KZOMBI3

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

Liore Lannister - Darklyn

🦁

Dating back to the First Men, House Lannister has a long and proud history covering thousands of years. Throughout this period they have remained the overlords of the Westerlands, thanks to their status as the wealthiest Great House in Westeros and their ability to command respect and loyalty from their vassals - severely handling those who step out of line.

Their seat is Casterly Rock, a near impregnable castle built into a colossal hill of stone, proudly overlooking the harbour of Lannisport. It is said to stand taller than even the Wall or Hightower of Oldtown, and from atop this great perch they lord over the Westerlands.


Since the bloodshed from Dance of Dragons, and the infamous raids of Dalton Greyjoy, House Lannister of Casterly Rock has spent decades carefully repairing and bolstering their hold across the Westerlands. Repairing the damage done to Lannisport, investing in infrastructure and defence, granting loans (with strict terms) to their vassals, rebuilding their fleet. These have been the major preoccupations for the Lions of the Rock for decades after the Dance, their roar rarely heard outside of the Westerlands in what had become an atypically insular realm. Indeed, when the Young Dragon launched his conquest of Dorne, it was not troops of the Westerlands that bolstered his ranks - though, Lannister gold did fill their war chests.

Only in recent generations have the Lions begun to rise from their perceived slumber. Lord Gerold Lannister - named Master of Coin to Baelor I in recognition of the House’s influence and as thanks for their contribution to the war effort in Dorne - relocated to King’s Landing in 163AC. Brought with him was his son and heir of four and ten, Tytos. The presence of House Lannister was increasingly felt in the capital, with Gerold serving on the small council until 171AC. By this time, the realms finances had been brought to fair order and important relationships built, most importantly the friendship between Prince Daeron and Tytos. Though Tytos would return to the Rock with his father upon the ascension of Viserys II, their strong friendship remained.

After the brief rule of Viserys II followed the long, torturous reign of Aegon the Unworthy in 172AC. The scandals of misdeeds, depravity and excess made for entertaining gossip in the early years of his reign, though things quickly became more consequential for the Lions. When Aegon squandered much of the crown's coin on a ‘grand fleet’ destined to be lost in a storm, he soon turned to the wealthiest of the Great Houses to fuel his decadent lifestyle, bribes and gifts. House Lannister dutifully obliged, and made no objections as dates for repayment slid by without notice from the capital.

When Tytos rode to the capital in the summer of 178AC, determined to raise the issue of crown repayments, he instead arrived to witness a gruesome scene. Sir Terrence Toyne, guilty of laying with Aegon’s mistress, was ripped apart limb by limb while a screaming girl - the mistress - made to watch. Thereafter, both the girl and her father were executed. Brackens, Tytos was told. The King was without limit, and his court more broken than any outside it could have imagined. It did not take counsel from Daeron to have Tytos realise that any attempt to pursue crown repayments was folly. He spent only a few weeks in King’s Landing, associating himself with the growing faction surrounding Prince Daeron at court before returning to the Rock.

Perhaps it was this friendship between Daeron and Tytos that drew the attention of Aegon the Unworthy, or perhaps he would have always acted as he did - but his demands for loans of gold became more frequent, the sums larger, and word occasionally reached the Rock of some insult thrown to them by Aegon at court.

Nevertheless, the Lions of Casterly Rock rode out the storm of his reign from the Westerlands, with Aegon finally meeting his end in 184AC. Since then, House Lannister has maintained close relations with the capital. These have grown only stronger since the passing of Lord Gerold in 188AC, with Tytos taking his place as Lord Paramount.

By 202AC, House Lannister has finally begun to recoup the financial losses with the growing stability of the realm. Not only is it in their financial interests to see the status quo maintained, but with the misrule of Aegon IV fresh in memory, their stance against the legitimized bastards is strong, disapproving of the incomes maintained for them and - in the case of Daemon Blackfyre - of the land granted.

What lays ahead is unclear, but the House of Lannister is determined not to fall quiet as they had during the reign of Aegon. History will not repeat, and they will live by their words, Hear me Roar.

• Lord Tytos (53) - Father and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport and Warden of the West
• Cerelle Brax | Mother and Lady of Casterly Rock
  
  • Lyman Lannister (31) | Older brother, Heir to the Rock _{and lover}. A competent strategist and a natural and charismatic leader; _{it's no wonder why they can't keep to themselves}
    
    • Ellyn Westerling (26) | Lyman's beautiful and honor - bound wife
  • Loreon Lannister (26) | Younger brother and The Lion of Lannister. Vain and conceited beyond measure, Loreon is a wild card and loose cannon. Definitely one to keep weary watch over.
• Darius Darklyn (40) | Son of Euric Darklyn of Duskendale, Heir to Dun Fort. Husband to Liore Lannister. Brother by marriage to Lyman and Loreon Lannister. Father to Allard, Lionel, Leandre, Lysander, Leona, Lukas and Laelle. Deceased due to tears of lys _{shhhh no one knows}.
  
  • Allard Darklyn (would have been 12) | Died in childbirth. _{Only legitimate child of Darius.}
  • Lionel _Lannister Darklyn (10) | Proper hellion. Longs to be in battle with something or other. More akin to a dragon than lion as far as destructive prowess goes.
  • Leandre _Lannister Darklyn (8) | A Lannister through and through. He has an eye for scheming and plans. Makes what allowance and coin he gets last well into the future. Numbers are fun for him.
  • Lysander _Lannister Darklyn (6) | The enigma. Clay. Fits into whatever mold he's placed in. Takes after his mother on that one. He can be anything he needs to be in order to succeed.
  • Leona _Lannister Darklyn (5) | A true princess in the making. Loves everything girly and proper.
  • Lukas _Lannister Darklyn (5) | Boyish to the ends of the world. Can never keep his new clothes clean for long.
  • Laelle _Lannister Darklyn (3) | An angel. Sweetest toddler to roam the meadows.

29 (born 173 AC)


Strikingly beautiful woman, with golden hair, emerald green eyes, fair skin and a slender, graceful figure.


Born to Tytos and Cerelle, Liore came into the world as calm as a breeze along the coast. Even from birth Liore knew how important it was to blend into the surroundings, to change and adapt to a situation in order to thrive in it.

It didn't take long for the young lion to grow into a beautiful young woman, strong and nubile. She caught a lot of attention from the opposite sex; her older brother was no different. However, their torrid love affair could date back even sooner if one were taking notes. One such suitor was Darius Darklyn of Duskendale. A proud house, stubborn and hungry like herself. In the beginning she was attracted to him, although he was nearly ten years her senior. He was handsome and the few times they had met he was sweet on her. A true gentleman.

Not until after they wed (Liore was only seventeen) did she see the change, the mask he wore cracking and crumbling away. A monster hiding in plain sight. Oh yes, Liore was well versed in how to play a part. She had been doing it all her life. Smile brightly and they will never know the struggles behind it. Cover up so no one suspects foul play. A little fib won't hurt anyone. Yes, Liore Lannister Darklyn knew how to adapt to any situation thrown her way. It was a gift.

Soon after the wedding, Liore was pregnant with their first child - a true Darklyn heir. However, he passed a few hours after birth. Complications they told her. Something went wrong during the pregnancy. Never again did Darius lay a finger on her when she was carrying. Suffice to say it's the reason why she has six children. Though they aren't his.

Regardless of either of them being married, Lyman and Liore discovered that nothing could keep them from one another. Not a wife, nor an abusive husband. And so their affair continued well on into... well it never stopped. When it was uncovered what was going on in the Darklyn clan Lyman and Liore came up with a plan to rid themselves of his presence. It wasn't difficult and it didn't take long before he was out of the picture and Liore was a widowed woman, living at Casterly Rock with her children. And in close proximity to her brother. Easy access for them. It was convincing her father not to marry her off so soon after her late husband's death that has proven to be tricky these last few months. She's managed to guilt him into holding off, but now? Two years is a long time to be without a husband, and her children to be without a father - or so Tytos claims.

How will she get out of it this time?

Personality

Liore is willful, ambitious and has a certain low cunning. She is hungry and greedy for power; moreso in the sense of elevating the family's power rather than her own. Though she isn't above putting her needs (and her children's) above even those she holds most dear. Liore is a bit impatient and demanding - especially of attention - and never forgets a slight, whether real or imagined. She weighs her options is more level headed than her brothers (though that isn't saying much). Viewing disagreement as defiance. She believes herself to be subtle and politically astute - as much as she can be given her status, gender and sex. She hates being excluded (from anything) on account of her gender, and resents the customs and conventions put on her because she is female. She thinks of herself as a female version of her father and feels slighted when people do not obey her commands as they would have done for Lord Tytos, but instead give her their counsel, or disagree with her, which she faults on her gender. Liore hates to be second guessed or questioned on her motives and commands. She takes after her father as far as her intelligence goes and implements orders as he would, so why is she the one receiving push back? She also does not shy away from using sex as a weapon or a means of control. Anything to make sure she gets what she wants in the end. Though a lot of the times she isn't enjoying the means to get there.

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

𝓐 𝓦𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓓𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓿𝓮𝓭 𝓑𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴
𝓐 𝓦𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓓𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓿𝓮𝓭 𝓑𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴

_{mentions: The Baratheon Boys @Sini | Garrett Tyrell & Oak @Danvers}

---

It had been some time after the memorial that the Baratheons piled into a carriage or mounted their horses and began the trek towards Summerhall. The Tournament was rumored to be the biggest and best yet, that was for Argella to decide. Though it wasn't like she had many to compare this one to, too busy raising someone else's little ones keeps her busy enough as is. She shared the cart with her nephew, making sure that he was still conducting his lessons, regardless of the trip they were taking, before being let out to ride with his father.

The trip wasn't as quick as Argie would have liked, but she was grateful to be out of Storm's End for a change. It was nearing nightfall by the time they arrived and as soon as they reached their destination Argie jumped from the carriage, wanting to stretch her legs after not being allowed to ride saddle back alongside her brothers - it was befitting her or some such nonsense according to Royce. _{“It isn’t befitting to dump the responsibility of raising your children onto the shoulders of your baby sister and yet…”} words she longed to shove in his face but the point would be moot.

So instead she settled for a glare shot his way any chance she got. Earning more than a few stifled chuckles from the others.

As her feet touched steady ground, Argella of House Baratheon began walking towards the Redwyne’s tents of red, purple and blue. That was until she was caught by the upper arm and turned around rather fiercely and came face to face with an annoyed Royce. “Where do you think you are going?”

“Going to partake in sampling some wine from our dear friends. It has been a long and arduous trip, Roy, I do believe I have earned some me time.”

He sneered in the direction of the Redwynes and looked about as if the environment were to give him a sign to refuse her her leisure. His eyes soon found the face of his son and thrusted his sister towards him, “Your duty lies in taking care of Gowen, and seeing to it that we are settled in.”

“Father! I am not a child–“ but the young buck’s words were lost on the heir of Baratheon.

