princess
Izurich
Patroxclus
W Y S T A N B L A C K M A N E
W Y S T A N B L A C K M A N E
W Y S T A N B L A C K M A N E
W Y S T A N B L A C K M A N E
W Y S T A N B L A C K M A N E
T H E W A T C H D O G ' S A R R I V A L
_________________
EARLY EVENING
INTERACTIONS: Princess Anastasia @princess
KISOMAN GUARD ROBES
_________________
EARLY EVENING
INTERACTIONS: Princess Anastasia @princess
KISOMAN GUARD ROBES
Darting from the manicured treeline surrounding the Danrose' Royal Estate was a cloaked figure, covered in grime and leaves from his ventures earlier that day. With a dusty aroma and muddy trailing footsteps, he opted to avoid the royally-clogged front entrance of the castle altogether, rushing instead to his room located around the back. His heavy footfalls were drowned out in the chatter of the evening, while the wind zipped around him as he sprinted at full speed. It bellowed through his cloak and teased the already loosened tie that previously secured his long hair in a tight ponytail. Darkened by the shadows of the towering estate, he simply pushed to move faster. Of course, even after a long afternoon of subterfuge and scouting out the city, exerting himself a little more like this was nothing. In fact, exhaustion was a concern so diluted in his mind full of worry for the Second Prince of Caesonia, whose side he had dared to leave for most of midday light.
Finally, the man pulled himself up onto the panes of a bedroom window. With practiced familiarity, he eased the locks open and entered with a light swing. Sitting on the bed was a square box, and in front of his door, was a decorated envelope.
"𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓢𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓭 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮'𝓼 𝓦𝓪𝓽𝓬𝓱𝓭𝓸𝓰, 𝓦𝔂𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓷 𝓑𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓴𝓶𝓪𝓷𝓮." In eye-dizzying cursive, his name and title arrogantly gilded the back of a sealed letter slid beneath the gap of his door. A cordial invitation perhaps, but one he wouldn't need to open to understand its contents. He flicked the gaudy envelope away with careless precision. A confounding oxymoron that saw the weaponized paper whistle through the air and land perfectly on its destination. Had the desk he threw it at been a person, perhaps today would have been it's last.
The watchdog had long since turned his attention to the flat box on his bed, labeled with a certain type of penmanship he could have recognized from a mile away. Inside it was a robed compartmental suit, ordered from a vendor hailing from the faraway lands of Kisoma. The thought of which weighed rather heavily on his mind, because though he hadn't expected such a thoughtful gift, he had an idea of where he could have gone wrong. Wystan had once offhandedly expressed to the prince during an outing that he liked the pockets in this style of clothing, for it offered plenty of space to store his weapons and move around in. Little did he know that one day it would end up in his own humble possession. As someone who barely had anything to his name, oftentimes it was a pain to endure Prince Auguste's kindness and generosity. A grimace he had no time for formed on his face, begrudging as he inwardly accepted the gift into his modest inventory. He swallowed his guilty sigh, hurriedly opting to bathe and then dress for the day’s next task at hand.
The new suit felt warm. It came in layered components, each section offering a significant percentage of utility and weather resistance. Perhaps whatever the Kisomans did to their textile was a feat he could respect; along with their many pockets and securing options that Wystan contentedly took advantage of. Equipped with at least a dozen sharpened throwing knives, two stilettos, and an anelace, the watchdog was more than satisfied. Around his knuckles were thick, long strips of black cloth for padding, and finally, the attire was complete as he secured himself with an arming sword around his hip. Even when stocked like a peddling weapons merchant, all his tools were concealed excellently and declared no audible presence. After all, the ward would never be caught dead without a means to protect the second prince– or his siblings, should he so desire.
Which led him towards his next objective: fetching the princess. Perhaps this may be the hardest goal to reach tonight-– a thought Wystan didn't know whether to feel relieved about or as if he would age five more years within the span of the evening. Needless to say, Princess Anastasia was quite the troublemaker, oftentimes a handful. However, it was nothing that he couldn't handle without a little effort.
Wystan tied his hair into a neat bun before he made his way around the halls of the estate. A moment was taken to exercise caution and listen for any strange noises, before deeming it safe and placing a triad of firm knocks on Anastasia’s door. The strength of his knuckles lent itself well to ensure his survival in the ring. However, even in spite of its excellent ability to deliver resounding knocks that could have very well been heard throughout the hall– somehow, the owner of the room failed to answer. The watchdog raised his eyebrows, already aware that this was one of the probable outcomes, and did not spare a second to go unanswered.
