bed that awaited them when they at last traveled home. Copper eyes turned to evenly regard her pleading daughter.

To permit Alfhi to attend… She’d need to be under watch, of course – Drakken women were just enough of a rarity that other lords, especially those thirsting and without a bride to soothe them, would likely try their luck if they saw a child unprotected, and Alfhi lacked both the brutality and finesse to ward off an attacker.

Sighing through her nose, Scyrven considered the situation. Bringing two brides and her daughter would just be asking for trouble… but she supposed it would be as good a reason as any for the entire Gunnvaldr family to have an outing. No one would trifle with them, not with their family nearly as large as a warband itself, and their most brutish retainers. Of course, there was no guarantee the people at the gates to the arena would permit them all admittance, but a bit of gold would surely ensure their way in. And Alfhi was right, it would be educational.

With a grunt, Scyrven unfolded her long form from the table. “We’ll have to see what your father says, but at this point we might as well bring the entire clan. I do hope they put up the extra seating structures...”

With that comment, she stepped away from the table, climbing the stairs to return to the bedchamber. The others would ensure the Gem women and Alfhi didn’t stray too far, and she did need to put her armor on for the day.

Soft copper eyes met her husband’s gaze briefly, her full lips curling into a brief smile as they went about their respective daily preparations. The silence that hung between them was a companionable one.

She quickly pinned her mass of twists and braids in a tangle around the back of her head, low enough on the nape of her neck to tuck neatly under her helm, and proceeded to tug her hardened leather tunic on, groaning slightly as her faintly-sore muscles objected. She’d have to stretch once they got to the arena, but otherwise she was optimistic about her physical condition and level of fatigue. She’d certainly do well today, even though it would probably be better politically if she sabotage herself, rather than winning all the glory. There were too many powerful people at play to risk an accident… though perhaps a well-timed one could be beneficial for the cunning social climber.

Pushing those thoughts from her mind, she finished lacing up her armor and returned to the great hall, helm under her arm and kit slung over her back, an optimistic (and feral) look on her face while she waited for the rest of her household to mobilize.

---

---

Aymiria Unalim

_{Interacting with Zak @darkwolf687 and Ro @weepingliberty}

Hearing Zak go off at Ro, at her sass and bitterness of tongue, was a welcome change, though Miry’s stomach turned all the same at the acerbic quality Zak’s words had taken on. As Zak handed a goblet of Mazjamma to Aurora, she took the moment to reach for a goblet and the pitcher herself. A drink would be helpful to dull her emotions, though she knew she could hardly hold the spirits of Zak’s people. Little more than a splash was usually enough to set her into a state of vague complacence with the world around her.

A quiet hiss from beside the table distracted her, and one of the many serving-folk hurried forward, fresh goblet filled of water in her hand and a disapproving scowl on her face as she whisked the barely-filled glass away and shuffled the water into the small Gem’s hand, a second servant reaching out under the guise of refilling Zak’s goblet, placing the pitcher down much further up the table so it would be out of Miry’s reach. “Milady, water for your morning. The lord’s orders for your current state.”

The words were a bit loud, the servant’s tone matter-of-fact, and Miry’s face colored as she chanced a guilty glance at Aurora, praying the other Gem was too entranced in Zak’s words to have paid mind to the brief exchange.

For her part, Miry tried not to pay attention to the words being spoken. Try as she might to focus on anything else, the detailing carved into the pillars around the hall, it was not enough. Images of that morning bled into her head, bled into her heart like the numbness and pain that filled her from the moment she’d seen her sister’s battered body, like the heat from the whirlwind of air and steam that had torn her own flesh—

Zak’s hand settled on her thigh, warmth flowing from his fingertips into her skin, even through the multiple silk layers of her skirts. She was trying so hard to not disturb the recounting but she nonetheless seized his hand in both of hers, wrapping the fingers of one hand through his and kneading knots out of his palm with the other, tracing over every callus and scar and crease and imperfection in his hands and using that to ground herself.