“Quiet, boy. Attend to your aunt,” Royce said, ascertaining whether or not his little sister was going to make this into a contest of wills. “Once we are unpacked, check on the horses and come find me to report. You can have your fun then.” A noble’s horse or a knight’s mount was part of him. A certain mark of distinction from the smallfolk, and a lesson Gowen was being taught every day.

Biting her tongue Argie clenched her fist tight enough to dog her nails into skin, crescent shaped indents bringing blood to the surface. He was too stubborn for his own good. It’s where the children get it from. How had Cyrenna ever dealt with him was beyond her. With a subtle nod she curtsied and took Gowen to their lodgings muttering under her breath as she went. “Oh I’ll tend to the horses alright… mount one and run off I will… see where that leaves you with your seedlings…”

Tending to her duties took longer than she wished; rather overseeing the rounds that Gowen was in charge of took longer than she wanted. Why she needed to loom over him like a shadow was beyond her, he was more than capable of handling his daily chores without her, why should it be any different now? "Most like for Roy to exert whatever control he still harbors..." she found herself muttering as she leaned against the post of the makeshift stalls where the horses were contained, a tuft of black hair running around as he filled their troughs with water and their buckets with hay. "Come Gowen, the sun is long set."

He popped his head up from around the front of his father's horse, a look on his face that screamed not for him to be in trouble. A younger version of Royce if ever Argella had seen. Smudges of dirt on his cheeks, hair wet and sticking to his forehead, "But I need to finish. Father will be-"

"My brother will not know if you do not tell him," her words were playful yet her tone was concrete. Not a word would be spoken to him about the shirking of one's duties. Not by her at least and she hoped that he would catch on to her meaning and keep his lips sealed. At least til the morning. Motioning for him to come join her at her side they took off back to their camp, musing about what it was they could eat for the evening. As the night wore on and Gowen fell fast asleep atop his cot Argie slipped out of the tent and, after announcing to the household knight of the young buck, she made her way through the throng of peoples towards more lively areas. Though she was supposed to find Roy after all was said and done, Argie found it within herself to care not. She'll just chalk it up to not being able to locate him, should she get caught.

But that was a thought for another time.

Waltzing into the pavilion she was greeted immediately by the warmth radiating off the bodies of the crowded tent. At first she attempted to get by with politeness, something her mother would have been proud of, however when she wasn't getting much further than a foot from the entrance it was then that she began to push her way through the throng of pompous drunks before her. "Move out the way you cumberground." Huffing and tossing her elbows out in order to burrow her way past Argie eventually made it to the other side of the tent, ordering a goblet as she did.

There was hardly a place to sit, the place was so popular, but what did she expect with the Redwynes. It was a pleasant feel, the environment and Argella oddly felt a sense of belonging. It was no wood nor forest, or shore along the coast, but it was bustling and lively and free. Something she desperately longed for. Now that she was here she was going to enjoy it for all it's worth.

Sipping on the Arbor Red that flowed so freely among those gathered beneath the Redwyne cloth the Baratheon beauty was offered a seat and company, chatting and laughing while those around sang and danced away to the music drifting into the space around them. Company she knew not before that very moment. She even locked eyes across the way with a handsome fellow, a familiar face, dogged by an eccentric character that didn't fail to pull a laugh from her. She turned quickly back to present company in time to learn of the games they were about to play. It intrigued the young doe enough for her to want to try her own luck; resulting in her doing quite well. Most of the time. "Oi! There is no way this time is your first!" A burly man, drunk off his arse, sloshed his drink across the table towards her as he gestured.

"But it is! I swear it," Argie laughed him off easily with wine flowing through her and face flushed with the heat from the bodies crowding around. The night had been going smoothly, new friends and acquaintances were being made without hassle. It was hardly the first time she had found herself surrounded by drunkards and rowdy civilians and she felt she was well equipped to handle whatever situation came her way. What she wasn't prepared for was the same man to snarl and grip her wrist - second time this evening - and twist it hard. He yanked her to her feet, kicking her chair out from beneath her and raising her to level his gaze, as blurry as it must have been. "You're cheatin' me outta my coin and I demand recompense."

Sucking on her teeth in feign concern the Baratheon doe shrugged as best she could, "Best I can do is a sprig of mint," an air of sarcasm mingling with the bubbly persona the wine gave her. His eyes turned hard and his hand gripped her tighter yet. A look about him that screamed for her to be a little more concerned with her company and well being.

"You little bitch-" his free hand that had been raised back was let loose and came towards her. To the dark haired beauty it felt almost slowed. As if time were coming to a halt. Argella hadn't the foggiest of ideas as to why she would believe such a thing. Clearly had nothing to do with the fact that the handsome man from before had closed the gap from earlier and found himself closer to her - their proximity shortened. No. Definitely not that. Nor would it have anything to do with a foolish bard come stumbling onto the scene and into the arse holding her hostage.

"What's going on here? A party? How about some music?" Either he was too drunk or thick headed to notice the tension, regardless Argella would have to thank him properly once she was released.

TLDR

• Travel to the tourney
• Argella just needs a break and wants to go out and drink
• Big bro Roy says not til after chores are done
• Argie cuts chores done short and leaves after Gowen sleeps
• Sees a handsome gent across the tent
• Drinks and plays games with some new no named faces
• Accused of cheating
• Oak saves the day!
• Kinda

𝘿𝙀𝙎𝘾𝙀𝙉𝙎𝙄𝙊𝙉 ⌜ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ ʀᴏʟᴇᴘʟᴀʏ⌟

---

P A R T Y T I M E

_{location: the Acropolis
interactions: Apollo@smarty0114 | Comus | Eros | Hebe | Herc@metanoia | Mel | Phobos@Danvers | Xōchi@Aewin
mentions: EVERYONE}

---

Apollo yanking Chaos into a hug was something she hadn’t realized she needed until it happened. His words were dark, though his tone was light and it was those kinds of moments where Coco knew things were not all that they seemed. It was no secret that she heard voices, dealing with internal demons on the regular - at least pre-Fall Coco did. A generational curse passed down from her dear old dad. So to say that she could spot in others the act of hiding the unbalance, was something she was hardly ever wrong on.

Regardless, they were here, now. It had been far too long since she looked upon the faces of those she most enjoyed causing mayhem with. Coco nudged him in the ribs once she was set down, laughing at the way his body curled in on itself only slightly. “Only the most interesting, but only if you can keep up~!”

Eros watched the pair embrace, an unreadable expression on his face. "So kind of you Apollo..." He finally answered simply in response to the proclamation that he was welcome to stay. Well yes, considering he lived there, he would expect so. His relationship with the sun god had always been tenuous since the Daphne incident. An incident that had been entirely hilarious. He tried to hide the smile that tugged at his lips, amused by the fond memory. Before he could say anything that would likely get him into trouble however, his attention was thoroughly diverted. One would have thought he had regained the ability of flight with the speed to which he shot over to the bottom of the stairs, slinging an arm over the newcomers shoulder and drawing them close.

"Brother!" He chimed eagerly, eyes twinkling with an air of mischievousness. "What are you doing here? And why were you upstairs? Do tell all, have you--" Before he could finish his sentence however he was pushed aside. "Not how you should greet family Phobos." Eros huffed, though his demeanor still remained lighthearted, the act clearly just for show.

"I'm leaving." The darker haired son of Ares muttered, looking both incredibly uncomfortable and incredibly pissed off. He moved to skirt around his sibling but Eros quickly stepped to block his way once more, ignoring the waves of displeasure that were radiating towards him. It was always a fine line that he tread with Phobos but one that he had learnt how to master. Sort of.

"Oh no, you must stay. Mustn't he Comus...Xōchi?" He grinned, turning to look back at his friends.

“Yes, you must.” Xōchiquetzal agreed, moving over to join Eros while blocking the door with a flirtatious smile and raised eyebrow. “You wouldn’t want to leave when we’ve only just gotten here-” She gestured between herself and Comus.

She regarded his expression carefully, the smile never leaving her face. The uncomfortableness was oozing off him like the scent of a rotten flower, something was up. “Come, relax with us, dearest Fear.” She stepped forward, her hand slipping past his in order to link them by the elbows, another hand resting comfortably on his bicep.

The wicked grin that graced Comus' face only widened as Fear was locked between herself and the Aztec flower. A wonderful sense of chaos brewing in the space around them, swirling up from the ground as if trying to swallow them whole. A delicious over interest in what was to come tickling the forefront of her mind and causing a giggle to escape, "Oh yes indeed~ relax. Spend time with us! It has been much too long!" She stood on the opposite side of Phobos and mirrored Xōchi's pose, linking her arm with his, leading him back away from the door and back in towards the main room of the mansion.

"As lovely as it is to see you Xōchi, I really ca-" Phobos trailed off as Comus took his other arm, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at her. "Oh so you aren't dead. Deimos will be happy." He replied sullenly, entirely unhappy with the situation he had found himself in. Eros, who had been carefully keeping a few steps back, looked like the cat who had gotten the cream. What an idiot. He was going to kill him, no-one would mind a third death surely. Or at the very least no-one would notice for a while...

"You never explained why you were here, little brother." Eros grinned, interrupting the gods thoughts as he took to pacing around the trio like an overexcitable puppy, eyes passing over the three in turn. "I'll make you if you don't!" Though his words could, and should, probably be taken as a threat, it was difficult to tell with the way they were so playfully spoken.

Fear sighed, knowing it would not do to ignore Eros for too long. "I was just helping Melinoë get home. Her siblings were killed today if you hadn't heard..."

“Oh, we heard.” Xōchi said. “But that’s why we’re here, to uplift our spirits and all.” Xōchi didn’t sound very convinced by her own words, but shrugged it off regardless. Now was not the time to mope.

Instead, Xōchi was more interested in fun. ““So, Mel lives here too? With you?” She probed Phobos curiously.

"Sounds… exhausting~," Comus chimed in as if the entire interaction was choreographed beforehand. "How do you manage to not tear each other's throats out?"

"I don't live here." Phobos responded bluntly, carefully easing his arm out of the Aztecs' grasp. Coco was clung on much more tightly. "You've been to my place Xōchi--" He paused, realizing what he had just said. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his brother's smile widen enough to compete with the likes of the Cheshire cat.

"Oh~?" Coco grinned wide enough to match Eros' own, her voice rising higher and higher and it wasn't just for the sake of excitement. "Has she now? Do tell, what's the reason for that? Last I checked you two have very little in common by way of domains." Her grip on his arm only constricting more with each word.

Xōchi’s pout went unnoticed due to Phobos’ blunder, but instead her expression changed from that of disappointment from being pulled away from to one of pure delight. “That I have, dearest Fear. Silly me, how could I forget that wonderful night?” She shrugged lightly.

“I wouldn’t protest if you did forget…” The god muttered. Not that it had been a bad night, quite the contrary. But it was exactly this reason that made him hesitant to have dalliances with other deities. He could feel irritation pushing against the wall of tiredness, and it was oh so tempting to just tap into their fears. Instead, he finally prised his arm from Coco's grip, flexing his shoulder joint in relief. “Though I’m surprised you haven’t. You and Eros must have slept with the entire city of Seattle by now.”

