Ezekiel

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

House Nymeros Martell of Sunspear

Born of the union between the Queen of the Rhoynar and the peoples of the Desert Coast, House Martell rules the tempestuous land of Dorne from their citadel of Sunspear. They have survived and prospered in the face of the unceasing heat of their homeland, the predations of Northern lords and even dragonfire.

They are Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.

Prince Maron Martell

Name: Prince Maron Nymeros Martell
Age: 49

Biography:

At the cusp of his fifth decade, the ruling prince of Dorne has already lead a life that will be contentious in the minds of the Dornish for an age to come.

It has been fifteen years since Maron knelt before the Iron Throne, peacefully bringing Dorne into the Targaryen realm. The dispensations won for Dorne have benefitted the desert land, unifying with the Iron Throne to control the Narrow Sea. The empowered Dornish trade has grown to rival the historic maritime empires of Driftmark and the Arbor. Peace along the Marches has further enhanced the peace and prosperity of the region.

By maintaining Dorne's royal styling, Maron has eased the blow to Dornish pride and prestige, but not entirely. Wealth and peace are only salves to those who care for such things, and this means little and less to the warmongering Stone Dornish, who benefit less from the influx in trade than their cousins of Sand and Salt.

Maron may be the most effective ruler of Dorne for an age, but he is perhaps the most inconsistently respected throughout the realm. Certainly the Stone Dornish houses did not expect the brash young Martell who, as a youth, fought in the overthrow of the conquest, to be one who would sell them into bondage with the Iron Throne. Maron, however learned different lessons than most from the Dornish rebellion. He did not see, as they did, the indominatable spirit of Dorne. He perceived instead the terrible cost of continued conflict with the Iron Throne and how Dorne could never prosper beneath such a threat. This is not to say duty became the young man's only focus across the following years, not in line to inherit himself he travelled widely, both within Dorne and to foreign shores, the former of which resulted in the birth of his first child out of wedlock, although publicly they are recognised as a child of his father's second wife, and raised in Sunspear. These years were often spent to the East among Dorne's historic allies in the Free Cities. These times inspired Maron's later conciliatory nature even more so than the war, nothing about the Free Cities suggesting they could ever be relied upon to uphold their alliances should a new invasion occur.

This did nothing to end Maron's enmity for the Targaryen dynasty, as with many Dornish, considering them both crazed despots and abominations of incest. He was not in favour of his sister's marriage to Prince Daeron as a final grasp for peace between the realms, even if it did pave the way for his own ascension to the twin-thrones of Dorne. The following years did much to show that such an offer, one sealed in blood, was still not enough. Prince Daeron's father, Aegon, continued to play host to warmongering nobles clamouring for a resumption of hostilities. No matter how Prince Daeron worked for peace, his father constructed a new grand royal warfleet, made grand gestures of grievance to the Dornish in his court and yet more to provoke them. The debacle of the construction of the wooden dragons, while a comedy, further honed for Maron that even one party seeking war among the Targaryens and Martells could upset any efforts for peace.

When Aegon died, and Daeron ascended the throne, Maron, now Prince of Dorne, struct his great gambit. It was one sealed in blood again, taking the Princess Daenaerys to wife, but sealed in law as well. He travelled to King's Landing and knelt before the Iron Throne. The marriage may have been one of entirely political leanings, with many personal reservations, but the Princess and Prince soon found each other more than pleasant company. The marriage has proven both warm and fruitful, and Maron's great gift to his wife, The Water Gardens, is famous beyond even the limits of the realm. Their children epitomise the hyrbid court that has formed at both King's Landing and Sunspear.

In recent years, Maron's attentions have turned to matters of peace within Dorne. A land of hot sands and hotter tempers, this comes with many challenges. Only time will tell if his legacy will be one of triumph or shame.

Prince Nymos Martell

Name: Prince Nymos Olyvar Nymeros Martell

Age: 31

Biography:

The younger half-brother of the ruling prince by a span of nearly two decades, Nymos has ever enjoyed the freedom granted to him by being the third child, regretting any impingement on such. He was born too late to be defined by the Conquest of Dorne as his siblings were, but instead formed who he was at peace in Sunspear, and travelling the Free Cities on his elder brother's diplomatic tours as heir of Sunspear.

As his brother ascended to the twin thrones of Sunspear, Nymos took on the duties of representing Dorne abroad in Essos, although he was privy to his brothers concerns for the state of Westeros and his plan to marry into the Targaryen dynasty in order to secure peace. Concerned that he too might be forced into such a marriage, likely to some other distant house, and confined to a life of boredom in order to secure the realm, Nymos disappeared into the aquatic maze of Braavos, along with most of the ransom in gemstones his party had been sent with in order to treat with the Sealord.

Despite being a capable youth of sixteen in terms of martial arms and no small amount of wit, it is likely that were it not for the intervention of the Black Pearl that Nymos would either have been recovered by the Dornish retinue with him, or otherwise lost his life in the dangerous streets of the republic. An older woman by the year, Bellegere Otherys was still a famed name in the city, although she sailed less than she oversaw, a maritime pirate and trading empire that worked beneath the unspoken approval of the Sealord. Her organisation already counted several half-valyrians among them, her own bastard children by the late king Aegon, and so a Martell was a natural addition to her 'collection' of notable Westerosi dynasties. Nymos, for his side of things, was more than willing to trade his life at court for one in Braavos and upon the seas, and so he disappeared from any histories of note for over a decade, presumed dead and drowned at the bottom of the Braavosi lagoon.

The exact details of these years are lost to most, but rumors eventually reached Sunspear of a Dornish pirate plying the inner seas of the Summer Isles, helming one of the famed Swanships with a crew as varied as any upon the oceans. Such tales were rarely connected to Nymos beyond the most far fetched of songs, but soon they would be proven right, as several years prior to 202 AC the ship, Dawnrider, set into Sunspear harbour, and the brothers were reunited. The long years had rid Maron of any sense of anger about his brother's abandonment of his position was lost in the relief of his return. Nymos' first stay in the city, meeting both his brother's wife and the first two of his children, was not a long stay, for matters were made clear there would be no return to full duty at court, but he left on well enough terms, returning to his life on the waves.

Now, however, with the threat of building resentment within Westeros rising, there is some chance that Nymos, and his crew, will sail home again to support his brother.

Other Characters

To be filled out when I want

Name: Daenerys Targaryen


Name: Othellos Otherys


Name: Narha Otherys, The Black Pearl

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

House Nymeros Martell of Sunspear

Born of the union between the Queen of the Rhoynar and the peoples of the Desert Coast, House Martell rules the tempestuous land of Dorne from their citadel of Sunspear. They have survived and prospered in the face of the unceasing heat of their homeland, the predations of Northern lords and even dragonfire.

They are Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.

Prince Maron Martell

Name: Prince Maron Nymeros Martell
Age: 49

Biography:

At the cusp of his fifth decade, the ruling prince of Dorne has already lead a life that will be contentious in the minds of the Dornish for an age to come.

It has been fifteen years since Maron knelt before the Iron Throne, peacefully bringing Dorne into the Targaryen realm. The dispensations won for Dorne have benefitted the desert land, unifying with the Iron Throne to control the Narrow Sea. The empowered Dornish trade has grown to rival the historic maritime empires of Driftmark and the Arbor. Peace along the Marches has further enhanced the peace and prosperity of the region.

By maintaining Dorne's royal styling, Maron has eased the blow to Dornish pride and prestige, but not entirely. Wealth and peace are only salves to those who care for such things, and this means little and less to the warmongering Stone Dornish, who benefit less from the influx in trade than their cousins of Sand and Salt.

Maron may be the most effective ruler of Dorne for an age, but he is perhaps the most inconsistently respected throughout the realm. Certainly the Stone Dornish houses did not expect the brash young Martell who, as a youth, fought in the overthrow of the conquest, to be one who would sell them into bondage with the Iron Throne. Maron, however learned different lessons than most from the Dornish rebellion. He did not see, as they did, the indominatable spirit of Dorne. He perceived instead the terrible cost of continued conflict with the Iron Throne and how Dorne could never prosper beneath such a threat. This is not to say duty became the young man's only focus across the following years, not in line to inherit himself he travelled widely, both within Dorne and to foreign shores, the former of which resulted in the birth of his first child out of wedlock, although publicly they are recognised as a child of his father's second wife, and raised in Sunspear. These years were often spent to the East among Dorne's historic allies in the Free Cities. These times inspired Maron's later conciliatory nature even more so than the war, nothing about the Free Cities suggesting they could ever be relied upon to uphold their alliances should a new invasion occur.