His Blackguard, Gaikus, had spent hours working on her, his expert skill with both magical and mundane (after well over half a millennia, he had enough experience to perform feats of the intersection of water and air and herbal remedy that most would rule impossible) being the only thing keeping her alive. The trap that she and Aery had set, combining all the might of their respective elements, would have likely done little but slow down the Drakkan brute, but for their more delicate Gemmenite constitution it was nearly a death sentence.

Zak had spent a surprising portion of those hours, and the weeks of her recovery, at her bedside. Much of the time he sat motionless, his face unreadable, hand always fidgeting nervously around the hilt of his sword, eyes flicking back and forth from her face, to her injuries, to the door, to the room, to her. He’d held her still when Gaikus’s ministrations caused her to be wracked in pain, and used his magic to draw the heat of her fever away and soothe the fire of the burns.

That was a peaceful memory, at least – she and Zak had scarcely spoken at all of what had transpired in those weeks, and her fevered memory was likely tricking her, but she remembered him reading books of poetry and prayer alike, epic stories and fiction. He had maintained a careful distance of course, but it was clear he was trying to bond with her – trying to atone for what had happened, perhaps, and make sure nothing like it could again.

Her fingers tightened around his again, the tiniest ghost of a smile gracing her lips as she thought wryly that lo and behold, they’d managed exactly that.

Of course, that ghost of a smile faded as her brain picked up on what was left of the conversation – Zak was. Apologizing? To Aurora. And perhaps rightly so, for letting her sister die, but… begging that all blame be taken away from Miry herself? That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.

None of this mess would have happened had Aery not been admitted into the room. None of it. She bowed her head slightly, tears pricking at her eyes (and she’d done so well at not crying for all of ten minutes!) and pressed back into the chair, holding tightly to Zak’s hand as though it was her lifeline. A clot of words settled in her throat, words she wanted to speak, but she would hold her tongue until she knew how Aurora would take what had just been laid bare, until she knew how the other bride would respond. She did not want to open her mouth and risk undoing all of Zak’s careful expression of goodwill. So she said nothing, watching the other bride out of her too-bright eyes and clinging uselessly to her husband’s hand.

summary gods I’m sorry

Nen: Gets thrown away by ordric. Ordric = ded. Taken to be given to Crix Bandor, the vassal lord of Vannoth Mors and one of the backup lucky sorts who was in the running for a gem but missed out. He mistreats her, Vannoth’s underlings take her in, she overhears a plot to murder Kuki to hurt Vannoth and rushes into action to find the bride already murdered, and Crix brands his hand into her throat before she passes out from being choked.
Scyrven: Wrapping up the breakfast interactions with Gunnvaldr clan and co. and getting ready for the tourney.
Miry: Quiet introspection and lowkey dissociating, reminiscing on the first few days she spent in Zak’s care and trying very hard to not speak and to thus not make Aurora mad.

Prized Bride (A New Beginning)

Aymiria Unalim

_{interacting with Zakroti Unalim @darkwolf687 and Aurora Liesma @weepingliberty}

Miry felt her resolve weakening under that harsh glare, and fought to keep herself upright and not visibly falter as the taller girl offered her a sarcastic court curtsy. It was hard, very much an impossible task, but she thought she did decently well at seeming unfazed, and not letting her pleasant mask falter.

She said nothing, letting the other bride posture, unfocusing her gaze as the girl stepped closer, fully expecting a slap. The tongue of flame that danced across Aurora’s hand just in front of her eyes did make her flinch, tears welling up reflexively at the searing heat just centimeters away, but she soon regained her composure, even violet eyes meeting the younger girl’s green ones. Still she said nothing, watching Ro turn on her heel and march off in search of the dining room.

Thin fingers felt the raised collar, the heavy embroidered trim along it. The new girl was right – she was trying to compensate for something. She knew that Ro could easily sway Zak, if she so wanted, and was perhaps trying to delay the inevitable.