Eros let out a loud laugh at this proclamation. “I’m getting there! One mortal at a time…or sometimes three…or four…or five.” He pondered happily, clearly proud of his achievements.

Apollo smirked as his friends and extended family teased one another, his mood softened now by jokes and drink and company. “Don’t be embarrassed, Phobos. It’s hardly a flattering look on you,” Apollo said as he poured himself a shot. He sent the drink down and clapped his hands twice, filling the home with the sounds of Swedish Europop. Apollo was having an ABBA phase tonight. “Someone dance with me. You’re all making me quite jealous, flirting so blatantly in my house.”

Comus nearly tackled the sun god as soon as the music came on. "I've missed this~!" Her screams filled the large space carrying up over the loud bass reverberating through the house towards the upstairs.

Screams of glee, coupled with the abundance of loud music and shattering ceramics, pulled Melinoë from her new room, a scowl on her lips and dried tear tracks on her cheeks. "What the shit is going on?"

Tilting her head backwards in such a way would have made mortals fear her neck was broke, Comus searched the banister looking for the goddess to match the voice. Once she locked in she squealed with a fake enthusiasm for the newest arrival, "Melly! You're here~!" A quick glance towards her cohorts before back to Madness had her giggling, "Come join us in having fun!"

Melinoë could only glare at the revelrous spirit dancing with Apollo, before catching her quick glance towards Phobos standing so close with Xōchi - a fire boiling her blood, "I'm not in the mood, Coco," her words like venom, "Don't know if you heard from whatever rock you've been under. There's been some deaths–"

"Oh, yeah, no. I heard. Sorry for your loss or whatever. But hey! I'm back! We should celebrate that, and their long lives lead or something…" Comus rolled her eyes and continued swaying to the beats, throwing her arms around Apollo's neck here and there.

Apollo glanced between Comus and Mel, not quite so oblivious as to miss the simmering tension. “You know how we are Mel. Wash away the pain and all that jazz. Come have a drink,” Apollo said. He swayed to the music with Comus, grinning like the emotionally inept, fallen god that he was.

Out of the wood-works and with Hebe at his side, no less (or at least Hercules thought she was), came the Boy Wonder himself. At first when Hercules heard the noise, he got curious and Pearl had run off out of the house (per the usual with her and sudden noise), so what else was he to do but go find the source of it. He heard a voice he thought he recognized but in his moment of rushing to the main foyer, Hercules didn’t have enough mental energy (he rarely had any to begin with) to spare to figure out where he heard it from. It’s not like he would need to because when he got to the foyer, all confusion left his body as he naturally started to unknowingly rock his body to whatever music Apollo put on.

“Someone say party--” In the midst of speaking, his eyes went wide, jaw hung low, and a typical Hercules overreaction was in progress. “COMUSSSSS! IT’S YOU! YOU’RE ALIVEEEEEE!”

The words of the god of heroes rung throughout the open space. A greeting to top all greetings. Acropolis had begun to buzz with an air of anticipation, as it always did before any party. The residents quickly slotted into their usual roles, excitable & frantic as ever. But Eros had uncharacteristically remained put, attention thoroughly & completely diverted. Green eyes flickered between madness and fear, expression unusually solemn and thoughtful. How had he failed to notice this? Had he lost his touch? No, that was a preposterous idea…of course he hadn't! It must be something new then…

With raised arms and a squeal to match Herc's own, she ran to tackle the Laboring Hero, wrapping around him like a koala - just for good measure. "Looking forward to wiping the floor with you in drinking~ but first we dance!" It was easy enough to pull him to the makeshift dance floor with Apollo and herself. Smelly Melly was still brooding upstairs and two thirds of her trio were standing off to the side, admiring the scene before them - whispering little nothings to one another. Things that were to be set in motion.

“Xōchi, I need you darling~” Eros cooed as he suddenly snapped out of his trance, turning towards the goddess, casually slinging his arms around her neck from behind, head resting atop her shoulder. “Tell me, what happened when you kissed my dear brother?” He whispered as if to a lover, only a subtle tug at the corners of his lips betraying his underlying thoughts.

The noise levels of the Acropolis were growing at an exponential rate, one which Madness never accounted for. Sure, she was down to have fun, but with the day she's had it was the furthest thing from her mind. Top it all off seeing Phobos and Xōchi so familiar and close with one another and Apollo and Comus with their... infectious carefree attitudes - it was starting to get to her. She didn't know which it was, maybe a combination of the two, or something different entirely, but she found herself down amongst the others in no time, gliding onto the scene silent as a ghost. Immediately taking from the wet bar there and downing the first bottle within reach.

Manic eyes flashed with excitement as Comus continued to dance with the Sun, "Finally! Welcome to the party Melly!" This was going to be an interesting night for sure.

Xōchi’s eyes followed Madness, joining the party looking like she had lost someone - which, yeah okay she did, but why the glum face when her Fear was right here? The Aztec goddess rolled her eyes at the melodrama before leaning conspiratorially close to Eros in turn. “Sparks flew, my love~ I formed quite the beauty. She was almost comparable to me.” Xōchi flicked her hair, the flower scented shampoo filling the air around her. Then, with her eyes trained between Melinoë and Phobos, feigning easiness as she continued but louder. “I still remember the way Phobos touched me after I kissed him, oh, he has such a good grip. The type that sends tingles everywhere~”

The love of god smiled wickedly as his friend spoke. "Oh really?" He purred, something dangerous and uncontained creeping into his voice. Around his partners in crime he was unable to resist such delicious temptations. "Shame I missed out. Perhaps-" He glanced over at his brother who, although glaring intensely at the pair of them, had not made any moves to shut them up. "Perhaps you could...oh I don't know," He swished a hand as if the thought had only just popped into his head, "...recreate the experience?"

“Interesting idea, I’d be more than happy to… recreate that evening.” Xōchi stepped away from Eros, moving towards Phobos. Her hips swayed to an imaginary beat, each step slow and purposeful and with a look that screamed interest and seduction on her face. Her arms touched Phobos’ shoulder, squeezing lightly and following the muscles of his arms. “What do you think, dearest Fear. Interested in another demonstration?”

His jaw clenched at her approach. "Far from it." He muttered, "I know better than to get involved in any of your games." The son of Ares felt dark swathes of irritation coiling in his stomach and his gaze was an icy stare as he reached a hand to gently but firmly take a hold of her forearm. Phobos pulled her close enough that their breath intermingled, only inches between them lest the others overhear. "And I can't think of many reasons you would have to further upset a grieving goddess. Unless..." He paused, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips. "You're jealous?"

Melinoë wasn’t deaf, she could hear the cackling of the bewitching beauty and a sense of self consciousness washed over her in that moment though it was quickly doused out to make room for the seething ire at witnessing her touching Phobos. She shouldn’t care. Really shouldn’t. It’s not her place. He is a man grown and can take care of himself the same as she can defend herself from pompous flowers in a wilting garden. She wasn’t entirely sure what the cause of their issue was, but it was making the ending of this day even more difficult to bear. She could see the intent behind the eyes of Aztec Aphrodite. Alluring and mischievous. Devious purpose in her words and actions.

Rolling her eyes and taking another large gulp of whatever liquor she could find she stalked over towards the two of them, still intermingled with one another and too close for her liking. Madness gripped at the fabric of Phobos’ suit and whipped him back to face her, glaring daggers at the goddess before her, "We are not here for your games, πόρνη,” her words were biting and she cared not if she offended the flower princess.

Comus watched from her spot on the makeshift dance floor, where she observed the threesome off in the corner - Eros not too far off looking like a voyeur. The thought alone made her chuckle. It seemed they were keeping things pretty tame but it was a bore to watch it take so long to come to fruition. This wasn’t what was planned and Coco wasn’t having it. Patience is a virtue, one that she does not possess. “Excuse me a moment~,” she sang, sashaying her way towards them.

“What’s going on over here?!” Her boisterous self and erratic dance moves could be easily passed off as just Comus and it was because of that mentality that she was counting on to save her, should this go wrong. Things were going to happen, whether anyone wanted it or not. She collided into the remaining Death child, sending her crashing into Fear, their bodies and lips pressed together. “Oops~” The Cheshire grin she wore said otherwise.

The two collided and Phobos pulled Melinoë close against him, instinct driving him to stop her from falling, not wanting to see madness hurt in any way. Or no more than she already had been. He felt fury and irritation and exhaustion reaching its peak within him, only to be silenced as their lips touched. There was nothing for a moment as his fingers moved to flex around the back of her neck, holding her protectively...possessively. The calm was only breached by a feeling he did not recognise but he pushed it down, daring her instead to pull away if she wished to.

A feeling washed over her, one she never thought she would experience again after so long. Melinoë melted into the embrace and clung to him like a life force, refusing to pull away from him.

When she didn't, he pressed forwards to deepen their accidental kiss, tightening his grip around the hair at the base of her head. It was all he could do to hold on and hope that she did not hate him. He would not be shocked if she did but that did not mean that he wished for it. Mels body was warm against his own and he made it so there was no space between them, nothing could be close enough for his liking and it was frustratingly so. The god would have kept going, giving little care or heed to the presence of anyone else in the room. Yet...a familiar giggle pierced the moment. Phobos let out a low growl as he finally pulled back, shooting daggers at Eros before glancing down at Melinoë once more. "Are you okay?" He said with a frown, a hand still tangled in her hair. His chest moved laboriously, words coming out in little more than a whisper.

Before the daughter of Hades could reply Comus jumped at the opportunity to make some jovial and annoying comment, “Huhuhuu~ I think she’s more than OK,” Coco giggled herself, joining Eros in shattering the moment. Before she could be smacked or receive any form of injury for actions caused intentionally or otherwise, the agent of chaos rushed back to Apollo and Hercules though kept her ears open.

Chaos was followed by love who grabbed hold of Xōchi’s hands and spun her around, laughing brightly all the while. "Phobos and Melinoë sitting in a tree~" He began to sing, too delirious in his excitement to really comprehend what he was doing. "K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love! Then comes marri--" He spun and spun, until his words were suddenly cut short by a choking grip against his collar and he found himself almost being strangled as he was slammed against the nearest wall.

"P-Phobos get off me you- you goofball…" Eros managed to wheeze out the few words as his fingers tried and failed to find any purchase to hold onto. The only breaths he was able to muster were shallow and his lighthearted expression quickly turned sour when he realised Phobos was not going to let go. His brother lessened his grip enough to allow Eros to take a full gulps of air, blue eyes gazing icily down at him. It scared the god that Phobos was not speaking but he was also annoyed and the older one. This wasn't how it worked between them. So instead he bit down firmly onto his lip, not even grimacing as blood began to pool from the wound. "I think you should go back to Xōchi ~" Eros hummed against his own stained mouth as lust began to seep from the god. It would only be a few moments worth but that was enough.

“Oh my Us, Coco. Not even back a full hour and you’re already creating chaos.” Hercules had a conflicting set of thoughts running through his usually-empty head. Today had been bad enough for Mel, but at the same time, that part of him that loved Coco to death (mostly platonic, of course) also loved watching the chaos she created. He loved it so much that he had joined in on the fun and games, despite the aftermath of Eros getting thrust into the wall.