This did nothing to end Maron's enmity for the Targaryen dynasty, as with many Dornish, considering them both crazed despots and abominations of incest. He was not in favour of his sister's marriage to Prince Daeron as a final grasp for peace between the realms, even if it did pave the way for his own ascension to the twin-thrones of Dorne. The following years did much to show that such an offer, one sealed in blood, was still not enough. Prince Daeron's father, Aegon, continued to play host to warmongering nobles clamouring for a resumption of hostilities. No matter how Prince Daeron worked for peace, his father constructed a new grand royal warfleet, made grand gestures of grievance to the Dornish in his court and yet more to provoke them. The debacle of the construction of the wooden dragons, while a comedy, further honed for Maron that even one party seeking war among the Targaryens and Martells could upset any efforts for peace.

When Aegon died, and Daeron ascended the throne, Maron, now Prince of Dorne, struct his great gambit. It was one sealed in blood again, taking the Princess Daenaerys to wife, but sealed in law as well. He travelled to King's Landing and knelt before the Iron Throne. The marriage may have been one of entirely political leanings, with many personal reservations, but the Princess and Prince soon found each other more than pleasant company. The marriage has proven both warm and fruitful, and Maron's great gift to his wife, The Water Gardens, is famous beyond even the limits of the realm. Their children epitomise the hyrbid court that has formed at both King's Landing and Sunspear.

In recent years, Maron's attentions have turned to matters of peace within Dorne. A land of hot sands and hotter tempers, this comes with many challenges. Only time will tell if his legacy will be one of triumph or shame.

Marvel Comics: Dawn of X

“Oh no, no more sleepin’ on the job, Remy.” He might not have been quite as eccentric as he once was, but Gambit had never quite slipped the habit of talking to himself, the mumbled words escaping his lips as he regarded the heaving scene. He’d attempted to catch a quick moment of shut eye before the party really kicked off, but had overshot it somewhat. Blob wouldn’t exactly be happy.

He didn’t need the job, no one on Krakoa really needed a job anymore, but he liked to keep his hands busy, and this kind of work kept him out of trouble, as his wife was want to put it, or at least the kind of trouble they were used to.

The party was just about starting up and already the Lagoon was heaving, the ceaseless wave of noise that was the crowd chattering lining the bar and spreading out into the wider lagoon itself. It was a good kind of busy, a cluster of celebration not bunch of people crammed into too small a space. It was a nice, bar, he liked the work.

“So, what can Gambit be gettin’ you?” The unmistakable accent was on full display when he worked, already the shaker in motion as he set about his work. Despite being ‘on the job’ he was still dressed for the Gala, a combination of deepest black and the bright purple he so enjoyed. His jacket was very smart, something out of a slightly edgy corporate fashion show. It was the fact his chest was utterly bare underneath that gave it the Gambit flare, an enviably cut physique, decked only with a series of beads that was very reminiscent of New Orleans infamous Mardis Gras celebrations. If that didn’t distract you, the shimmering energy around the drinks he so effortlessly juggled did. Drinks and a show, and all for free in the Krakoan lagoon.

“Come on now ladies, don’t be shy, Gambit don’t bite, well, not these days.” The man’s attention turned to a pair close by, who seemed quite taken aback at this exact moment, starstruck, even. “Sit yourselves down and I might even have a story to share.”

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

Collab with @Vanq
Art by Byzwa Dher

Broken Dreams and Silent Screams

On the Road to Summerhall - Shiera Seastar & Bittersteel

It had been a long journey to Summerhall. Shiera had been at odds with Brynden - yet another proposal, another denial, another bout of sulking flashed with jealousy. She stoked the jealousy and had sought comfort in the arms of a pretty bard with soft brown eyes and silky bronze hair. For days he sang to her sweetly of her beauty and inspiration. And then he left; she was alone again. Brynden had welcomed her back, he always welcomed her back.

His love could be suffocating at times, even if she considered letting it consume her. Perhaps then she would know peace. She could marry him, bear his children, perhaps they would flee to Lys and start anew. Yet every time she considered it, something stopped her. There had to be more. There had to be. She could not be his everything for surely he was not hers.

He welcomed her back but not unconditionally. Shiera could not stomach it so soon and she lashed out. Perhaps it is Aegor I should have gone to. Finding comfort in the arms of another man wounded Brynden, but invoking his half-brother’s name would incite a flaming jealousy. This time, it seemed it had been too much even for her sweet Bloodraven. He turned her away. She was not welcome in his bed, nor his home. That had not happened before, and Shiera had no plans on where to actually go.

So she made good on her threat and traveled to Stone Hedge. As the Seven - or the old gods - seemed fit to punish her, Aegor had taken leave to travel to the Vale. Yet Barba Bracken had welcomed her regardless. The two women spent some weeks in confidence. Aegor’s mother was sure of his return and of his intention to travel to the Summerhall Tourney. Barba had encouraged Shiera to stay as long as she wanted - to stay until her son returned. Perhaps, though Aegor held not the ephemeral beauty as Bloodraven, perhaps Shiera could see his strengths at last.

Broken and rudderless, Shiera waited.

Aegor had little love for Stone Hedge, even if he had spent more of his life there than any other seat in the Seven Kingdoms. His childhood in the Riverlands had been next to exile, and the place itself was a reminder of that failure. A failure he had known all his life, yet made before he was even aware of his own name. Still, on this occasion, there was a certain elation to the homecoming. It was not the untamed land of the craggy rocks he had spent the previous moon within and the men, a score fewer than had set out, returned with purpose. Autumn was well and truly set in, the dreams of Summer long behind, and so the Crown wished to bring the realm together before Winter would make such things a scarcity. It was a perfect opportunity.

“The men will need a day or two to prepare, before we ride so quickly.” Raylon spoke as they rode abreast, the pair at the front of the small procession returning home to the lands of House Bracken. Both men had seen a great deal of fighting in their short stay in the Vale, and the ravages of travel left them in a somewhat worn state. They, along with the men, had paused to wash as best they could in one of the many fords of the Trident before the homestretch, but it was nothing that would quite scrub away until they were home.

“We can give them a week.” Aegor spoke in response, his eyes on the terrain rather than his uncle. He had always been watchful, but the Vale had him especially ready to read danger behind every rock and tree, even if he gave off no sense of unease. Bittersteel was the hunter, his enemies were simply unaware. “Let them value their success before we march them down to the Reach.” There was no warmth to the offer of kindness he gave, but simply an understanding, a martial brotherhood that Aegor managed well, for all his lack of care for the more fickle bonds of court.

“Can ‘we’ now? There I was, thinking these were my lands.” Raylon spoke in their usual sardonic jest, but the words came with a pat of Aegor’s shoulder, quickly withdrawn, but still a sign of familiarity Aegor did not share with many often closer in blood than his uncle. “But I agree, a week, then we ride, and see what the future has promised us.”

“Nothing is promised, it is what we take.” Any furtherance of the conversation was interrupted by the blast of horn which signaled them drawing closer to the Keep, louder than even a hunting horn, from one of the men further down the small train of mounted men-at-arms and their baggage carts. With a sense of sudden impatience, Aegor stirred his steed into a faster pace, drawing him ever closer to the walls of Stone Hedge, towering above its moat formed from the flowing water of the Red Fork. It was hardly a surge forwards, but it meant the Royal Bastard arrived several minutes before the remainder of the party, the great bridge of the gatehouse slamming down before him, to permit entry over and into the castle. As was proper, a gathering of servants awaited him already, a paige to accept his horse as he swung down from the saddle, a maid with a cup of wine which was claimed immediately and drunk, and a messenger.

“Your mother offers her wishes that the journey was not too trying, My Lord, and requests you meet her in the Solar when you are able.” The young man spoke even as Aegon handed the empty cup back to the maid wordlessly, his dark purple eyes studying the man with his usual intensity. He had a deal of height over the youth, which no doubt added to the scale of the man’s intimidation.