Focus. Calm. She forced the words through her mind, taking a shaking breath to calm herself, and set her head high and shoulders back. It was not her fault the other girl had taking the olive branch and burned it.

Though she was, quite frankly, no more familiar with the city manor than Ro was, she quickly sussed out the layout and entered the main hall from one of the many servants’ doors that lined the sides. She was quick to cross the room to the high table, trying not to feel self-conscious or overdressed in her finery, and also trying to dash away the reflexive tears that misted her eyes as she saw Ro drape her arms around Zak’s neck.

At least her husband had learned his lesson. He was quick to scold her, quick to pry her arms away from him. At this point she was close enough to the high table to hear them speaking quietly, speaking at last about answers.

She shuddered, a wave of revulsion rocking her, and covered her mouth as her pale complexion turned a delicate green shade as she fought to push the sickness down. Forcing the bland smile onto her face yet again, she approached the table from the side, taking her seat as gracefully as she could and looking only at Zak, forcing her eyes to pass over Aurora as though she wasn’t there. Kindness had been repaid in fire…. Perhaps ignoring her would be the best bet after all?

“Forgive me, my love, for being absent from your bed this morning. I awoke quite unwell and decided to take advantage of my morning for an impromptu rehearsal. It seems I let the time get away from me--” Her eyes glazed over for a moment, a vague look of panic crossing her gaze as she patted herself for the satchel she usually kept her flute in.

She wasn’t wearing it. She had neglected to collect her instruments and music on her return from the solar – she had reasoned that she would have more time to practice later in the day, and didn’t want to go through the hassle of putting them back in her bags just to take them out later – but she was still filled with a momentary terror of having left her instruments unaccounted for. Even if she knew exactly where they were.

Shaking herself back to the present, she was just in time to hear Zak’s oath. His promise of honesty to the other girl. She deserved that much, Miry knew, but distaste and jealousy crossed her mind, barely hidden behind her mask.

“By star and night, I will speak without treachery.” She murmured the words as well, pressing herself back in the chair and digging her fingers into the wood arms as though she was falling, as though it would keep her steady and composed. A thrill of terror ran through her.

---

---

Scyrvensrel Talyrrth-Gunnvaldr

_{interacting with Gwillim, Alfhi @tracyarmav Hestia and Tempe @eclecticwitch}

Oh. That had. Not been the reaction Scyrven had been expecting. A soft spluttering escaped her, and she quickly averted her eyes, a faint darkening blush covering her ashen cheeks as the girl bared her whole body and climbed into the bed beside her.

Scyrven was scared to breathe, scared to move, but the bride was…. Hiding her face in the pillows, her whole body shaking.

Praying that the move wouldn’t be taken the wrong way, she bundled up the sheets between them, pulling her shift down to cover herself (making sure she wouldn’t touch Hestia, even accidentally, in too forward of a way) and gently shifting to wrap her arm around the slender bride’s shoulders, gently pulling her close. “Please relax, little one. You are safe, I assure you.” She murmured the words, her voice still heavy with sleep. “Please try to rest- tomorrow will be a long day if you are tired.”

It was not long until she drifted back into her own dreamless dreamland, where she lingered for what felt only a few moments. The clattering of doors and chattering in other parts of the house woke her, and she was quickly roused to full wakefulness, moving to throw the blankets off of herself and at the last moment remembering there was another body in the bed, one so light she had almost forgotten the girl was there.

Moving gently to disentangle herself, she leaned down and planted a soft kiss on the girl’s cheek. In the night the bride had curled into more of a ball, and her hair had escaped some of its bonds, leaving the small bride in a state of still-slumbering soft disarray, an effect that was quite adorable. The girl’s hair really was the biggest part of her.

“Good morning, dearest Hestia. I hope you’ve slept well. When you’re ready and dressed, please find us downstairs – I’ll make sure everyone knows to direct you to the great hall.” Not sure if the bride was awake or coherent enough to process, the tall Drakkan woman nonetheless spoke softly to her, before finally extricating herself from the bedding.