Wait, no not the wall!

“Hey hey hey!” Hercules called out to dumb and dumber. “Don’t do that.” Breaking apart from the teasing trio, Hercules approached them, though he didn’t want to get too close. “At least take it outside if you want to strangle Eros. We just had this wall repaired from the last party!”

Jealousy was one way to express what Xōchi was feeling. Despite knowing who Phobos’ heart truly yearned for, the Aztec goddess of Love was a selfish bitch that liked knowing she had men and women, gods and goddesses at her fingertips. So, if she were to accept Phobos desiring another, then she sure as hell wanted for something to bloom between himself and Melinoë.

”Come now, Fear, harming your brother won’t change anything.” She had been pushed aside in the chaos that followed Coco, but seeing the state of Eros she had been thankful for it. With her meddling now proven fruitful, it was now time to intervene in the barbaric alpha display Phobos was showing. Xōchi stepped back into the fray, curling a hand around Phobos’ arm to start pulling him away from her Eros, lest he harm his pretty face even more.

The touch of her fingers against his skin pulled the gods' attention away from Eros. The lust was like a heavy haze, like an intoxication too strong to ignore. It clouded his mind and pushed away thoughts of Mel, thoughts of her soft lips and even softer skin. Without a moment's hesitation Phobos had caught Xōchi by the waist, pulling her close as he had done so madness only minutes before. His hands ran up her sides as he kissed her, his movements hungry and wanton. In that moment he wanted no-one else.

One minute, Hercules was too worried about the re-repaired wall and the next Phobos getting it on with Xōchi. “Damn.” Herc didn’t know what he should do. Should he try and stop it? Should he say something like ‘hey not on the wall?’ It looked like they were having fun. Part of Hercules was jealous but the other part worried it was going to get worse before it got better. So he just stood there, as quiet as Boy Wonder could.

The Fates really said, "Fuck you, Melinoe" as she stood there, having been pushed aside for Phobos to strangle Eros. Chaos ensued shortly after. If it wasn't one thing it was another and it all seemed to speed up. There was no time for a break, to catch up. To register what was happening until it had already passed. She just remembers she sauntered back up towards him, touched him. And he moved along with her like a puppet on a string. It was disgusting to watch and had it been any other time, any other person; she might have enjoyed the spectacle - people watching at its finest. But this was her torment. And it wasn't fun.

Carnal lust rolled off of them in waves and it was enough to cloud her vision. Instead of screaming and crying and enacting some kind of petty, wrathful justice, Melinoë turned on her heels and stormed off. Making sure to collide her shoulder into Comus and anyone else unlucky enough to be caught in her path of madness. "Uh, OUCH?!" Coco shouted after her as she rubbed at her shoulder. She turned to gaze back at the scene before them, Xōchi helping herself to seconds on Phobos' front and Eros trying to catch his breath. The two of them locked eyes and it was as if they thought the same thing, _{'It wasn't supposed to go like this...'} But what could they do? Try again? Pfft. Not tonight. Chaos would rather keep whatever is left of her divinity, thankyouverymuch.

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

𝕴 𝖓 𝕸 𝖊 𝖒 𝖔 𝖗 𝖎 𝖆 𝖒
𝕴 𝖓 𝕸 𝖊 𝖒 𝖔 𝖗 𝖎 𝖆 𝖒

_{interactions: Argella & Orryn @Sini reunited once more
mentions: Cyrenna & Gowen... the little shits | The rest of the Baratheons}

---

There was a tempest of the highest calibre raging within Orryn Baratheon, its fury hardly matched by the weather outside. Winds violently thrashed against the crags and cliffs of Durran’s point. They conspired with the rain to beat and lash the waters of the bay into a foaming frenzy which crashed onto the rocks with all the force nature could muster. Gods were beating sheets of lead in the heavens. Grief-stricken, it was as if the elements imitated the seething emotions within him, threatening to tear him asunder.

By the Seven he had missed such weather. Even within Storm’s End’s smooth walls they could hear the howling winds and flogging rain. Not even the spells woven into the mortar and stones could keep the drumming skies out. It made for a heavy, laden undertone against the ephemeral chanting surrounding his mother’s casket. The wooden box, decorated with lightning bursting from clouds in honour of her House, served as a focal point for his agony.

He had arrived ahead of the blackening clouds rolling in from the south, on a darkness all his own. Argella had written him, telling him of their mother’s declining health. She’d spoken of how she was rapidly wasting away, one of her wishes being to see her second son before the Stranger finally came for her. Orryn had broken his contract and departed from Myr. Adverse winds had held him up, so after they had made landfall at King’s Landing Orryn had pressed his company hard, dreading the consequence of delay. Normally, a scion of Baratheon arriving in the capital would have called for an audience or celebration, but instead they had remained hooded and cloaked. News of Lady Amarei’s passing had reached them at Bronzegate where some Bucklers had joined them to pay their respects, and served only to strike more sparks from their horses’ hooves as they barrelled down the Kingsroad.

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No happy reunion, but a funeral shroud awaited him in his family’s ancestral seat. Incense cloyed at his lungs, stung his eyes. The prattling of septons disturbed his sense, the dirges disrupted his sleep, and the attitude of mourners grated on his nerves. Orryn did not see it was himself he blamed, and so projected his bitterness outward.

The Baratheons were assembled in the small sept within the massive drum tower which jutted skyward like a gauntleted fist. Light shone through the mullioned east window, turning the dust motes dancing atop Lady Amarei’s coffin into flecks of gold. Orryn resented how beautiful and serene it all looked. Working his jaw, he glanced at his relatives, sensing nothing had changed. Lord Ormund, always emotional and theatrical, was in his cups and would wax hysterical soon. Perhaps he would declare he was to be buried with his lady wife in the same crypt. Royce, his heir and Orryn’s elder brother, would surely not stop him. Drink affected him differently, made him sour and prone to violence. Harlan and Argella, then, stood a little closer to one another - they were the youngest of Amarei’s children and Orryn suspected that after his departure it was Harlan who had filled some of the gaps he had left. When he raked his gaze across the other end of the room, he caught his uncle’s baleful gaze assessing him, and Lyonel’s sympathetic one. He could not stand either.

It was hard on her, hard on them all. The loss of a strong-willed woman, a wife, a mother, grandmother and mentor. Grief came in waves not unlike the ones outside, past the furthest point in Shipbreaker’s Bay. Shaking and wracking as thunder does the old walls of Storm’s End.

Though Argella imagined she looked out of place of sorts. No longer did tears stream down her face leaving tracks in their wake. Her eyes might have mist over but who was to say it was because of circumstances and not because dust motes danced through beams of light as if putting on a private show for only those in attendance.

Argie shed all the tears she had before, when the Stranger came to claim her mother. She had been there, speaking with her about the day how the little ones were spitfires and a handful, how she didn’t know if she could continue on with this duty of hers - it wasn’t like Lady Amarei could relieve her of said honor and Argella never expected her to; clasping her mother’s hand firmly yet with a certain grace to it. She had cried then. Sobbed. There was still a damp spot upon the linen sheets when she returned with her Lord father. A difficult time indeed.

Orryn moved closer to his youngest sibling, his boots scraping on the starry mosaic, and exchanged a somewhat awkward glance with Harlan. Gowen held his uncle’s hand, sniffling. “How was she in the final days? Did the Maester at least provide her with Milk of the Poppy for the pain?” There were many burning questions, but only so much he could torture into meaningful sentences. They must all feel bereft and numb right now, he thought. And as much as he wished to apologise… he simply felt blocked and choked.

Harlan nor Argella mustered up a rapid response, undoubtedly weighing their words. Someone small peaked from behind Argella’s skirts - a pale face with the biggest, bluest eyes Orryn had ever seen, framed by wavy hair the colour of midnight. She watched him with intense interest, and it felt as if the little one pierced his skull with the sapphires in her sockets. As if she laid bare all his shortcomings and sins, weighing him and thinking he might come up short. “Who are you then?” she demanded though whispering due to the gravity of the situation, like some curious sprite. Her forehead creased in suspicion as Orryn went down on one knee. “You look a bit like father… but not as big.” A tiny finger ran across his chin, pulling at his beard.

“Renna!” Argella hissed under her breath going to catch her niece by the upper arm as she tried to dart out from behind her skirts, a makeshift safe haven for the Littlest Storm. The young one just looked up between their faces, little fingers still buried in his beard, as if daring the older woman to try and stop her, before turning back once more to Orryn’s kneeled frame.

The middle son nodded sagely, strangely feeling some of the anger dissipate as if it dripped off his shoulders and sank into the mosaic floor. “That might very well be possible. I am his younger brother, and thus your uncle.”

“Lies,” she hissed as if burnt. “Ser Harlan is mine uncle. He is very funny, you know. Though, not that happy of late.”

“Yes, I can imagine. However, I am your other uncle.”

“Oh. The one who left? Grandmother did not like that. No, ser. She missed him.” Her blue eyes flickered from the coffin and back. “I will miss her too. She also left. Where did she go?”

“Yes, but I am returned.”

“I would much rather have Grandmother.” It was moot to reprimand her once more, instead Argella opted for a glare which seemed to help tamp down on her attitude. If only for a moment.

Honestly? So would I. Disarmed and exposed, Orryn scrambled for words. “And who are you then, gherkin? Are you Cyrenna?”

The littlest Baratheon drew herself up and puffed out her chest. “Aye, I am. But everyone calls me Renna.” She gave him a critical once over, inspecting him with her head tilted sideways. “You may also,” she pronounced her verdict at last, then quickly thought of a condition. “But only if you will carry me!”

“Always.” Orryn’s calloused hands moved as if on instinct, and before he knew it he had the blackclad Baratheon child up on his arm.

Argella could do nothing more than sigh and smile widely, the corners of her eyes crinkling at the sight before her. It was a rare instance where her siblings showed so much as attention to the little ones. Positive attention anyways. A wonderful sight for the youngest Baratheon to witness. “You give into her whims and you won’t ever be rid of her.”

Rustling from the other side of Harlan alerted Cyrenna to her older brother. Stoic in his place between his father and uncle, wild hair as black as night pushed flat in some areas where she had tried to tame it. Gowen had been looking forward with bright eyes for the entirety of the memorial, paying homage and respect to his late grandmother. It broke Argella’s heart to see him trying to grow up so fast, to be so much like his father. Though as he looked towards the three of them huddled together she couldn’t help but beckon him over shooting a scathing glare at Royce who tried to hold the boy back. “Introduce yourself, young buck.”

The young man shuffled himself over, eyes keen on his steps before him though his posture screamed of stern regality. Still just a boy of eight summers, Gowen tried to carry himself with all the knowledge and experience of his father. A difficult task for any child; to mimic a parent in any aspect let alone all. A firm hand to his back from Argella had him snapping his gaze to the man who held his sister in his arms, an almost sneer dancing across his face. “You must be Uncle Orryn.” A series of words that dripped with a sort of unimpressed quality to them.