“I have just arrived from a month fighting in the Vale and half that again in the saddle, what is so pressing she calls me so quickly?” There was no outright venom to Aegor’s words, but nor was there any warmth. Every word was a test, an evaluation of the man with the grim promise of what could befall those who did not meet Bittersteel’s standards. It was a wonder the servant only had to pause once to gulp.

“I uh…My Lord, she was quite insistent that it was a matter of importance.”

With an impatient grunt, Aegor began removing the straps of his plated gauntlets even as the servant was speaking, thrusting the empty armour upon the man as soon as he had finished. “See that it is tended to.” Aegor simply strode passed the servants, awaiting the others of the party now arriving over the drawbridge. He continued to shrug off his armour as he moved, simply allowing the plain steel to fall to the ground, confident it would be reclaimed by someone with more time than him in short order.

The solar of Stone Hedge lacked much of the grandeur of several he had seen, notable those at court, but it was still a pleasant space for a house of good standing, situated close to both the kitchens and the library, yet allowing a private space for House Bracken and any guests they deemed to invite away from any feasting in the hall. Furnishings in the style of the Riverlands, interposed by spatterings of local tended plants, and lit well, as suited the name. Bittersteel strode in with enough prompt force that it scrambled several servants, moving out of the way of the swinging doorways, before they attempted to recover to announce him, dismissed already by a wave from the man. His first words were not for them, however. Aegor stood in the light cloth of his riding undershirt, the padded material clinging to his muscular but lean frame, the grit of the road intermingled with the cloth.

“What need is there for my attention to be demanded so soon after -” His words cut off, however, as his eyes settled on the woman in the room, not the one he was expecting, and one that he had not seen at Stone Hedge since their first meeting, when they were both children of an indolent king. “Shierra.” The name was practically a breath, the half-whisper at odds with his defiant nature, but it slipped from him all the same.

What a devious woman the Lady Bracken was. She had called Shiera to the solar over an hour ago and had not seen fit to join her. Still, the room held a small, yet interesting, collection of books. The Seastar had contented herself with browsing them haphazardly. Lost in thought over a passage, the voice startled her. Yet she knew it instantly. The rough rumble, she could see what he looked like before she even turned around, delicate hands softly replacing her book on the desk.

Two eyes, one sparkling green and one deep blue, took in his form. He had truly not been expecting her - sweaty and caked in dirt from the road. A small smile pulled at the corners of her lips, blissful innocence across her face when she exclaimed, “Aegor!” She was dressed in her standard fare, a dress simple in cut but of exquisite fabric and white as a summer cloud. Paying no heed to that, she glided across the floor to him, arms outstretched to embrace. “I have not seen you in too long - off hunting mountain bandits I hear?” Her voice was a purr, soft and enticing without effort. “Have you missed me?”

It was a foolish question to an answer she knew. The superstition around Aegor was that the man had never smiled. He could be courteous when he wished to be, but never gave off any warmth. The rumors weren't true, but the exceptions were rare, and the truest smile he had ever given was a fleeting one returned to a young girl as she waved in greeting from the Royal carriage arriving into Stone Hedge. But even that had come to be tainted by the hateful taste of failure.

He stepped forwards as if to meet her embrace, but his arms never moved and when his head descended as if to kiss her cheek in familiar greeting, he stopped short, his lips close to her ear as he spoke in clipped tones to her. "Why are you here?" He'd allowed the weakness of his feeling for her to break through upon seeing her, the light dancing through her hair and the smile across the lips he had longed to claim, but in the next moment he saw her for the threat she was. Matters with Daemon were so close to fruition, had Bryden heard a little whisper from one of his birds and sent his honey pot rushing to confirm such fears? Or did they both simply wish to harm him in what way they could? All concerns, but far more powerful than those fears, was the sting of the last time they had been alone together, when she had made herself another prize he could not claim. For all that though, for all his tension and venom, still his heart thunder at her proximity, and he could not bring himself to pull away.

“Ah.” She sighed in acknowledgement, his possessive nature was different. How she had forgotten that his way was to be distantly icy against Brynden’s suffocating heat. Shiera took one step back, her face cocked as she mused on her response. Tears threatened to well up in her eyes but she quickly blinked them away; they would not help her with this one. “I have missed you.” Her fingers wound through a tendril of her hair, silver-gold swirling through her hand; a nervous habit. “But also…I was cruel to you.” She leaned her weight to one leg, the silk and lace of her skirts were fluid at her slightest movement, swirling before they rested again against the line from her hip to the floor. “I had to see you, I could not let us stay parted on such terms. I am sorry for what happened - for what I did.”

Her eyes sparked with a genuine earnestness, her forehead creased. She had wrapped her arms around her during her apology, natural acts, but also ones to accentuate the things that men - that Aegor - would appreciate or want to hear. Aegor had never been her choice, and yet, he had always been there. When separated, as they often were, he lingered like a dream that would not dissipate in the light of day. Perhaps, she had never truly given him a chance. Barba’s courser advice echoed still as well. His mother had not been wrong, but Shiera’s desires were not so base as a kept life. Did she not already have that? “This tourney - in Summerhall with our princely nephew,” her words were ever so slightly a bite at the mention of Makear, “we could travel together.” Left unsaid, but perhaps clear in her tone, was a plea to not turn her out.

Aegor was not so green that he did not know of the games she played, despite the true emotion that seemed to flow from her. Knowledge did not make him immune, however, the cold violet of his own eyes tracing the fluidity of her movement, the shine of her hair and the softness of her form that called to him. He did not settle into simply gazing upon her though, his hands connecting behind his back as he took steady steps, circling her almost, not allowing his or her position to stagnate. If she controlled all the angles, she might as well control him.

“Am I to be watched? To be shepherded around our cousins’ realm for fear of me? Does Maekar fear that I might get lost on the way? Does Bloodraven wish to keep his crow’s eyes on me? Are you my gilded cage, Seastar?” His voice remained a low whisper, but there was a more calculated menace to it, a return to his usual confidence now that her presence wasn’t so surprising. She still disarmed him, not that anyone who did not know him could tell, not that the smell of her didn’t make his blood rush, or the sight brought back memories of precious moments where the bitterness had faded. For all her stunning beauty, that was what she was to him. An escape from the mundanity of the reality he inhabited. “They should fear not, I know these lands better than they, I ride them while they play in court, I do not require a guide.”

Shiera’s face crinkled in annoyance, she had sparked something but not what she had intended. Perhaps coming here had been a mistake. She had too easily forgotten the way that Aegor clung to slights. “He wouldn’t.” She quietly mustered in defense before realizing the error that was. She believed it - Brynden would surely never use her in that way, not without her agreement. But defending Bryden, instinctually, was not wise. Her eyes squeezed shut though she could imagine him seething around her. “And I am not here to spy nor cage you. I am also not here to beg, sweet Aegor.”

How they both managed to infuriate her so, yet leave her paralayzed at the thought of never seeing them again, was a constant source of anguish. She had spent weeks considering her course of action upon his return. Had considered leaving before he returned, but Barba had convinced her otherwise. “If this is how I am to be treated, I will take my leave.” Shiera made an attempt at returning the coldness in his tone, but it was not in her nature. She was hurt and it seeped into her voice. She made for the door, undecided on whether it was to seek the screaming silence of her chambers or to the uncertain refuge with Barba.

She had been right that tears alone would not move him, he had never found the sorrow of others to bring about anything but ambivalence. It was a weakness, and he despised it even in those scant few he cared for. It was instead how she tried to hid it, to mirror the steel of him that weakened his resolve. Perhaps a part of him still believed she was acting, but in truth, he simply wanted that to not be so. Then she turned from him, and his hand moved before he could even realise.

The coarse hold of his hand pulled around her wrist, calluses from three decades of swordplay and almost as many of campaigning met the pristine and unblemished texture of her, tightly enough that even without pulling she was dragged some of the way back to him. It was the first time they had touched since the sting of her refusal had lanced him. For a long moment he hadn’t words to say, he hadn’t intended to halt her. Let her run off, as she no doubt would in the end anyway.