A loose dress was put on – simple and functional, only a bit more concealing than her shift. She did not want to bother with her armor, not when she would be laced into it all day and in a sweltering arena for most of that time, and certainly not before breakfast.

She descended the stairs, mentioning to the few household soldiers poking their heads out of rooms that they should steer the still-resting bride in the direction of the family gathering, when she arose, but were not to disturb her before then.

Upon entering the room she was greeted with the sight she expected, a half-asleep Alfhi curled upon a barely-more-awake Gwillim’s lap, and speaking to a—

…Wait.

She stopped in the doorway, likely a spectacle and a half, her still-braided russet locks sticking every which way without helm or headcloth to hold them down. Peering back and forth between Gwillim and the unnamed girl- clearly Gemmenite, though like no Gem Scyrven had ever seen, not with her dark complexion.

“My love, who did you murder?” she asked, half-jokingly. She did not realize until several moments later that the bride would likely not see it as something humorous, and instead flashed an apologetic grin and slight curtsy to the girl, though it was awkward more than anything.

“My apologies. I assure you I am not usually this...callous, especially not in front of guests. Scyrvensrel Gunnvaldr, at your service. Who might you be, m’lady?”

Prized Bride (A New Beginning)

Aymiria Unalim

_{Interacting with: Zakroti Unalim @darkwolf687 and Aurora Liesma @WeepingLiberty}

Miry’s grip steadily tightened on Zak’s arm as they made the journey back to the city manor. She scarcely noticed the guardsmen following around them, the other bride behind them - she focused with every fiber of her being on being as close to Zak as possible, matching his breathing and his stride (at least, as well as she was able to with her short legs!) By the time they walked into the door, her whole body was trembling, and she very obviously clung to him, flinching away from the serving-girl who greeted them, fully expecting to be told to follow...

“-new bride’s room has been made...”

Miry let go of Zak’s arm for a moment, shock and elation fighting on her face. Was.... was that to mean she hadn’t lost him yet?

She dared not look properly at Aurora, not at the beautiful gown the tall bride wore, the likely ugly sneer that marred her beautiful features. She was too perfect, and she wanted nothing to do with Miry, so Miry would have nothing to do with her, and have to do everything she could to be better. She’d be the kindest, sweetest sister bride imaginable, the most devoted to their husband. She would not lose Zak to someone... like that. Who would put false pride before the notion of fostering love and care.

She pushed the thoughts out of her mind then, melting against his side, pressing against him as he swept her off to the solar. Wasting no time as he settled himself down on one of the large cushions, she kicked off her lightweight boots and all but flung herself into his lap, arms looping around his neck and legs delicately wrapping around his. She pulled herself close to him, pressing her face into his shoulder, feeling the thrumming of his heart and the evenness of his breathing.

Streams of water arced around them from the numerous fountains as Miry adjusted her position, leaning back, blue-violet eyes peering up into Zak’s turquoise ones. She had half a mind to lean up to kiss him, and half a mind to push him back onto the pillow and...please him, as he so clearly craved (at least, judging by his earlier conduct). Though she was acutely aware of the open door, that Narlemaewel or Gaikus or even Aurora would walk by... he had been willing to bed a common whore in front of her and all his guards. Surely it wouldn’t be so wrong for her to do her duty by him now, to make sure he’d stay firmly in her bed, thoroughly exhausted, for the whole night. Right?

As she’d managed to make her mind up, leaning up to kiss him, he spoke. Asking what had been meant by Shattered.

The drops of water she had called up splashed to the floor, quickly sizzling out of existence on the sandstone floors that still held all the sun’s heat. She recoiled, flinching from the word and from his touch, and rested her head lightly against his collarbone, not able to meet his eyes.

“The Gemmenite people are ....proud of their complacency in their suffering. To be honored by being chosen in the Reaping, and to gracefully go but never forget or forgive the horrors inflicted on our people - that is the proudest duty a Gemmenite woman can fulfill.”