“Behave,” Argella would have smacked him in the back of the head had they been somewhere else and instead pinched at the lessening baby fat around his midsection, earning a yelp from the Baratheon fawn.

Directing the glare back towards his aunt he muttered his name for present company, “Gowen, ser. Pleasure to meet you.” With a slight bow he turned back on his heels and resumed his position between his father and Harlan. Between the two Argella was sure to join her late mother sooner rather than later.

Sighing deeply she searched for Orryn’s free hand, clasping it tightly and refusing to let it go as they stood there, side by side for the duration of the service. “Things are going to start changing, aren’t they? A storm coming?” There was no gentle way of broaching the topic that seemed to cling to the Baratheons’, a topic the screamed of things yet to come. She could feel it, coating her like a second skin, weighing her down. It brought the hairs along the back of her neck to stand at attention; it was felt before at her mother’s bedside when she passed, anytime she caught the glances of Ser Balon. Something was on it’s way for them and she wasn’t entirely sure it would bring good tidings.

Orryn’s eyes glided over his assembled kin, nodding as his sister uttered her concerns. “Oh aye, but we will endure as we have always done.” A tempest was coming indeed, he felt it in his bones, but they had weathered worse and they would weather this one too. “Our House is not so easily blown down.” Orryn gave her hand a gentle squeeze and adjusted the littlest storm on his arm. We will endure, yes. No matter the cost.

TLDR

• Orryn makes it back to Storm's End in time to attend his mother's funeral
• Everyone is present
• Argella thinks back on the passing of her mother
• Cyrenna and Gowen introduce themselves to their uncle Orryn
• The two feel a storm brewing in the distance and heading their way

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

_{interactions: Alaric | Brachyllo | Unnamed Unfortunate Soul
mentions: Rycann | Alarra @WXer | Skagosi @Vanq}

---

News of the tourney taking place at Summerhall reached the Dreadfort with plenty of time to prepare. However, it seemed however, Lord Bolton was busy with other matters at hand than throwing thoughts to attending a southron event. Having been present for the wailings of the small folk expressing their grievances, it irked the Lady of the Dreadfort to no end to see how meekly her nephew handled the poacher situation. Instead of allowing young Alaric to take the offender away she quickly climbed down from her seated position calling out to him with a sickly sweet smile set in place upon her lips, "Allow me, dearest nephew~"

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“Can’t he see the benefits of going south and mingling with the other Lords?” The dark haired Lady of the fort sighed in frustration as she paced the stone floor, light from the multitude of candles casting an ethereal glow along her frame, shadows dancing on the walls. Wails erupted from the rooms surrounding her while her own present company dwelled silently. “I swear, it’s as if all other plans and ideas have sailed from his mind as soon as he took her as a wife,” she shuddered at the mere thought of her sister in law. There was no love lost between the two of them and her dearest Lord brother favored her words over those of his wife's, but there was still something there that kept his thoughts on the edge between the two and it was becoming increasingly more difficult to sway him to her side more often than not.

The poacher hung there, loosely, arms shackled to the ceiling, legs crumpled under him on the ground, struggling to hold him up. They had been down in the dungeons for quite some time at this point and the fact that no solution had come to her was making the Lady cantankerous. More so than usual. "Is there nothing you have to say for yourself? What did you think was going to happen, hmm?" She brought the bloodied blade up under his nose catching on a nostril. "Did you think we weren't to find out? That you would be dealt with without consequences?"

"S-spare me, m'lady... please, please. Have mercy-" He tried so desperately to speak without his voice wavering, to hold himself up with some dignity. Though him begging stripped him of that long before Raelith threatened him. It was pathetic to bare witness to.

A sick sort of smile came over her as she dragged the blade further down his torso, stopping between his fourth and fifth rib, "Mercy? This is mercy."

The door to the chambers swung open revealing Brachyllo Hotoris, the captain of the house guard. A towering man of impressive stature and even more impressive decorative hair. He was a Second Son back when Rycann traveled with them in Essos. Striking a friendship of sorts he accompanied her Lord brother back home and hasn't backed down from the tasks at hand since. A blessing and curse. "Ah, Brach, whatever can I do for you?"

"The sarcasm is not welcome, Lady." His playful words didn't seem to match his stoic posture. It was the same with him always - so mirthful one moment and then militant the next. A flip of the coin to experience the different facets of Ser Hotoris. Raelith however, was an exception; always getting a playful encounter with the guardsman. It was as if he fed into her perverse games. Wasn't as if she were going to say no. "Your presence is required elsewhere."

_{"Of course it is,"} with a final glance back towards the poacher she thrust a long blade from the assortment laid out near the door into Brachyllo's arms, "He poached. I'm thinking the loss of his less dominate hand. He still needs to feed his family."

Before she could make it past the threshold the captain spoke up, tossing the blade between hands, testing the weight of the weapon and gauging as to if he were going to use it or not, "That's very generous of you-," It wasn't like Raelith to be so courteous with those worthy enough to make it to the dungeons. So to see her take being pulled from her... hobby so willingly was truly a sight to behold.

The dark haired beauty halted her steps and turned to look back, "Make no mistake," a scoff on her lips and a scowl upon her face - she didn't want to leave matters in his hands but what could she do? She was summoned and it would behoove her to heed her brother's call. No matter how inconvenient. "It is not out of generosity that I do this, but because it would benefit us to have as many able bodies possible to protect against those Skagosi that are marching towards Karhold."

TLDR

• Raelith sits in on her Lord brother's manorial court & takes the poacher off of her nephew's plate
• Takes poacher to the dungeon to torture while ranting to him 'bout traveling to the tourney
• Captain of the Guard comes in to relieve her - tell her she's been summoned
• Tells the Captain to lop off a hand since they still need him to fight when the time comes since the Skagosi are on their way

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

Argella Baratheon

Their seat, Storm's End, is an ancient castle raised by the Storm Kings from the now-extinct House Durrandon. The youngest of the Great Houses of Westeros, it was created when Orys Baratheon, one of Aegon I Targaryen's generals, his closest companion, and his rumoured bastard half-brother, took Argella Durrandon, the only daughter of Argilac Durrandon, the last Storm King, as a wife. Orys took the sigil and words of House Durrandon for his own and became the first Lord of Storm's End. Members of the family tend to be tall and powerfully built, with black hair and blue eyes, as well as strong, square jawlines. They are known for their mercurial tempers and characters.

• Lord Ormund Baratheon (50) | called the Thunderhead for his boisterous nature.
• Lady Amarei Dondarrion | recently dead of a wasting illness.
  
  • Royce (31) | named for his grandsire, the heir to Storm’s End.
    
    • Cyrenna Tarth | died in childbirth.
  • Gowen (8) and Cyrenna (5) _{(named for her mother)} | their young children
  • Orryn (29) | recently returned from Essos. He was called Ornery Orryn in his youth by Royce.
  • Harlan “Harry Hotspur” (23) | a dandy and real spendthrift, doubling down on the profligate and indulgent example of Lord Ormund. Harlan has a swordsman’s grace and a courtier’s wit, with the arrogance to inflate both. He is at times referred to as Hotspur due to his temper and nimbleness.
• Ser Balon (49) | Lord Ormund’s brother, married to a lady of House Caron.
  
  • Lyonel (27) | the Laughing Storm, a knight of renown so called because he has the habit of laughing loudly at his opponents. Beloved by the smallfolk. Nephew to the Lord Baratheon.

21 (born 181 AC)


Black of hair, as dark as the night sky and eyes as blue as a raging storm; as is the Baratheon lineage.


Spoiled beyond all that could have been thought up, Argella, Argie, is the apple of her father's eye - and even her brother's dote on her from time to time. It's all slowed down a bit since they've grown, but anytime she would want to play knights and princess they would melt and give in to her doe eyed pleading. A blessing and a curse, as was jovially chuckled throughout the corridors of Storm's End.

Though is standard for Baratheons to be hardy and built like a fortress, it is not the case with the only daughter of Ormund. Taking after her brother Harlan, Argie is lithe and toned, quick on her feet and agile to boot. She has been trained in all manner of conflict, always needing to be able to protect oneself and others, preferring swords and archery above it all. Growing up Argella played in the castle’s stables, wrestling with her brothers or lounging about in hay or fallen leaves from the woods, or sitting inside with the Septa practicing her needlework, conducting other responsibilities fit for a lady. Wild and carefree, caring for others is second nature. Not to be fooled however, for those piercing blues could cut one to ribbons - if her blade or arrow didn't do it first. Argella is the perfect combination of sweet but deadly. Her words are as delicately laced as she chooses, though she is not immune to pretty words and flatter herself. Easily slipping in and out of trouble - with or without the help of her brothers - though somehow she always gets away scot-free. A talent she's learned to abuse when it comes to her Lord father and others.

Freedom comes at a cost, or so she's reminded.

When her nephew and niece were born her duties were amplified, piled on to one another - giving the free spirited young doe an unwelcomed set of saddle and harness. Argie was soon tied down into a pseudo motherly role with her brother's children; something she neither cared for nor sought after herself - at least not for awhile. Certainly her mother couldn't handle it, what with her declining health recently, but it was a duty nonetheless, something that needed to be done. Who better than Argella? At least, that's what she believed, because that is what was told to her. It was her way of helping out the family. She thinks more of herself as an older sister to the two, and though she loves them something fierce, she harbors this sort of resentment amongst the other members of the family for it.

Her Lord father, Ormund, considered it only natural that she take over and help out her brother, never thinking twice about it. The same goes for her Uncle Balon - who would believe that it was more her duty and honor to complete said responsibilities since they would one day be hers with her own husband. She can't fault them too much for that, they have other business to attend to than to worry about the raising of children not their own. But she can fault Royce for making his kids her responsibility, how it was he who dumped the task on her without ever asking or checking in. On Orryn for just up and leaving; she liked to think that they were the most alike and then he goes and leaves the family as if it were the easiest thing to do. And Harlan, who is more concerned with spending the money that burns holes in his pocket rather than sticking around long enough to see if anyone needs a helping hand.

She adores her family and all that they have accomplished, but it is high time she speaks her peace with them. And with the mounting grieve she feels at the loss of her mother, it might be the push she needs to let them know exactly what she is feeling.

Personality

Magnetic & Gregarious. Hardworking & Ambitious. Optimistic & Passionate. Stubborn & Hasty. Competitive & Jealous. Self Indulgent & Voracious.

Take the best and the worst traits of the Baratheon's and combine them and there you have Argella. It's a wonder she hasn't overstepped with her brothers, due to their personalities and natures clashing. It makes for interesting banter and close connections they otherwise wouldn't have. Also helps that since she is their darling baby sister, she ultimately gets what she wants, and they are powerless to oppose. For the most part.

Charming those who come across her and sweet talking them into what she wants - and if that doesn't work, she resorts to some form of pettiness that's sure to end in her favor. Always trying new things and getting frustrated when she can't nail it the first few times, but sticking with it with a sense of purpose and hardheadedness in order to come out victorious. There have been times when she was younger that she would work herself to exhaustion - or til her finger bled - all in the hopes of having done just one more thing. Though she's passionate about what she does and loves and there isn't anyone in all the world that could sway her from her goals and ambitions. They can certainly try, however.