“You’re the only one who would ever say that.” It was hardly poetry which finally slipped from his lips, an expression that was almost, but not quite, the ghost of a smile. Anyone else and he’d presumed it was said mockingly, but that had always been part of her magnetism to him. She saw some capacity for warmth the rest of the world was blind to. “I remember, when you first came here, you wouldn’t stop talking about the stories you’d read of Stone Hedge.” She’d been a child, and he almost a man grown by that point, but they’d been expected to spend some time together, no doubt while the whole procession pretended Aegon hadn’t used the suggestion of a visit to one of his sons to enjoy one of his previous conquests again. “You made it somewhere I wasn’t ashamed of, for once. But then you left, and it was all so grey again.” His words trailed off as his eyes held her’s again. “Perhaps I would like to see more of the world as you do.” He spoke, finally regaining a little more volume, in reference to her suggestion they travel together.

His strength had stopped her midstep, relief and fear flooded her in response. She turned as she was pulled off balance, to face him again. She waited, eyes darting along his face as if she could divine his mood before he could speak. Shiera remembered that year, the year her father had insisted she travel with them. She remembered begging not to go, she had wanted to be left alone to bother the maesters with her endless questions. Yet, her mood had shifted the closer they drew to the Bracken’s hold. She would see a place whose stories she had only read about it in books. It had been awakening in many ways. Aegor, her elder half-brother not yet a man and already he had seen so much of the world that she had been kept caged from.

“Seeing you like this now, I am reminded of that boy. The one who tolerated me endlessly.” Her lips lifted in a small, knowing smile. “The one who told me wild stories of adventure.” She had not resisted or pulled back against the hold he had on her, it would have been pointless, and the warmth of his hand on her had become comforting. With her free hand she again reached out to him, prepared for him to flinch, but brushed her fingers ever so lightly against his face. “The world is grey, my winged steed.” How often had Shiera been left despondent by everything around her? “I see it no differently except perhaps to hope for color. But it does not need to be lonely.”

“I’m sure there were one or two questions I could have done without.” The noise which escaped Aegor’s lips was perilously close to a laugh. Even then, she had been a delightful trial, but where others had encountered a girl who simply wouldn’t stop talking, Aegor had found someone who would speak to him about something other than the failed expectations of his youth. It was an easy trade. “Maybe so, Shiera, I agree now and the pain eases, but then the time comes at you return from where you’ve came and I stand in solitude once more.” It was the part of her statement he could answer, but not that he wished. In that moment he came so very close to uttering that he would remake their grey world, in the ways of their lineage, in Fire and Blood. But while he could trust her now, he could not trust her forever. He could bare his soul to her, but not his ambitions.

All the while, his fingers continued to ring her wrist, more gently brushing over her skin even as she stroked his face. There was an urge to not resist, to plunge into their shared intimacy, but they had done that before, and the spark had burned for all of a few moments before reality had thrust back upon their minds. He would prefer a slower dalliance in the realm of fantasy this time, even if it meant having to resist her. “We won’t ride for a week, perhaps you’ll have time to come up with a tale of this place I haven’t yet heard.”

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

House Bracken

"Fear Our Thunder"

Aegor 'Bittersteel' Rivers

Name: Aegor 'Bittersteel' Rivers

Age: 30

Biography:

Perhaps no individual is named more accurately in all Westeros. Bittersteel summises Aegor perfectly, a warrior with few peers with a heart that had felt little but acid all his life.

When Aegor was born it was weeks before his mother, or indeed any in her presence, would use the name 'Rivers' to describe the child. With his father's interest set on Barba, a rare feat of temporary monogamy for the corrupt King, and the ailing nature of Queen Naerys during childbirth, there was active rumor that the King might set his wife and true born child for the Bracken woman and her healthy child. It was the moral character of the Dragonknight and the substantial element of court which held true to the other members of the Targaryen dynasty which likely prevented the King from doing so, not to mention a rare example of the rest of the house being united against him, Daena Targaryen no doubt unwilling to see another woman's bastard child set above her own, should such matters be considered.

Thus before Aegor was even aware of the world, he had tasted the chance of greatness and disappointment. Raised largely at Stone Hedge rather than at court due to the political backlash faced by House Bracken, his failure to supplant the order of things as a newborn was evident in the upturned favour of House Blackwood, who's ancestral seat stood so near. While such things are mere rumors, it is said one of many reasons that Aegor's blade is so well honey during a period otherwise defined by continuous, if fractious, peace, is his continued involvement in the Skirmish conflicts between the two houses during his youth. A combination of the enmity between houses and their status as those who replaced his mother in the favour of the King's eye, he holds particular venom for Melissa Blackwood and her son, Bryden Rivers, his own half-brother.

This is not to say Bittersteel held particular affection for his father, especially after the King put both Lord Bracken and his Aunt to death following House Bracken's short return to prominence. Bittersteel is said to have never smiled, but it has been told when hearing of the King's death he did laugh for quite some time, no doubt in some amount of relish for his final act of legitimising the Great Bastards. Aegor was home at Stone Hedge when the news was brought, having just returned from a stint along the Dornish Marches. In the years since his maturity, Bittersteel has won many friends among the southern Lords of the Reach and Stormlands, willing to lead and fight alongside men in situations that would not earn the high honours that his siblings seek. While he may not possess such warmth, soldiers are want to like the man willing to camp among the dirt and the dying alongside them.

By this point, dreams of one day being the King had faded, indeed it seems likely they never really caught on with Aegor himself, but certainly a desire for vengeance and restitution drives a support for his brother, Daemon Blackfyre, who Aegor will admit without challenge had both a more direct claim to the throne and the greater charisma and influence to see the claim through. If Bittersteel truly cares for victory for its own merit is another matter, or if he simply wishes to set himself against his hated brother. A hatred compounded by the attentions of the woman they are both said to love, Shierra Seastar, famed as the most beautiful in all Westeros and another of the Great Bastards. If one listens to gossip, Aegor's affection is based purely on wishing to take all from Bryden, but the truth runs deeper than that, and the curse of being spurned in yet another matter haunts Bittersteel in a far more cutting manner than a throne he is simply told was once in reach.

House Bracken may not have the great wealth or manpower that other houses which support the Blackfyre cause posses, but Aegor himself brings a great deal of experience in the true nature of war and combat. He is not the great tourney winner of his elder half brother, nor the cunning spymaster of his younger, but he is soldier and killer both, in an age that has bred few of either.

Lord Raylon Bracken

Name: Lord Raylon Bracken

Age: 44

Biography:

The current Lord of House Bracken was never intended to be such, substantially younger than his elder brother, born to a different mother when his older brother Kennoth, was already a man grown and well prepared to rule their ancestral seat, indeed it would be scant few years before their father passed, a man Raylon barely has memory of. Still, a second son is hardly an obscurity, and so the young Raylon grew up being prepared for a life of a respected knight of the realm, with the expectation he might honour his family in such service, a little too prominent in the matters of succession to be considered for the Citadel.

The enmity between House Bracken and Blackwood has always been useful for keeping the men at arms of both houses sharp even in times of peace and this passes on to their sworn knights and heirs. Raylon has no great claim to be the greatest sword or commander in the realm, but he has real experience in both matters from a young age and even if he was something of an obscurity, he was no shame to his house.

History runs strangely, however, the first factor in his ascension was his elder brother propensity to bear only daughters, and only two of those, Barba and Bethany. Thus as the years wore on, it seemed ever more likely that Raylon might never be replaced as heir. As with many second sons of the realm, he had been involved in the conflicts with Dorne, but was recalled to the family seat when Kennoth was named Hand of the King, to manage family affairs and the fiefdom.

It was this separation from his family at court which ultimately saved his life, having no connection to the scandal of Aegon's second Bracken mistress. When Kennoth and Bethany were executed, Raylon found himself as the Lord of Stone Hedge, a seat he had been the effective ruler of for some years. In those years, Raylon spent much time with both Barba and Aegon, although it would be a stretch to say the relationship is a warm one, there is a certain respect between the two men. Raylon very much cares for the survival of the house, and in securing their supremacy over House Blackwood, an aim he takes more seriously than his aunt's greater desires.

Lady Barba Bracken

Name: Barba Bracken

Age: 46

Biography:

The eldest of Kennoth Bracken's daughters was, and is, a beauty of some renown, a beauty matched only by her ambition and appreciation of luxury and power. Whether she had always been thus, or her seclusion in the Maidenvault alongside the princesses allowed her to both be influenced by the Princess Daena and the deprived nature of their existence, inspired it cannot be said. She was the first of Aegon the Unworthy's Mistresses to be openly recognised, and bear him a son recognised as his own. During these years Barba was treated to a life of luxury and prestige that would normally be reserved for the royal family themselves, and their were often rumours that should the Queen succumb to the illnesses that often plagued her, Aegon would marry his Bracken mistress and name her child his heir.