She snuggled closer to his chest, eyes unfocusing slightly, arms curling in against her chest and thin fingers reaching for the ivory wyvern clasp at her throat, running her fingers over the contour of it. She hesitated for a moment, finally daring to speak after she collected her thoughts.

“The day I fell in love with you, I ‘Shattered’, as they call it. If I was for some reason to go back to Gemmenia, there would be no place for me. I have committed the worst crime, see- the crime of forgetting. For any Gem, it’s a terrible accusation. But especially for- especially for a daughter of Naia. How can I turn my back on the suffering of so many thousands of women? How can I love one of these monsters?” the pitch of her voice rose and she swallowed sharply, taking in a breath. In a much quieter tone, scarcely more than a whisper, she continued. “Of course, I find that to be rather… convicting a child of the crimes of his parent. You have done no wrong by me, nor by my- nor by my sister. I cannot fault you for the crimes your people have committed. And, if I could do it over- I would still choose to fall in love with you.”

She wiped her eyes, leaning up to kiss him, arms curling tight around him again and pressing him back into the cushion. “But tonight is not a night for such severe conversation. Let us retire to our bed, my love. The morning dawns dreary and far too soon.”

The walk to their bedchamber was quick. Miry looked to the guard posted at the room just down the hall, wondering if Aurora was asleep, wondering how the poor girl was doing. But she put the thought out of her mind – the other bride wanted nothing to do with her, and hadn’t she just assured herself that she would not be the first to apologize?

She stretched up on tiptoe, pulling Zak down to kiss her, guiding his hands to the ribbon that held her tunic cinched at the waist. A thrill of guilt filled her, guilt that she hadn’t done this in so long, but she pushed it down – she could not truly be blamed for her body’s natural changes. What mattered was that she was going to start being better at doing her duty by him. He would never again want for intimacy – he would never have need or want to spend the night with the new bride.

---

When she finally drifted off to sleep, nestled against Zak’s chest, her dreams were quick to seize her. Dreams of once-possible futures filled her mind, some happy – Idyllic days in sunshine and rainbows, herself and Aery and Kasari, contentedly snuggled up against Zak and watching a small horde of children happily playing in the center of the great hall.

She dreamed of the day she could marry him, properly in his peoples’ custom, though the ceremony itself was blurred by the veil of uncertainty – even in their extensive conversations, lessons of history and culture, the idea of marriage had been never even mentioned.

Her dreams turned darker – remembering that evening. Remembering how much blood had been on the floor, being flung down into it by the explosion of steam and boiling water, the skin curling up off her shoulders in blisters and boils.

Remembering what their bodies had looked like. So still and pale and streaked in crimson. Such beautiful lives gone to waste. And she was crying and shaking them and crying. Aery, wake up. Aery. Kasari. Kasari, please, Kasari, not you too, please--

She jolted awake, biting her lip to keep from crying out. A wave of nausea overtook her as her eyes snapped open to the gray light of early morning. Barely, she managed to free herself from Zak’s arms, stumbling and half-crawling to the washing room, coughing and throwing up into the chamber pot. She knelt there for a moment, chest heaving, shaking her head to dispel the lingering panic.

There was a basin of cold water resting on the long counter. She splashed her face, washing the sleep from her eyes and quickly washing her hair, swirling some of the water through it thoroughly before pulling it all out, leaving her dusty-gold locks dry and soft and ready to be styled. The dirty water ended in the chamber pot as well, leaving a clean basin for Zak.

Her long hair was quickly braided, two thin plaits on either side of her head pulled back and woven into the rest of her hair, the woven strand left to trail down her back, tied off with a silk ribbon of a deep lavender hue. After a moment’s consideration she took her small supply of cosmetics – a stick of ground-and-pressed charcoal to line her eyes and darken her eyelashes, and a small container of a lip stain colored with the juice of kiondu fruits and various herbs – and went to work on her face. As she did she wondered why she had suddenly decided to go all-out with her attire and appearance today, and was not willing to admit that she felt she had to compete with Aurora.