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

Argella Baratheon

Their seat, Storm's End, is an ancient castle raised by the Storm Kings from the now-extinct House Durrandon. The youngest of the Great Houses of Westeros, it was created when Orys Baratheon, one of Aegon I Targaryen's generals, his closest companion, and his rumoured bastard half-brother, took Argella Durrandon, the only daughter of Argilac Durrandon, the last Storm King, as a wife. Orys took the sigil and words of House Durrandon for his own and became the first Lord of Storm's End. Members of the family tend to be tall and powerfully built, with black hair and blue eyes, as well as strong, square jawlines. They are known for their mercurial tempers and characters.

• Lord Ormund Baratheon (50) | called the Thunderhead for his boisterous nature.
• Lady Amarei Dondarrion | recently dead of a wasting illness.
  
  • Royce (31) | named for his grandsire, the heir to Storm’s End.
    
    • Cyrenna Tarth | died in childbirth.
  • Gowen and Cyrenna _{(named for her mother)} | their young children
  • Orryn (29) | recently returned from Essos. He was called Ornery Orryn in his youth by Royce.
  • Harlan “Harry Hotspur” (23) | a dandy and real spendthrift, doubling down on the profligate and indulgent example of Lord Ormund. Harlan has a swordsman’s grace and a courtier’s wit, with the arrogance to inflate both. He is at times referred to as Hotspur due to his temper and nimbleness.
• Ser Balon (49) | Lord Ormund’s brother, married to a lady of House Caron.
  
  • Lyonel (27) | the Laughing Storm, a knight of renown so called because he has the habit of laughing loudly at his opponents. Beloved by the smallfolk. Nephew to the Lord Baratheon.

21 (born 181 AC)


Black of hair, as dark as the night sky and eyes as blue as a raging storm; as is the Baratheon lineage.


Spoiled beyond all that could have been thought up, Argella, Argie, is the apple of her father's eye - and even her brother's dote on her from time to time. It's all slowed down a bit since they've grown, but anytime she would want to play knights and princess they would melt and give in to her doe eyed pleading. A blessing and a curse, as was jovially chuckled throughout the corridors of Storm's End.

Though is standard for Baratheons to be hardy and built like a fortress, it is not the case with the only daughter of Ormund. Taking after her brother Harlan, Argie is lithe and toned, quick on her feet and agile to boot. She has been trained in all manner of conflict, always needing to be able to protect oneself and others, preferring swords and archery above it all. Growing up Argella played in the castle’s stables, wrestling with her brothers or lounging about in hay or fallen leaves from the woods, or sitting inside with the Septa practicing her needlework, conducting other responsibilities fit for a lady. Wild and carefree, caring for others is second nature. Not to be fooled however, for those piercing blues could cut one to ribbons - if her blade or arrow didn't do it first. Argella is the perfect combination of sweet but deadly. Her words are as delicately laced as she chooses, though she is not immune to pretty words and flatter herself. Easily slipping in and out of trouble - with or without the help of her brothers - though somehow she always gets away scot-free. A talent she's learned to abuse when it comes to her Lord father and others.

Freedom comes at a cost, or so she's reminded.

When her nephew and niece were born her duties were amplified, piled on to one another - giving the free spirited young doe an unwelcomed set of saddle and harness. Argie was soon tied down into a pseudo motherly role with her brother's children; something she neither cared for nor sought after herself - at least not for awhile. Certainly her mother couldn't handle it, what with her declining health recently, but it was a duty nonetheless, something that needed to be done. Who better than Argella? At least, that's what she believed, because that is what was told to her. It was her way of helping out the family. She thinks more of herself as an older sister to the two, and though she loves them something fierce, she harbors this sort of resentment amongst the other members of the family for it.

Her Lord father, Ormund, considered it only natural that she take over and help out her brother, never thinking twice about it. The same goes for her Uncle Balon - who would believe that it was more her duty and honor to complete said responsibilities since they would one day be hers with her own husband. She can't fault them too much for that, they have other business to attend to than to worry about the raising of children not their own. But she can fault Royce for making his kids her responsibility, how it was he who dumped the task on her without ever asking or checking in. On Orryn for just up and leaving; she liked to think that they were the most alike and then he goes and leaves the family as if it were the easiest thing to do. And Harlan, who is more concerned with spending the money that burns holes in his pocket rather than sticking around long enough to see if anyone needs a helping hand.

She adores her family and all that they have accomplished, but it is high time she speaks her peace with them. And with the mounting grieve she feels at the loss of her mother, it might be the push she needs to let them know exactly what she is feeling.

Personality

Magnetic & Gregarious. Hardworking & Ambitious. Optimistic & Passionate. Stubborn & Hasty. Competitive & Jealous. Self Indulgent & Voracious.

Take the best and the worst traits of the Baratheon's and combine them and there you have Argella. It's a wonder she hasn't overstepped with her brothers, due to their personalities and natures clashing. It makes for interesting banter and close connections they otherwise wouldn't have. Also helps that since she is their darling baby sister, she ultimately gets what she wants, and they are powerless to oppose. For the most part.

Charming those who come across her and sweet talking them into what she wants - and if that doesn't work, she resorts to some form of pettiness that's sure to end in her favor. Always trying new things and getting frustrated when she can't nail it the first few times, but sticking with it with a sense of purpose and hardheadedness in order to come out victorious. There have been times when she was younger that she would work herself to exhaustion - or til her finger bled - all in the hopes of having done just one more thing. Though she's passionate about what she does and loves and there isn't anyone in all the world that could sway her from her goals and ambitions. They can certainly try, however.

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

Raelith Bolton

_{A red flayed man on pale pink strewn with red drops}

Once renowned as Red Kings during the Age of Heroes, House Bolton - the Bringers of Dread - sowed terror and paranoia across the North as rulers of the Dreadfort. While they now bend the knee and pledge fealty to House Stark, the banner of the flayed man still inspires fear in friend and foe alike.


The ascendance of her brother; Rycann Bolton to the Dreadfort's lordship began in the wake of tragedy and remains shrouded in secrecy. Their late Lord father - Robett "Ravenskin" - succumbed to an illness and within the fortnight the disease had spread across the fortress grounds and claimed the lives of many others. Among the other lost souls were her eldest brother Rodrick and their household Maester Bertram; the one who had been around since she was born. It was sorrowful to see him go, though it stopped nothing of the plans set in place by her late father.

But that was many seasons ago. No specificities about the tragedy could be determined but rumours are a plenty. Whispers seeped out of every corner of the castle and grounds, most of them with words that told of the Old Gods having done away with a lot of the Bolton's as punishment for Rycann and Aden violating the house oath not to flay men during their time in Essos. A truth that makes Raelith sick to her stomach every time she thinks back on it. A perfected craft they had all been taught at a young age to partake in. A family rite of passage. And for them to do away with it? As if it meant nothing. Tradition meant nothing. Family meant nothing? To say she was bitter about the entire ordeal would be an understatement.

However, even darker tales breached loose lips within the walls of the Dreadfort and even further throughout the North. That her own, dear sweet brother, "Redmark" orchestrated the tragedy himself, with the employment of Braavosi assassins. Though there is one truth known for certain with regards to this matter. Any man who dares speak of the incident may find himself before the lord of the Dreadfort, pleading a case as to why his tongue not cut off for speaking falsities. His methods are getting better, in Raelith's opinion, but he is still too weak when it comes to acting on his threats himself. Sure, he might have been able to hire someone to kill for him... but he wouldn't do it himself. That's what his dear sister is for after all. Raelith is no assassin by any means.

But a butcher?

As for their political standing, there has always been an air of fear when dealing with the Boltons and Raelith uses this to her advantage whenever she has the chance. It's only fair seeing as how her brother does the same. She has no true interest in policies and politics in the slightest. No urge or drive to rule as the head of her House - only to serve in the best ways she knows how. The best ways any Bolton in history is known for. And damn does she do a good job.

• Robett "Ravenskin" Bolton | _{Father - Former Lord of the Dreadfort †}
• Rodrick Bolton | _{Brother †}
• Aden "Quickbolt" Bolton | _{Brother †}
• Rycann "Redmark" Bolton | _{Older Brother - Lord of the Dreadfort - She is a voice that speaks to him with words of empowerment, and levelheadedness. The devil and angel on his shoulder.}
• Alarra Bolton née Umber | _{Sister-in-law - Married to Rycann | There is a love hate relationship between the two women}
• Desmond Bolton | _{Nephew - Dismisses most of what Raelith has to say in favor of doing his own thing}
• Alaric Bolton | _{Youngest Nephew - Takes majority of what Raelith says at face value; there is a sweet bond shared between the two that seems almost out of place with other relationships she has.}

Chess Pieces

_{A small gathering of vassals and subjects loyal to House Bolton - specifically Raelith similar to Ramsay Bolton's Bastard's Boys}

• Brachyllo Hotoris | _{Captain of the Guard of House Bolton. Loyalty runs deep with his connection to Rycann from their time together in Essos, but there is something oddly binding between the Captain and the Lady.}
• Olly Mollen | _{Twin Brother to Osric. Very skilled in swordsmanship & riding.}
• Osric Mollen | _{Twin Brother to Olly. Very skilled in archery & riding.}
• Gage Snow | _{A bastard of the North, the kennel master; Tarner Locke took pity on him and took him in. Raelith frequents the stalls and stables where the animals are kept and ran into him tending to the creatures. He was smitten instantly. Hasn't quite gotten over how close Ashe Stark is to his Lady Bolton.}
• Mara Graves | _{Lowborn girl, easily manipulated by the Lady of the Dreadfort. Has her sights set on a specific lad or two and doesn't take that they ignore her very well. Has been surprisingly chummy with Lord Rycann's wife as of late. Raelith makes sure to keep an eye on her.}

• Tarner Locke | _{Kennel Master, Uncle to Howland Locke and father-figure to Gage Snow}
• Brack Fenn | _{Huntsman/Hunting Master}
• Colren Moss | _{Head Cook}
• Waylar Wells | _Steward
• Maester Warne | _Maester
• Jorelle | _{Septa
  Because of Alarra and her pseudo faith in the Seven}

• Benjicot Marsh
• Eryon Mollen | _{Cousin to Osric & Olly Mollen}
• Howland Locke | _{Kennel Master's nephew. Cousin to Gage Snow}

---

27 (175 AC)


Raelith is a mysterious and ethereal beauty.

Thick black locks, typically worn down, pulled from her face just enough to allow for her beautiful face to be seen. Always seeming to have a bouncy wave to it; almost rat's nest like, wild and unkempt even in the best of situations. She prefers it that way - instills a type of manic look to her that helps when extracting information out of enemies to their House. Adds a little to her "wild" persona.

Standing just about average height, her body lithe and adorned with subtle curves. She harbors a number of small scars along her arms and fingers - those uneducated believe it to be a result of fine needle work; typical traits set aside for a lady of the castle. Those who know better, don't ask. Then of course there is the one across her back. Given to her by her dear old father. Given as a means to "teach a lesson" - one she hasn't forgot.