It was these rumours, however, no doubt encouraged by both Barba and her father, that ultimately proved their undoing, once the faction at court against them grew loud enough that the King felt compelled to act. Before long, Barba had been sent home, her child recognised as nothing more than a royal bastard, and quickly replaced by another mistress. The King would ultimately visit Stone Hedge on a number of occasions, largely for the purpose of seeing his son, but there are certainly rumours that he enjoyed Barba's company in a more intimate manner, although she never captured his attentions as thoroughly as she did before, weary as he was of those who did not remember her fondly at court.

Now, decades later, Barba is still just as motivated to recapture the success of her youth, for both herself and her son. While she may no longer be a youthful flower of court, she still possess striking beauty and despite what some would consider flaws of character, a keen enough mind to perceive the routes through which it might be attained.

Calla Blackfyre

Name: Calla Blackfyre

Age: 17

Biography:
While the fact may presently be kept from wider Westerosi society, it has been the plan for some time in the making that Calla Blackfyre, second eldest of Daemon's daughters, be married to her half-uncle, as a means to further secure the bond among the claims of the Great Bastards to the throne. Calla herself knows now that the tourney at Summerhall is the likely place for this to be announced.

As with most of Daemon's children, Calla has grown up with the expectation of their ascension, unlike her sister, to whom she is less than a year younger, she has ever enjoyed the attention of such things, a young darling of court, taking on the burden of being the less difficult of two daughters. She is known to be genuinely pleasing, if somewhat naïve, company. She sports a sense of good humour and easy charm, she just has little and less knowledge of the true ways of the world beyond what limited experience she has.

While she no doubt bears the beauty that so many of the Valyrian line do, she is not in the same delicate and ethereal way as her sister, in fact a teasing song about her enjoyment of lemoncakes has been known to cause something of a tantrum at times.

Our Final Nights: A World of Darkness Roleplay

Collab with @Ruby

This had turned out to be a rather terrible night.

The thought came to Genevieve’s mind, not for the first time, unbidden as she dived away from several small bursts of flame on the concrete walls of the tunnel she was fleeing through. She did tend to pride herself on her ability to accurately read and predict the machinations of kindred, including those many times older than herself. She didn’t exactly have a high view of Vannevar Thomas, in fact, she was very much in the process of recommending to the powers that be he was a significant sunk cost for the Camarilla. Her worst estimates, however, didn’t account for the possibility a Camarilla Prince of not unimpressive age and (faded) influence would be acting on behalf of an ancient maniac.

Still, life would be boring if it always went to plan.

The maze of tunnels which criss-crossed beneath this expansive Disney parkland now worked in her favour. She hoped that Vi still lived, but as befitting those trying to flee from immediate execution, they had split up, diving into what escape they could. She had rather less concern for her Giovanni ally, but it would likely be more convenient if he had not died. Regardless of her feelings for both, for the moment, her own continued existence was rather more pressing. The practically lace outfit was proving non-optimal, not that she had any issue with getting the pristine white dirty in such a circumstance, and at least the shortness of the skirt kept it from tangling in any of the variety of Disney themed detritus lining the hallways, it was more the lack of pockets. She’d lived through many years of much more restrictive clothing for women, but that was still a fairly major gripe at the moment.

She’d be running out of tunnel soon, thankfully, even though she hadn’t anticipated the Prince’s betrayal, she’d not provided the detail of the exit she intended to use should things go awry, nor the bike she’d hidden for such a purpose. All she could hope for was that she hadn’t given the Price enough time to sweep all possibilities when setting up his ambush. At least on the positive, once she was out of the tunnels she’d be able to get some signal and hope that Hardestadt wasn’t too busy to pick up his damn phone.

Her form was a white blur, she’d barely have registered on any CCTV system even if they hadn’t been disabled, and the winding nature of the tunnels meant that her pursuers would have to be close to get a line on her again. The kind of kindred Thomas could bring to do his dirty work were no slouches, but she imagined she at least had a greater control of the blood than most. She checked her speed only a fraction to throw open the door that marked the end of the tunnels, not wanting to present an easier target just in case there was a secondary ambush waiting for her, but on his occasion she was lucky. She’d been more than a little lucky over the course of the centuries and had no interest in being around when whoever kept track of those sorts of things came to collect on the debt. Equally fortunately, the concealed Royal Enfield she had hidden nearby beneath a rather grottier cover of cloth was still in place. It would no doubt hurt a very dear friend to know she’d placed his very pleasing gift beneath something so foul, but needs must. She’d always preferred motorbikes as a form of personal transport, when she was feeling poetic she liked to think it reminded her of horse riding.

The engine gunned to life immediately as she sat in place, not bothering for the moment, before she took off down the path eventually leading from the tunnel exit to the road. She was a flurry of blonde hair and white skirts that would have likely made for a very good commercial, but instead her hand moved to her ear, balancing the weave of the bike with one hand as she placed the call.

“Dearest Genevieve, how may I be of service?” The German tone was as clipped as ever, but judging by the fact the man had even answered, she’d probably not interrupted anything. “Wherever you are, it sounds terribly windy.”

“Lubbock got to Thomas, the meeting was a set up, take this as whatever further confirmation you need that neither of them are acting in the interests of the Ivory Tower.” They might dispute that, what she really meant was the interests of Hardestadt.

“Most unfortunate, I take it you require assistance?”

“I need somewhere his men can’t follow me, fast.”

“Well, thankfully for you I’ve been making friends with the local Anarchs, they aren’t quite so as insufferable as they used to be I’m sure, there’s an establishment near your location called the Doll Hut, there should be kindred present, but I’ll ask if they can provided someone more important for you to speak with, should you survive.” An Anarch sanctuary wouldn’t stop Thomas’ men on principle, but if they sensed other kindred, that might give them pause.

“Merci Beaucoup.” She tended to use a little more casual French with the ancient elder, any reminder that she wasn’t English, or worse, American. She bothered with no further pleasantries, as the phone was placed back into the confines of the bike’s forward compartment and shut away, the act of steering momentarily maintained by her supernaturally powerful legs as she adjusted herself, before her hands met the handlebars again and the bike really opened up beneath her. It was a moment too soon, as the space where she had been was once again lit up by the spattering of fire which denoted dragonfire rounds. They really were bringing out the kindred killers for her. It was a little flattering, to know Thomas feared her that much. The wheels of the bike spun as she took a corner at a speed well above both legal and sensible guidelines, skidding over pavement before regaining full tracking on the tarmac of road. The sudden turn gave her more of a window once more, a few more twists and turns and she’d have made it.

Those twists and turns might have taken a matter of minutes, but it dragged out far longer for Genevieve, each time she thought she might have put enough distance between her and her pursuers she was rudely dismissed of the hope. While the bike afforded her greater agility, the boxy four by fours her pursuers had acquired provided a much more stable platform to seek to cut her down from afar, and only her reactions kept them from striking true.

If they ruined her paintjob, she’d not make their ends so swift.

They’d run out of time to chase her down, however, as her bike screeched to a halt in the parking lot of her destination. It had been a part of the rock scene in LA for the last sixty years, which made it the ideal sort of location for an Anarch hideaway. For all their differences, Anarchs and Camarilla did tend to be equally predictable. She didn’t bother to try and hide the bike, her followers would be too close behind, as she swung herself off it and dashed for the door. Thankfully, there were no planned gigs on, so she had little in the way of security to deal with, pushing into the lowlight of the rock club.

Where upon, immediately, she became the focus of every single current occupier of the room. A large enough group of leather coated, piercing covered, individuals, who seemed rather unwelcoming of the blonde in white frills who had just interrupted their den of darkness.

“Uh…Hi.” She didn’t quite have the time to rustle up her full on American airhead impression, but the same approach with her native accent tumbled from her lips without a thought, even as she rallied herself to deal with lethality from potentially all sides.