Her face applied, she tiptoed through their room, not wanting to disturb Zak’s slumber any more than she already had. She pulled one of her dresses from the closet, probably the flashiest one she had, and tugged it on over her head, careful to not muss the hair or makeup.

The long lavender-and-violet silk skirts skimmed just millimeters above the floor, hugging the curves of her body as they connected into the dark violet bodice, meticulously embroidered with a pair of entwined wyverns along the front. The high collar forced her to keep her head high, though the low neckline showed off a bit more skin than she was comfortable with. The sleeves were tight around half of her arms, and then opened out into sheer lavender silk that skimmed almost to the floor.

This was a dress made for a duchess. She’d never worn it before, but thought it would be fitting to bring. Just in case. And today, given her need for confidence, she thought it was as good a time as any.

She laced the corset in the back, expertly tightening the dress to hug every curve she had. As she did, peering in the silvered mirror at her reflection, she winced. The extra curve of her abdomen was, though slight, definitely there. Her fingers came to rest over the bump, turning slightly to see in the mirror. There was a new life growing inside of her. Such a thought filled her with amazement, fear, and apprehension. But she put it out of her mind. She would have several months to come to terms with such things. In the meantime, she was awake and Zak was not, and so it was a perfect time to practice.

Her musical instruments were still meticulously packed in her saddlebags. Reverently she removed the leather case that contained her flutes, and the slatted wood envelope that held pages upon pages of weathered music, and crossed to the door, slipping out and quietly shutting it behind her.

A salute was offered to the guards who stood beside their door, and Ro’s, and she then made her way to the solar. The room was sufficiently high-ceilinged to have good acoustics, and far enough from their rooms that she shouldn’t disturb anyone. She laid her instrument case down on one of the low tables, setting the folder of music beside it, and quickly going about assembling the two instruments.

They were a mismatched pair. One was a thin ivory transverse flute, clearly of Gemmenite construction, ornately engraved with a pastoral nature scene and covered by intricate golden keywork shaped to be like vines and leaves. Scarcely visible on the body of the flute were thin discolored lines, as though it had been cracked and then fused back together. The other instrument was entirely different, a heavy recorder carved of a wood so dark it was almost black. This instrument was clearly of fine crafting, inlaid with lighter wood in intricate geometric patterns, but it lacked the precise keywork of the Gemmenian instrument and was altogether bulkier and of somewhat cruder lines. A “reed-whistle” (she couldn’t even begin to pronounce the actual name given the instrument) from the far western realm of Kalderas. Zak’s people held an alliance with them, enough of an alliance that Zak had promised they could visit and see all the sights of their capital and their realm.

She picked up the whistle first, blowing a few notes through it to warm up the instrument and get a few drops of water into it. The recorder had a surprisingly deep, warm tone, though a bit breathy. It was likened to the humming that came of the reeds when they vibrated in the mist, or that was what she’d been told.

The lilting melodies of her homeland always sounded so strange when played on the Kalderan recorder. It was at times downright unpleasant, but most of the time could be seen as uniquely haunting. She reasoned that it was a musical metaphor for her own situation – a familiar tune forced to adapt to a strange instrument and a strange environment.

Some countless amount of time passed, Miry remaining fully absorbed in her playing. She was very good at it, barring the unfamiliarity that came with the new instrument – it was clear she hadn’t had it all that long. As she played she worked with the water droplets that collected inside her instrument, moving them in tiny, precise amounts to interfere with the airflow and thus alter the pitches, sometimes splitting the note altogether into two or even three different tones. A skilled air gem could do the same, arguably with much less effort and concentration – after all, they would only need to bend the air! – but it was doable with a water affinity as well. It had just taken her years of lessons, countless hours of practice, and even now took her full focus to maintain complete control over. But it was worth it for the skillset that would have become her profession, had she stayed in Gemmenia.

After rehearsal, she strolled through the house, vaguely intent on waking Zak for breakfast, and stepped into the hallway just as his tall bride happened to poke her head out of her room. Miry froze, composing herself, painting a bland smile on her face before stepping fully around the corner and slightly waving a greeting to the taller Gem.