Her eyes, a piercing frosty steel; a trademark of the Bolton's, can bore into someone's soul in the dead of night and would still shine brightly. If the light catches her eyes just right they take on the color of the lights around her and she looks almost witch-like. A terrifying sight to behold when being held in the dungeons at the Dreadfort. Raelith keeps her nails trimmed, but long and sharp enough to use to do damage, should she need too. But that's ultimately what her blades are for.

personality

Patience is a virtue. Controlling. Manipulative. Fleeting moments of normalcy float through her mind and she longs for what "every other lady experiences" - though she won't ever admit it aloud. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly. Cold and calculating. Ambitious and alluring. Adroit. Secretive. Loyal. Raelith will lash out when things do not go her way, she feels that she is better equipped for the harsh realities of the world around them and for others to dismiss her words of warning and wisdom pisses her off. It's rare for her to lose her cool, but when it happens it would be best to have her on your side and direct it to others. Flirty and charming in a way, she isn't unattractive in the slightest. However, once people know she is a Bolton it is almost as if a curse has been spit forth and most suitors find that... intimidating. Needless to say, her brother has his hands full with trying to find her the perfect lord to marry her off too.

The youngest of the remaining Bolton children, only daughter to Robett, and the most Bolton-like of the lot - at least she will tell you that. Born as a surprise to the late Lord of the Dreadfort, rumors swirled around that it was not Robett's child and that his lady wife had been unfaithful. However, as soon as the child was born it was clear from the beginning that she was of Bolton blood. That knowledge only solidified as she grew, coming into her own self and mirroring the lifestyle and traditional values held in high regards by the Bringers of Dread. Raelith basks in it.

A goal of hers was just to be able to make her father proud, to make the family proud and be the best at what she could. And she did. As the youngest, and only female, there was a lot of pressure on her from her mother to be a proper lady and do well to be married into a noble house - perhaps the Starks? - and to bring honor to the name Bolton in such a way. However, that was the furthest thing from her mind. It wasn't the life she would have chosen for herself and thus there were a lot of arguments held between Raelith and her mother about her future. In which Raelith could be found shadowing her brothers or her father, always watching and learning, discovering new ways to improve their techniques. As she grew she came to find out that she thoroughly enjoyed being the one wielding the blade, pulling the secrets and screams and other tid-bits of information from someone with the smooth stroke of a sharp blade along unblemished skin.

Seeking out those who would best benefit herself and the family is something of a past time for the young lady. It is rumored that she inherited the skin changing abilities of her late father, especially with her affinity and love for the black birds that are seen circling the castle towers and cawing at all hours of the day within the walls of the Dreadfort. Raelith does nothing to squash these rumors, delighting in them and even playing into them from time to time, basking in the fear and obedience it commands. Doesn't help that a lot of her attire and accessories flow into the motif of ravens and crows; bones, feathers, skulls etc. Who is she to correct them?

Raelith is skilled, to a degree, in combat. Mostly in the ways of handling her blades - preferably knives and the like, but trained nonetheless. Carrying with her at all times no fewer than two blades and a pair of needles, Raelith is always prepared for whatever the situation calls for. Though she may not be well versed in other weapons, she does quite enjoy watching the tournaments and the spectacle of fights. It brings a sort of flustered adrenaline to the surface and she is buzzing with excitement. Though, she isn't a fan of being so far South and having to rub elbows with those who think they're better than her and her kin, she does find that it's easier to stroke their egos and pull words from them if they feel they're being pampered and worshiped. A couple of lies here and there from a silver tongue won't hurt anyone~

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

Raelith Bolton

_{A red flayed man on pale pink strewn with red drops}

Once renowned as Red Kings during the Age of Heroes, House Bolton - the Bringers of Dread - sowed terror and paranoia across the North as rulers of the Dreadfort. While they now bend the knee and pledge fealty to House Stark, the banner of the flayed man still inspires fear in friend and foe alike.


The ascendance of her brother; Rycann Bolton to the Dreadfort's lordship began in the wake of tragedy and remains shrouded in secrecy. Their late Lord father - Robett "Ravenskin" - succumbed to an illness and within the fortnight the disease had spread across the fortress grounds and claimed the lives of many others. Among the other lost souls were her eldest brother Rodrick and their household Maester Bertram; the one who had been around since she was born. It was sorrowful to see him go, though it stopped nothing of the plans set in place by her late father.

But that was many seasons ago. No specificities about the tragedy could be determined but rumours are a plenty. Whispers seeped out of every corner of the castle and grounds, most of them with words that told of the Old Gods having done away with a lot of the Bolton's as punishment for Rycann and Aden violating the house oath not to flay men during their time in Essos. A truth that makes Raelith sick to her stomach every time she thinks back on it. A perfected craft they had all been taught at a young age to partake in. A family rite of passage. And for them to do away with it? As if it meant nothing. Tradition meant nothing. Family meant nothing? To say she was bitter about the entire ordeal would be an understatement.

However, even darker tales breached loose lips within the walls of the Dreadfort and even further throughout the North. That her own, dear sweet brother, "Redmark" orchestrated the tragedy himself, with the employment of Braavosi assassins. Though there is one truth known for certain with regards to this matter. Any man who dares speak of the incident may find himself before the lord of the Dreadfort, pleading a case as to why his tongue not cut off for speaking falsities. His methods are getting better, in Raelith's opinion, but he is still too weak when it comes to acting on his threats himself. Sure, he might have been able to hire someone to kill for him... but he wouldn't do it himself. That's what his dear sister is for after all. Raelith is no assassin by any means.

But a butcher?

As for their political standing, there has always been an air of fear when dealing with the Boltons and Raelith uses this to her advantage whenever she has the chance. It's only fair seeing as how her brother does the same. She has no true interest in policies and politics in the slightest. No urge or drive to rule as the head of her House - only to serve in the best ways she knows how. The best ways any Bolton in history is known for. And damn does she do a good job.

• Robett "Ravenskin" Bolton | _{Father - Former Lord of the Dreadfort †}
• Rodrick Bolton | _{Brother †}
• Aden "Quickbolt" Bolton | _{Brother †}
• Rycann "Redmark" Bolton | _{Older Brother - Lord of the Dreadfort - She is a voice that speaks to him with words of empowerment, and levelheadedness. The devil and angel on his shoulder.}
• Alarra Bolton née Umber | _{Sister-in-law - Married to Rycann | There is a love hate relationship between the two women}
• Desmond Bolton | _{Nephew - Dismisses most of what Raelith has to say in favor of doing his own thing}
• Alaric Bolton | _{Youngest Nephew - Takes majority of what Raelith says at face value; there is a sweet bond shared between the two that seems almost out of place with other relationships she has}

---

27 (175 AC)


Raelith is a mysterious and ethereal beauty.

Thick black locks, typically worn down, pulled from her face just enough to allow for her beautiful face to be seen. Always seeming to have a bouncy wave to it; almost rat's nest like, wild and unkempt even in the best of situations. She prefers it that way - instills a type of manic look to her that helps when extracting information out of enemies to their House. Adds a little to her "wild" persona.

Standing just about average height, her body lithe and adorned with subtle curves. She harbors a number of small scars along her arms and fingers - those uneducated believe it to be a result of fine needle work; typical traits set aside for a lady of the castle. Those who know better, don't ask. Then of course there is the one across her back. Given to her by her dear old father. Given as a means to "teach a lesson" - one she hasn't forgot.

Her eyes, a piercing frosty steel; a trademark of the Bolton's, can bore into someone's soul in the dead of night and would still shine brightly. If the light catches her eyes just right they take on the color of the lights around her and she looks almost witch-like. A terrifying sight to behold when being held in the dungeons at the Dreadfort. Raelith keeps her nails trimmed, but long and sharp enough to use to do damage, should she need too. But that's ultimately what her blades are for.

personality

Patience is a virtue. Controlling. Manipulative. Fleeting moments of normalcy float through her mind and she longs for what "every other lady experiences" - though she won't ever admit it aloud. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly. Cold and calculating. Ambitious and alluring. Adroit. Secretive. Loyal. Raelith will lash out when things do not go her way, she feels that she is better equipped for the harsh realities of the world around them and for others to dismiss her words of warning and wisdom pisses her off. It's rare for her to lose her cool, but when it happens it would be best to have her on your side and direct it to others. Flirty and charming in a way, she isn't unattractive in the slightest. However, once people know she is a Bolton it is almost as if a curse has been spit forth and most suitors find that... intimidating. Needless to say, her brother has his hands full with trying to find her the perfect lord to marry her off too.

The youngest of the remaining Bolton children, only daughter to Robett, and the most Bolton-like of the lot - at least she will tell you that. Born as a surprise to the late Lord of the Dreadfort, rumors swirled around that it was not Robett's child and that his lady wife had been unfaithful. However, as soon as the child was born it was clear from the beginning that she was of Bolton blood. That knowledge only solidified as she grew, coming into her own self and mirroring the lifestyle and traditional values held in high regards by the Bringers of Dread. Raelith basks in it.

A goal of hers was just to be able to make her father proud, to make the family proud and be the best at what she could. And she did. As the youngest, and only female, there was a lot of pressure on her from her mother to be a proper lady and do well to be married into a noble house - perhaps the Starks? - and to bring honor to the name Bolton in such a way. However, that was the furthest thing from her mind. It wasn't the life she would have chosen for herself and thus there were a lot of arguments held between Raelith and her mother about her future. In which Raelith could be found shadowing her brothers or her father, always watching and learning, discovering new ways to improve their techniques. As she grew she came to find out that she thoroughly enjoyed being the one wielding the blade, pulling the secrets and screams and other tid-bits of information from someone with the smooth stroke of a sharp blade along unblemished skin.

Seeking out those who would best benefit herself and the family is something of a past time for the young lady. It is rumored that she inherited the skin changing abilities of her late father, especially with her affinity and love for the black birds that are seen circling the castle towers and cawing at all hours of the day within the walls of the Dreadfort. Raelith does nothing to squash these rumors, delighting in them and even playing into them from time to time, basking in the fear and obedience it commands. Doesn't help that a lot of her attire and accessories flow into the motif of ravens and crows; bones, feathers, skulls etc. Who is she to correct them?