Her hair was a long, straight, dark bit of finery that shimmered down her back as the woman across the room lit a cigarette. The rest of her almost rushed to have been there as her eyes hit the creature and felt the heat behind her. Her midsection taken up by a long, flowing gray tank top. Her bottoms were professional slacks; fitted things, her feet hidden an old pair of gray skating shoes.

There was a punk element to her eyeliner, the left wrist covered in leather and spikes, a brown leather katana sheathed at her feet, leaned against the couch she occupied. She may have been snug up against a wall of the club, but it wouldn’t have mattered in any practical way to those present. She would hear Genevieve, and more importantly, the Kindred woman would hear Eva right back.

“Howdy,” the woman that looked like art in a barely lit museum took a final drag of a cigarette, putting it out under the heel of her right shoe, the slow pace and measure of someone who appeared to have just woken up. “My apologies.”

There in the nearly no light, Eva smiled big and brightly at the woman that had rushed into this old, cobwebbed, haunt of summers past. “I had hoped our meeting would come at a better time. It seems Lubbock wants to kill you, while these poor gentlemen,” she motioned to the room, “are under rather strict orders to ‘extract’ you on sight. Definitely not the fun it sounds like.”

Content the butt was out, Eva flicked it into a nearby bin and found herself standing to full height. Her lips still blazed with amusement as she regarded the runner yet again. “Tell you whaat,” Eva’s voice sing-songed, part amusement, part fun, “Don’t worry about Lubbock’s folks. The quickest among them will hit a magical barrier. Likely to vaporize them. The rest of them will run away, or get taken off roads very quickly. Best-case/worst-case, I get to get involved. Worst-case/worst-case, I don’t get to stab someone today...you’d understand.” She said, sighing, dramatically. “Oh! And also these guys are fine. Top shelf chaps, them.” The sheer shine of her blood had made anything easier than it had any right being before Eva embraced the void, and returned again. She didn’t know one of the men present. Yanci did. Didn’t matter, anymore. There didn’t seem to be a will that concerned her. “I guess, anyway. Probably.”

And she was done not enforcing her claim on her territory.

“I think I preferred the old days, ‘extract’ is so impersonal, Charles always preferred the to say he wanted to take them ‘for a quick drive and a chat,” For a moment, the blonde’s french accent adopted a caricature of the British spy she was imitating, chosen more for comedy than accuracy. She was well aware the old days was such a nebulous term for beings such as her, but by kindred standards her old days were practically yesterday.

“If it disappoints you, I don’t think they’ll follow me, those were more Thomas’ men than Lubbock’s, although I’m sure the distinction will fade soon, for now they’re a little more free thinking than I am sure he prefers for his drones.” She moved further into the room, her eyes on the woman rather than the more numerous spattering of men around the room. Undoubtedly she was the greater threat present, but she also wasn’t quite sure she could have looked elsewhere if she wanted.

“Mon Dieu, you’re tall.” It had meant to be an inside thought, but she found herself expressing it anyway as she drew closer, it wasn’t often she felt any sort of envy in the category of long legs, but if she was so inclined to such now would be the time. “You think I could trouble you for a drink before you interrogate me? Or hand me off to these not-so-lovely gentlemen?”

The gentlemen of piercing and leather and their own spikes, with holsters filled and larger weapons strapped over the width of them, simply turned on heels and made for the doors; half out of the front, half out of the back. The sound of movement, of booted feet moving with motivated haste, all of the noise was patiently waited out while Eva stared at the woman.

“Why do that? They’re under order to ‘extract or exterminate’ all facets of the Camarilla court that claims my territory: from South Sacramento to the US-Mexico line, and everything up to California’s eastern border, including the coastal islands off the shore. If you’re not one of mine and you claim any possession or authority not derived from myself, you’re on their list. Those men chasing you?” Eva smiled. “Make the list.”

Her hair flared with light as it was casually flipped, as the comment of height did nothing but encourage the smile occupying the woman’s lips. “I’ll admit the order wasn’t my idea, but it’s necessary for what comes next. As for you…well, I don’t know exactly what list you’re on. So you should tell me why you’re running from them, why they’re after you. Then I’d like you to tell me what you know about the Camarilla in my territory. Then tell me what your role is. And be honest, because I’ll know.”

“I’d heard you were different, but that is a very aînée thing to say.” Genevieve sighed, a little dejectedly at the slow seeping of her optimism. She’d come a long way only to encounter another Robespierre. She corrected herself there, French decorum would have at least resulted in her getting that damn drink first.

“My Name is Geneviève Pointe du Sandrine Dieudonné, to give you that in full, although I don’t suppose many have called me that for a while. Most people this side of the Atlantic call me Gené, or they try to, it gets pronounced Jean-e alot.” She wasn’t exactly rambling, but the magnetic pull of the elder made it easy to talk and it took some will to keep her tone steady and composed. “I’m running from them because I had arranged for a meeting between the Prince and another member of Camarilla society who has been erroneously accused of murdering Baron Isaac Abrams, terribly sorry for your loss if he was a friend. Finding the true killer was meant to aid in keeping the peace, but I suppose with your order that is a forlorn hope in of itself. Either way, it would seem Thomas has already thrown his lot in with Lubbock and isn’t keen on peace either. If it helps, I was advising that the Ivory Tower withdraw their support of Thomas’ claim to the city already.” She was rather close to Eva now, almost unconsciously taking steps towards her as she spoke. Unlike many kindred, Genevieve still had something of a pulse, her body faked the need to breathe as habit and she found her false-breath rising in pace. “I know just about everything there is to know, much as that might be hard to believe given how…ambushed, I have been, Thomas could have only met Lubbock the one time, without me knowing. I suppose that’s all it took.” Was she blushing? Her cheeks certainly felt warm. Mon dieu that was embarrassing.

Eva broke. A pane of painted and formed glass,just instantly shattered to pieces; it wasn’t destruction or grief that brought her low, but the mention of Isaac Abrams. She waited until the woman stopped speaking before doubling over, possessed by a ramp of giggles to barks of laughter to, finally, the crescendo, a stretch of uncontrolled laughter that had Eva wiping her eyes for tears that, shocking for a Kindred ,came—albeit in blood.

“Oh, shit,” It would take more than the initial moment of clarity for her to completely recompose herself. A shaking out of hands, a quick combing and tucking of hair with nails and fingers, and a dramatic turn that saw Eva once more facing the woman after some jagged pacing and general motion to get the hilarity of it out of her system.

“No,” she began, politely, like the break never happened at all, “Isaac was useful until he claimed to be a Baron. Fair enough, I don’t like titles or the publicity that comes with them, so I just stay…quiet. Over time I turn into the Baron-of-Barons, but behind the scenes. The Baronmaker. None of them, the Princes starting with the first, to the first one sent by the Ivory Tower, to the Barons…none of them did it right. So one day I decide to declare myself, public as it gets without breaking the Masquerade, we’re Anarchs with class afterall. Isaac decides to fight. Wants to contest…”

Her amusement turned to vicious ice cold anger, eyes dark and hate filled, leveling Gene. “He never worked on another meaningful project in Hollywood, the death of his soul. Figured I’d let someone else end his misery. I wasn’t in the giving mood at the time. So, uh, no…can’t say Ike and I had been friends for some time. You’re…fine. Gehenna is starting out there,” Eva said, pointing, trying not to roll of her eyes, speaking through a little sigh, “You’ve got my pass to go and try to escape to wherever you want. Maybe back home? Maybe some safe house you think is safe? I guess I’m dealing with Thomas and Lubbock. Tough luck for them.”

“It sounds to me, that whatever it is you’re convinced is happening isn’t something one can just run from.” Genevieve mused, finally moving over to the bar to perch herself on one of the rather vintage (some might just say worn) stools as she watched the woman recover from her fit of giggles. “I’m not sure what Hardestadt has mentioned to you, or yours, but once the situation with Thomas was…rectified, I was supposed to offer what assistance I could to you, so, if the world’s ending, I’ve not got anywhere better to be.” She fixed an errant blonde curl as she watched the other woman intently, a mixture of Toreador magnetism and the general good sense not to let the nastiest predator in the room out of your gaze keeping her set no matter how casual she played it.