“Good morning, Aurora. Did you sleep well? I do not believe my lord Zakroti is awake yet, but if you are hungry I can certainly show you to the dining room, there’s bound to be something set out already.” There. That was innocent and bland enough. She hoped she wasn’t going to get her face burned off for this…

summary

Woooo long post finally!
Miry and Zak have a conversation. Go to bed. Fun times ensue. Miry wakes up with morning sickness, dresses herself up real nice for the day, and practices her flutes before bumping into Aurora in the hallway as she’s returning to her room.

Prized Bride (A New Beginning)

Scyrvensrel Talyrrth-Gunnvaldr

_{Wife of Gwillim @tracyarmav and Hestia @eclecticwitch}

Scyrven had not meant to fall asleep so readily, but she supposed it was to be expected after the fights and overall .... excitement of the Choosing. As the bride settled, the cool cloth easing her fever, she herself eased into slumber.

She woke up upon the bride slamming out the door, the sound waking her, though outwardly she gave no appearance that she’d woken, keeping her breath even and eyes lightly shut. After only a few moments, the door eased open again, Alfhi’s voice and the bride’s as well. There was a splashing sound, a quiet gasp, and then quiet laughter.

Scyrven sat up in bed, a wry grin on her face. “Alfhi, dear. You know the water goes in the glass, not on poor Hestia’s head.”

She turned then to Hestia, the mirth fading from her eyes. “Our husband has gone... hunting. It is better not to know what, exactly, is his prey.” Her grin was pasted back onto her face and she unfolded from the oversized bed, stretching her arms up over her head and letting out a loud yawn.

“Alfhildr, you should be returning to bed soon, my dear. The morrow dawns early. Hestia, would you prefer to stay in your own bed or come in up here? I worry for your comfort down on that small mattress, pretty one. And I assure you, this bed is entirely big enough for all three of us, should it come to that.”

---

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Aymiria Unalim

_{Bride of Zakroti @darkwolf687, sister-bride of Aurora @weepingliberty}

As Aurora’s words crashed over her, Miry found she couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe.

Shattered. She hadn’t heard that word in years. And even when she’d last heard it, it had been in whispers. In the Gemmenite court, whispered as the barest rumor of a gem who had, despite everything, fallen in love with her captor. It was the worst insult one could hurl at someone. And NEVER spoken to one’s face.

It was true, of course - she loved Zakroti, loved him with all her heart - but .... it was not her fault her husband was so much more wonderful than his other people. Had his horns been sawn off and he been born on the other side of the Spine, he would’ve fit in. Any gem would have fallen for him.

Surely - yes, it was a terrible situation, but she convinced herself she could not be blamed for the gods having given her this chance. She did not deserve that label.

Her eyes drifted shut and she turned from Aurora, wrapping her arms around Zak’s waist and pressing her face into his side, letting the heat of his rage warm her and melt the fine layer of rime ice that had formed on every inch of her skin.

Aurora wouldn’t require the input of a shattered Gem, would she? Even one who shared more experiences than the feisty Gem could know. Well. Miry would simply refuse to acknowledge the other girl’s existence, either until Ro begged it or until Zak ordered her otherwise.

She barely noticed the commotion in the background, letting herself be held against Zak’s side and swept under his cloak as they turned to leave, the guards falling in step around them.

Shattered, eh?

Better to be alive and of whole body and spirit and “Shattered” than to die in agony, than to die of broken bones and internal bleeding and desperate suicide in a shattered mind.

This was just how things were done between their kingdoms. There was no sense in fighting it. If one happened to have good fortune in this arrangement it could not be held against them.

But however much she reassured herself, she couldn’t rid herself of the foul taste left in her mouth.

Shattered.

Godspeed!

Life has been a disaster. I will try to write some massive thing as my contribution for this turn and I’ll try to get it in tonight or tomorrow. Sorry. Dfsjdgdjc.