Raelith is skilled, to a degree, in combat. Mostly in the ways of handling her blades - preferably knives and the like, but trained nonetheless. Carrying with her at all times no fewer than two blades and a pair of needles, Raelith is always prepared for whatever the situation calls for. Though she may not be well versed in other weapons, she does quite enjoy watching the tournaments and the spectacle of fights. It brings a sort of flustered adrenaline to the surface and she is buzzing with excitement. Though, she isn't a fan of being so far South and having to rub elbows with those who think they're better than her and her kin, she does find that it's easier to stroke their egos and pull words from them if they feel they're being pampered and worshiped. A couple of lies here and there from a silver tongue won't hurt anyone~

𝘿𝙀𝙎𝘾𝙀𝙉𝙎𝙄𝙊𝙉 ⌜ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ ʀᴏʟᴇᴘʟᴀʏ⌟

---

𝖙 𝖎 𝖉 𝖎 𝖓 𝖌 𝖘
𝖙 𝖎 𝖉 𝖎 𝖓 𝖌 𝖘

_{location: Odin's Penthouse
interactions: Odin | Týr
mentions: Váli@Hey Im Jordan | Thor@metanoia | Heimdall@sly13 | Sif@Danvers}

---

When the White Wolf took his leave, Odin sighed heavily in relief. He would never speak the words aloud that he was scared of the once pup now turned man. His fury and passion as great as his father's and even more disturbing is how similar to Loki he has grown into. It would do the Allfather no favors to tip him over the edge and be on the receiving end of powerful jaws fit to rip into the Moon. A shudder ran through him.

Odin was able to pour himself another drink before his phone chimed from the counter top it sat on. A text message from Váli came at the most... not inopportune times, but with the way things were going in Seattle, it would have been best his son was not in the city. Nevertheless, he typed out a quick reply mulling over whether or not he wanted to divulge information as sensitive as divine deaths over the phone. No telling who or what could be listening in.

To: hefnd
You have no idea. We should meet soon, do you need a place to stay while you're here? _sent

With another heavy sigh escaping him he took to sipping at the amber liquid swirling around in his glass, about to sit back down in his favorite leather seat. Time seemed to be moving at an immeasurable pace. One minute everything is moving too fast, while other times moving incredibly slow. Odin felt sluggish, and not because of the copious amounts of liquor he had ingested in a short span of time. It was in times like these that he wished to have guidance to lead him to an answer and not just the wills of a mortal shell; which most oftentimes was little to none. After being around for so long it's been hard for the Allfather to find a purpose among it all. He's tried many times to gain love and respect and just time with his sons. Váli has been a success, for the most part. Odin even likes to think that it was because of his help that his youngest was thriving in the woods with his commune and business staying afloat. Odin would be remiss to think that those kids he helps save and nurture turn into anything other than upstanding citizens to whatever society they return to.

His internal thoughts were brought back to the present as he spotted a swirling mass of black and grey smoke billowing up from under the front door, a clear line of sight from where he sat; once relaxed and now on edge. The shapeless mass never formed anything more than a shadowy silhouette, but it was enough to terrify the Allfather. With all the knowledge of the world, old and new, he knew what this was. A residual effect the draugr held over him. Possibly from when it attacked and grabbed at him, his right shoulder still throbbed from the slash he received hours ago. Would he have less pride than that of the head of a pantheon he might have gone to receive treatment for said injury. But this was Odin. He might have grown in some areas, but pride was not one of them.

The fluid creature stood there at the foot of his chair, almost staring at him with no face, waiting for him to do or say something. All knowing in it's silence. Odin would not give it the satisfaction, though he couldn't ignore it forever. Once again his glass was empty and he found himself almost side stepping the black mass to get to his home bar, his back to the thing - It wasn't really there to begin with... right - pouring himself a heavy handed drink.

...Faðir...

...Eineygð fífl...

...Blóðbróður...

Familiar voices floated and swirled around in the space around him, echoing inside his head, screaming out to him. The translucent creature still hovering about him reached out bony claws, intent on grabbing his shoulder, to get him to see to hear. But Odin did, there wasn't anything preventing him from seeing the lifeless forms of those he holds dear flash before his mind's eye, projecting it onto the floor of his abode. Thor, Heimdall, Týr, Loki, Miss Hebe... they were there before him cycling through one another as if part of a moving picture. It wasn't enough that his own guilt tormented him, now he was being plagued by a revenant as well... if he had been more lucid he might have even pieced the creature's appearance with a certain Helheim ruler. But alas, his mind was too preoccupied trying to hide away from the visions plaguing him, yelling out at the creature and swinging violently towards it. Hoping to land a blow, just one, and falling short every time.

So consumed with his own battle, Odin didn't hear the front door open. Didn't hear the footsteps hurrying towards him, definitely didn't recognize the face of the man behind him as he swung a blade around and held it to their throat. Odin hadn't even realized he had grabbed a weapon in his haze, though thankfully, Týr was conscious enough to block the affronting attack and disarm the Allfather in one fell swoop. "Faðir... you are not well," his voice was soft, but didn't hide any truths. Something Odin admired about his son and rival. No matter the situation, he could count of Týr to be level headed and righteous; even if his words weren't the most tactful.

It brought him back to the present, to a reality that, yes, Odin wasn't doing well. He hadn't been for awhile though he wouldn't let the others know of this. It wouldn't bode well for the Norse god. Nodding his head and dropping his arms he shuffled himself back to his chair, with the help of his son - whom he was thankful for, though would never admit to it aloud. Pride at it's finest. "Tell me, what brings you by?" A grunt was all the thanks Týr would receive, but it was an unspoken language between the two that told him that his father really was grateful.

Nodding himself Týr stepped back a bit and gestured to the package left by the front door, dropped there in a hurry once he had seen the state of duress his father was in upon his arrival. "I come bearing gifts. Thought it would be best for you to inspect it in person, although holding it in my hands it is definitely it." His lips curled into a pleasant smirk, reminiscent of a smile, one of joy; having found his domain weapon was something of a life long goal of his. Having it once more in his possession was like finding his missing piece and becoming whole once more.

Odin called for him to bring it to him to examine, and though the bringer of justice was a tad bit weary he obeyed. As the Allfather inspected the sheathed blade, a golden hilt that showed no signs of patina or rust or age - it was as if it had just come from the forge, Týr continued on with the report of his travels. "That blade wasn't the only thing recovered in Denmark," he started, examining his father's reaction, seeing if there was any knowledge of something else taking place overseas that Odin might have had a hand in orchestrating. When he only noticed Odin's wide eyed gaze, pure curiosity behind them, he knew that there was at least something the old man wasn't spilling. "Mmhm. Sif has returned to us. I had one of the drivers escort her to Thor's place, figured that they would want to see each other after so long."

"Or you wanted her to catch him in the act of being unfaithful to her," Odin quipped without removing his gaze from the intricate details of the sheath, though a smirk played on his lips. He would be sneaky in such a way. It was no secret how his oldest felt about his brother's wife - even back before the Fall. He had believed them to be a good match, but he was selfish and didn't need Týr distracted from his duties. Old Odin was a dick to his children, all in the hopes of staying on top and ruling over his kingdoms with an iron fist and unwavering loyalty. Let them hate so long as they fear; isn't that the Latin translation for what Odin stood for? "You aren't typically one for games, my son." There was a proud papa moment going on in his chest at his son's craftiness.

"I know not of what you speak..." His nonchalant facade broken out into wide grin, eyes twinkling with a type of mirth not familiarly spotted on the face of Justice. Týr knew what he was doing, of course he did. However, trying to convince Lady Sif of her husband's... deeds the last couple hundred years or so would be doing no one favors. Besides, it wasn't his place to tell on his siblings and meddle in the love affairs of those around him. No matter how much he would have liked to have been a fly on the wall of that conversation. There was a part of him, the part that wasn't on display for others to see, where he hoped that their union would come to an end, in which case he would bide his time; offering a shoulder to cry on or an ear to listen; before it was him being on the receiving end of her love and affection. At least, ideally and in the world of fabricated love stories, that would be the case. For now, Týr would support them both, an outward appearance of the good brother. The upstanding one. The bringer of justice and truth. Though it seems that they have also forgotten that he was of war long before he was of peace.

Odin sat there, stroking his face as the ancient blade sat across his lap; drink off to the side, forgotten for the time being. It was odd, strange and coincidental even, that Sif was found after all this time. No other knowledge was kept of her location - where she had been all this time. Odin would have known. Although his son didn't want to see or speak with him, it wasn't difficult to know that Thor was on a long and arduous search for the blonde. His intel coming up with no results and therefore left him in a state that was less than pleasing to look upon. Say what anyone will about the Allfather, his heart broke for the loss of his daughter in law and for the heartbreak his son was going through. While Thor may or may not have halted his endeavors in searching, Odin did not, and even with his eyes and ears everywhere across this earth he too was unfruitful. So to have her show up after so long, on the coattails of divine death... it screamed of suspicion.

The silence that seemed to settle between them wasn't uncomfortable, but Týr knew that it wasn't like his old man - especially if it came to familial matters. And the fact that Odin sat there, almost as if he were lost in his own thoughts and given the state he found him in not long ago made the hairs along his body perk up, sensing something was indeed going on that he wasn't privy to. Not yet at least. Voicing his questions and concerns caused the older god to turn his icy gaze upon his oldest, "Divinity isn't something that we can lord over the mortals anymore... at least, not our immortality."

"Well, that was already known, given that we need to have the Tree and the ambrosia," Týr thought that that was fairly obvious given the first few years after the Fall when others began to age yearly as if they were mortal themselves. But it wasn't so much the words he spoke but the manner in which he spoke them, "What has happened since I've been gone?" It was then that Odin delved into the deaths at the luncheon, how the Festival was canceled until further notice. A killer was on the loose and they already had two godly deaths on their hands. A difficult and dangerous predator to catch. He mentioned how the White Wolf came and paid him a visit, warning him that dangers and threats were on the horizon; not only for Odin but for the Norse as a whole.

"You must tread carefully. We don't know what their goal is and if they were just shooting in the dark or if we were targeted specifically..."

Clapping a hand to Odin's shoulder Týr stood from his seat, "You worry too much, father. They forget who it was that wielded these ancient blades once before. We will just have to remind them." Odin shook his head, diverting his gaze to his lap, head in his hands as his elbows rested on his knees. It was a strange sight to see, Odin looking so defeated... so old. As divine, it was assumed that they would just live on forever. But here, now, with the weight of the deaths and the tie in with their own, how the blame would be shifted to them - to him - it was a lot of anyone to bear. Man or God.

"I sincerely will that to be the case." Gripped the sheathed blade he held it up to his son for him to take, only for Týr to shake his head and wave it off like it was nothing.

"No, no. You hold on to it. I won't be heading to back to the office for a couple of days. Some unfinished business with my bed is needed," he replied, indicating his red eye flight and the exhaustion that was overwhelming him since coming in contact with Sif until now. It was a lot to be thrown in a short amount of time. Nothing Týr wasn't used to, just... he wasn't as young as he used to be. Odin could understand that. And he did, just nodding in agreement before placing the blade back in his lap.

Another firm clasp to the back was all that Týr had to administer before taking his leave, making sure to lock the door behind him. There wasn't anything else for him to do without incurring the unhinged and exhausted wrath of the Allfather. And he wasn't in the right headspace to deal with it himself. Another day perhaps. It was a short walk from the apartments to his parked car, the feel of the seats conforming to his frame was a welcoming experience. Before taking off he checked his phone, a pleasant ding emanating from his jacket pocket.

_{'This night just kept getting better and better,'} he thought to himself with a heavy sigh, as he put the car in drive and sped down the wet, slippery streets, cutting through the misty rains as if it were fog, in search of something, anything that wasn't divine related.