“Unless of course your buddies still have to keep trying to murder me for being on the wrong side, that might make things a little awkward, but if you’ve any interest in bringing what Camarilla are around here that ‘aren’t’ yet blood slaves to an ancient meglomaniac, I can help with that.” She didn’t bring up Charles, her secret ‘in’ to the world of human espionage and intelligence agencies which these days were no longer under the control of the kindred, it was always worth keeping at least one bargaining chip off the table to begin with, that was, unless this rather terrifyingly powerful elder of her bloodline couldn’t simply skim it from her thoughts. She practiced thinking about a rather cute pair of fluffy bunnies just in case that helped at all.

Frosted mid-length fingernails drummed against the wood of the chair she had sat herself on, Eva’s head turned this way and that, and after a few moments of that it was sudden silence as she stopped, and smiled big at the woman. Her words were faster than normal, her tone bare and intent clear: survival.

“I’ll have the order lifted,” was all she said as her brown eyes with long photoshoot ready lashes fluttered open and shut in rapid succession. A few beats of non-functional hearts and Eva’s brown eyes were wide and open and clear once more. “There you go.”

The wood of the chair groaned as Eva’s body leaned forward, her weight pressing on her left arm, the chair’s arm underneath giving small creaks to the shifting. “Understand this isn’t talk. Lubbock and Thomas, at least Lubbock, will HAVE to be gone forever. Soon. Understand our concern is Antediluvians getting destructive and doing it soon. Days. I’ve been in touch with Arikel, with Caine. The Techno Mages have provided the support they can spare. We work on the Second Inquisition right now, this moment, and I’ve spoken to Admirals and Senators…we’ll have access to localized forces and cooperative communication with their leadership and CIC. Of course, I have to retrieve Yanci and somehow find Grace, again. Camarilla elders come to my city, desperate. The horde of Sabbat with a Cardinal at its head has pledged their support if I give them favor.” She paused, and her head shook. “Whatever that means.”

Eva lied. She didn’t know, she couldn’t say, but she had to lie that she didn't feel it. Deep in her bones, Eva felt the truth of it, even if she couldn’t put it to words just yet. Other than that, all she felt was impatient. It was time, and Eva was still only moving at the speed of this reality. “And you? Does the Withering or Beckoning affect you?”

The words sounded sharp;would yes mean something bad? Would no mean something arbitrary? There was no quarter given with her tone as she sat there and took the measure of the French woman.

“It used to.” Whatever truths Eva was keeping from her, Genevieve instead met the question with honesty, a shrug moving across her shoulders which displaced some of her tumbling blonde curls. “I think I was young to hear it, but I was lost, I thought those most precious to me dead and gone, but it was a lie concocted by one very close to what Lubbock is. But they live, and they keep me grounded.” She hadn’t seen Charles or Detlef in some time, but the fact their hearts still beat and they lived on did much to anchor her both to reality and her humanity. She didn’t very much like the glimpse of herself unmoored entirely from her mortal life. That did bring up one issue she needed to resolve.

“The meeting I had orchestrated with Thomas was also an introduction for a Giovanni, they too seek vengeance on Lubbock for his actions, so if they have survived, I imagine they may now swallow their enormous pride and seek your aid in doing so. Another monster to add to your collection.” The remark was said without judgement, as Genevieve pressed a hand to her own cheek, a tremor of emotion shifting through her. “I know not how, but they have ensnared the…soul, I suppose, of a dear old friend of mine. It is a matter I want to rectify, even if they do seek allegiance.”

To Eva, the arrangement seemed evident. Long ago she may have wondered which Giovanni, but that was decades past, back when Eva tried to know nearly every face in the City of Angels. That was long, long ago; before the end started for her. An end she had been stuck in for years since.

An end she was determined to finish, “We end Lubbock and Thomas, see if we can help your dear old friend. You get your help, I get, finally, free of Lubbock and Thomas. And then I finish what they started. Sounds agreeable?”

“I think that sounds like the best deal I’m going to get in this city…Now do you think I’ll be waiting much longer for a drink?”

Our Final Nights: A World of Darkness Roleplay

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A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

House Bracken

"Fear Our Thunder"

Aegor 'Bittersteel' Rivers

Name: Aegor 'Bittersteel' Rivers

Age: 30

Biography:

Perhaps no individual is named more accurately in all Westeros. Bittersteel summises Aegor perfectly, a warrior with few peers with a heart that had felt little but acid all his life.

When Aegor was born it was weeks before his mother, or indeed any in her presence, would use the name 'Rivers' to describe the child. With his father's interest set on Barba, a rare feat of temporary monogamy for the corrupt King, and the ailing nature of Queen Naerys during childbirth, there was active rumor that the King might set his wife and true born child for the Bracken woman and her healthy child. It was the moral character of the Dragonknight and the substantial element of court which held true to the other members of the Targaryen dynasty which likely prevented the King from doing so, not to mention a rare example of the rest of the house being united against him, Daena Targaryen no doubt unwilling to see another woman's bastard child set above her own, should such matters be considered.

Thus before Aegor was even aware of the world, he had tasted the chance of greatness and disappointment. Raised largely at Stone Hedge rather than at court due to the political backlash faced by House Bracken, his failure to supplant the order of things as a newborn was evident in the upturned favour of House Blackwood, who's ancestral seat stood so near. While such things are mere rumors, it is said one of many reasons that Aegor's blade is so well honey during a period otherwise defined by continuous, if fractious, peace, is his continued involvement in the Skirmish conflicts between the two houses during his youth. A combination of the enmity between houses and their status as those who replaced his mother in the favour of the King's eye, he holds particular venom for Melissa Blackwood and her son, Bryden Rivers, his own half-brother.

This is not to say Bittersteel held particular affection for his father, especially after the King put both Lord Bracken and his Aunt to death following House Bracken's short return to prominence. Bittersteel is said to have never smiled, but it has been told when hearing of the King's death he did laugh for quite some time, no doubt in some amount of relish for his final act of legitimising the Great Bastards. Aegor was home at Stone Hedge when the news was brought, having just returned from a stint along the Dornish Marches. In the years since his maturity, Bittersteel has won many friends among the southern Lords of the Reach and Stormlands, willing to lead and fight alongside men in situations that would not earn the high honours that his siblings seek. While he may not possess such warmth, soldiers are want to like the man willing to camp among the dirt and the dying alongside them.

By this point, dreams of one day being the King had faded, indeed it seems likely they never really caught on with Aegor himself, but certainly a desire for vengeance and restitution drives a support for his brother, Daemon Blackfyre, who Aegor will admit without challenge had both a more direct claim to the throne and the greater charisma and influence to see the claim through. If Bittersteel truly cares for victory for its own merit is another matter, or if he simply wishes to set himself against his hated brother. A hatred compounded by the attentions of the woman they are both said to love, Shierra Seastar, famed as the most beautiful in all Westeros and another of the Great Bastards. If one listens to gossip, Aegor's affection is based purely on wishing to take all from Bryden, but the truth runs deeper than that, and the curse of being spurned in yet another matter haunts Bittersteel in a far more cutting manner than a throne he is simply told was once in reach.

House Bracken may not have the great wealth or manpower that other houses which support the Blackfyre cause posses, but Aegor himself brings a great deal of experience in the true nature of war and combat. He is not the great tourney winner of his elder half brother, nor the cunning spymaster of his younger, but he is soldier and killer both, in an age that has bred few of either.

Lord Raylon Bracken

Name: Lord Raylon Bracken

Age: 44

Biography:

The current Lord of House Bracken was never intended to be such, substantially younger than his elder brother, born to a different mother when his older brother Kennoth, was already a man grown and well prepared to rule their ancestral seat, indeed it would be scant few years before their father passed, a man Raylon barely has memory of. Still, a second son is hardly an obscurity, and so the young Raylon grew up being prepared for a life of a respected knight of the realm, with the expectation he might honour his family in such service, a little too prominent in the matters of succession to be considered for the Citadel.

The enmity between House Bracken and Blackwood has always been useful for keeping the men at arms of both houses sharp even in times of peace and this passes on to their sworn knights and heirs. Raylon has no great claim to be the greatest sword or commander in the realm, but he has real experience in both matters from a young age and even if he was something of an obscurity, he was no shame to his house.

History runs strangely, however, the first factor in his ascension was his elder brother propensity to bear only daughters, and only two of those, Barba and Bethany. Thus as the years wore on, it seemed ever more likely that Raylon might never be replaced as heir. As with many second sons of the realm, he had been involved in the conflicts with Dorne, but was recalled to the family seat when Kennoth was named Hand of the King, to manage family affairs and the fiefdom.

It was this separation from his family at court which ultimately saved his life, having no connection to the scandal of Aegon's second Bracken mistress. When Kennoth and Bethany were executed, Raylon found himself as the Lord of Stone Hedge, a seat he had been the effective ruler of for some years. In those years, Raylon spent much time with both Barba and Aegon, although it would be a stretch to say the relationship is a warm one, there is a certain respect between the two men. Raylon very much cares for the survival of the house, and in securing their supremacy over House Blackwood, an aim he takes more seriously than his aunt's greater desires.

Lady Barba Bracken

Name: Barba Bracken

Age: 46

Biography:

The eldest of Kennoth Bracken's daughters was, and is, a beauty of some renown, a beauty matched only by her ambition and appreciation of luxury and power. Whether she had always been thus, or her seclusion in the Maidenvault alongside the princesses allowed her to both be influenced by the Princess Daena and the deprived nature of their existence, inspired it cannot be said. She was the first of Aegon the Unworthy's Mistresses to be openly recognised, and bear him a son recognised as his own. During these years Barba was treated to a life of luxury and prestige that would normally be reserved for the royal family themselves, and their were often rumours that should the Queen succumb to the illnesses that often plagued her, Aegon would marry his Bracken mistress and name her child his heir.

It was these rumours, however, no doubt encouraged by both Barba and her father, that ultimately proved their undoing, once the faction at court against them grew loud enough that the King felt compelled to act. Before long, Barba had been sent home, her child recognised as nothing more than a royal bastard, and quickly replaced by another mistress. The King would ultimately visit Stone Hedge on a number of occasions, largely for the purpose of seeing his son, but there are certainly rumours that he enjoyed Barba's company in a more intimate manner, although she never captured his attentions as thoroughly as she did before, weary as he was of those who did not remember her fondly at court.

Now, decades later, Barba is still just as motivated to recapture the success of her youth, for both herself and her son. While she may no longer be a youthful flower of court, she still possess striking beauty and despite what some would consider flaws of character, a keen enough mind to perceive the routes through which it might be attained.

Marvel Comics: Dawn of X

Remy LeBeau

Name: Remy LeBeau
Alias: Gambit
Age: 32
Place of Birth: Louisiana

Powers:

Molecular Acceleration: Remy has the power to take the potential energy stored in an object and convert it to kinetic energy, thus “charging” that item with explosive results. He prefers to charge smaller objects, such as his ever-present playing cards, as the time required to charge them is greatly reduced and they are much easier for him to throw. The only real limitation to this ability is the time required to charge the object. The larger it is, the more time it takes.

Most charging takes place through direct skin contact. The power of his explosions is dependent on the mass of the object he is charging, for example, a charged playing card explodes with the force of a grenade. He typically cannot utilize his powers on living matter or organic molecules.

History:

Born with blazing red eyes, the child that would become Gambit was abandoned shortly after birth, no doubt the generally highly religious and superstitious communities of the Bayou wanting little to do with the baby possessing the eyes of a demon, he was taken in and raised by the Thieves Guild. Few mutants exemplify the complicated and convoluted nature of the mutant factions than Gambit.

The young Gambit was commissioned to recover the diary of Nathaniel Essex from the Weapon X Facility in Canada. While he was ultimately discovered in the act, the chaos created by Logan’s escape managed to enable Gambit to escape. Appalled by the experiments he had seen at the Facility, he burned the diary. Back in New Orleans. Despite some suspicions, Essex eventually accepted the story, and Gambit became a respected and established member of the guild.

As part of a peace pact between the Thieves' Guild and their rivals, the Assassins Guild, a marriage was arranged between Remy and Bella Donna Boudreaux, the granddaughter of the head of the Assassins Guild; however, Bella Donna's brother Julien objected to the marriage and challenged Gambit to a duel. Remy killed Julien in self-defence, but was excommunicated and banished from New Orleans in an attempt to maintain the fragile peace between the two guilds.

First brought to the attention of the X-men while assisting in recovering a de-aged Storm from grave danger, the adventuring criminal had little in common with Xavier or other important members of the X-Men, and those who he might have aligned with were the kind to be most suspicious of him. Despite this, after several further encounters he would ultimately join the team. Whether this was due to a true change of heart from the Ex-Thief, or rather more to do with the Southern charms of a certain member, remains up for debate. He would, over time, become a well liked and valued member of the team. This made the revelation that he had long been a double agent working for Sinister, despite his reasons, all the more painful for the X-Men, in particular for Rogue. In their rage, the team abandoned Gambit in the Antarctic, a situation he was unlikely to survive.

The wraith-like Mary bonded with him, allowing him to survive until he reached the Savage Land, a hidden jungle nestled in the icy wasteland. There, Remy struck a deal with the enigmatic being known as the New Sun. In exchange for passage back to America, Remy agreed to run errands for the New Sun, a being that turned out to be a version of himself from other realities. The New Sun’s aim was the destruction of alternate versions of himself, but once this was revealed, Gambit was ultimately able to overcome his assailant, and make it home to America.

Various adventures followed, and despite earlier conflicts, Gambit returned to membership with the X-Men once the nature of his betrayals, and his lack of agency in them, was revealed. Similarly, Rogue and Gambit, despite their tempestuous nature, rekindled their relationship and it has been ‘largely’ uninterrupted since, even surviving Gambit’s brief period of domination by Apocalypse as his Horseman, Death. Ultimately this culminated in the pair finally marrying, the result of a failed ceremony between two other mutants instead becoming the impromptu matrimony of the pair, in a manner that seemed quite suitable for these two.

Since this time, Gambit has settled on Krakoa for the time being, while his wife remains a core part of the X-Men’s effort, he appears to have hung up his hero boots for the moment, quite content to bartend in the Lagoon. It’s a mystery if even Gambit believes the longevity of this attempt at a life no involved in heists and heroics.

Story Arcs:

Married Life and An Actual Job: Trying to achieve some sort of stability, how’s that going to go?

Espionage: If the above fails, Gambit has long been associated with the shadier dealings of the X-Men, Brotherhood, and more, certainly a skill set the new mutant state needs as it entrenches itself.

Marvel Comics: Dawn of X

Even for one possessed of great mental control, Jean Grey was distracting. Eric imagined he could stretch the belief that it was a facet of her powers, but in truth that would be giving himself too much credit. It had far more to do with the cascade of red hair, the sing-song of her laugh as the giggle tumbled forth and the way the shimmering emerald of her outfit flared after her waist into her hips than any great telepathic ability.

"I believe there are still grooves." He mused quietly as she turned course on their conversation to discuss the furniture and its unintentional use. A lesser man would have joined the grin, but he prevented such, instead offering a warm smile at her acceptance of the request he had made of her, allowing his previous words instead to suggest that he hadn't quite forgotten either.

The next words which issued forth from her steeled him, allowing the warmth that had been building from her presence to drip away. Matters with Wanda were never easy, and her own children were often even more extreme. He could not blame them, but it was still a complication. They were wounds he one day wished to heal, but for the moment, had kept on cutting.

"Thank you, Jean." The words answered the summation of both her agreement and the news she had passed on, even as she was drifting away, the enclosing hold of his helmet slipped away, allowing the other, less horrifyingly powerful, telepaths of the island to reach him from beyond its restraining hold. She had only just passed the lip of the balcony before Magneto began his own flight. Unlike Jean, he did not drift leisurely, the Master of Magnetism soaring into the air as he twisted the force of the world around him, moving at a speed that was enough to draw attention from the ground below.

The attention only grew more intense as he neared his destination, dropping lower in descent, the exited inhabitants of the Lagoon turning from their revelry to note one of the Quiet Council moving towards them at speed. It wasn't panic, it was just good gossip. He did not land with force, nothing quiet so dramatic, but the magnetic ripple at him suddenly coming to a half a short distance from both Emma Frost and the two boys. Without the helm, the passing wave of energy shuddered through his own grey-white hair as he halted in mid-air, before gently drifting the final foot to touch down deftly.

"Miss Frost, I do hope you are enjoying the festivities." His initial greeting was directed to his fellow council member, before his attention shifted to the forms of Wiccan and Speed. "Welcome Home."