Tok, tok, tok.
“Your Royal Highness, I'm here to fetch you for the ball. Are you ready to leave?” The watchdog could be patient, however, they were edging dangerously close to the opening of the banquet, and the last thing he wanted for Prince Auguste was to worry. He rested one arm on the doorframe as still, no response came. It was no matter. As he was put in charge of picking her up for the evening, he would not move from his spot without her. The ward loudly cleared his throat and effectively knocked thrice on the door again. It would take some persistence, but eventually, the princess would budge; Wystan knew this much after the many long years he’s been ordered to watch over her. And it was from those many long years that she would also know: the watchdog would not back down without a fight. After an allotted time of ten seconds with no answer, he spoke to the door: “Princess Anastasia, is everything alright?”
Finally, the man pulled himself up onto the panes of a bedroom window. With practiced familiarity, he eased the locks open and entered with a light swing. Sitting on the bed was a square box, and in front of his door, was a decorated envelope.
"𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓢𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓭 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮'𝓼 𝓦𝓪𝓽𝓬𝓱𝓭𝓸𝓰, 𝓦𝔂𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓷 𝓑𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓴𝓶𝓪𝓷𝓮." In eye-dizzying cursive, his name and title arrogantly gilded the back of a sealed letter slid beneath the gap of his door. A cordial invitation perhaps, but one he wouldn't need to open to understand its contents. He flicked the gaudy envelope away with careless precision. A confounding oxymoron that saw the weaponized paper whistle through the air and land perfectly on its destination. Had the desk he threw it at been a person, perhaps today would have been it's last.
The watchdog had long since turned his attention to the flat box on his bed, labeled with a certain type of penmanship he could have recognized from a mile away. Inside it was a robed compartmental suit, ordered from a vendor hailing from the faraway lands of Kisoma. The thought of which weighed rather heavily on his mind, because though he hadn't expected such a thoughtful gift, he had an idea of where he could have gone wrong. Wystan had once offhandedly expressed to the prince during an outing that he liked the pockets in this style of clothing, for it offered plenty of space to store his weapons and move around in. Little did he know that one day it would end up in his own humble possession. As someone who barely had anything to his name, oftentimes it was a pain to endure Prince Auguste's kindness and generosity. A grimace he had no time for formed on his face, begrudging as he inwardly accepted the gift into his modest inventory. He swallowed his guilty sigh, hurriedly opting to bathe and then dress for the day’s next task at hand.
The new suit felt warm. It came in layered components, each section offering a significant percentage of utility and weather resistance. Perhaps whatever the Kisomans did to their textile was a feat he could respect; along with their many pockets and securing options that Wystan contentedly took advantage of. Equipped with at least a dozen sharpened throwing knives, two stilettos, and an anelace, the watchdog was more than satisfied. Around his knuckles were thick, long strips of black cloth for padding, and finally, the attire was complete as he secured himself with an arming sword around his hip. Even when stocked like a peddling weapons merchant, all his tools were concealed excellently and declared no audible presence. After all, the ward would never be caught dead without a means to protect the second prince– or his siblings, should he so desire.
Which led him towards his next objective: fetching the princess. Perhaps this may be the hardest goal to reach tonight-– a thought Wystan didn't know whether to feel relieved about or as if he would age five more years within the span of the evening. Needless to say, Princess Anastasia was quite the troublemaker, oftentimes a handful. However, it was nothing that he couldn't handle without a little effort.
Wystan tied his hair into a neat bun before he made his way around the halls of the estate. A moment was taken to exercise caution and listen for any strange noises, before deeming it safe and placing a triad of firm knocks on Anastasia’s door. The strength of his knuckles lent itself well to ensure his survival in the ring. However, even in spite of its excellent ability to deliver resounding knocks that could have very well been heard throughout the hall– somehow, the owner of the room failed to answer. The watchdog raised his eyebrows, already aware that this was one of the probable outcomes, and did not spare a second to go unanswered.
Tok, tok, tok.
“Your Royal Highness, I'm here to fetch you for the ball. Are you ready to leave?” The watchdog could be patient, however, they were edging dangerously close to the opening of the banquet, and the last thing he wanted for Prince Auguste was to worry. He rested one arm on the doorframe as still, no response came. It was no matter. As he was put in charge of picking her up for the evening, he would not move from his spot without her. The ward loudly cleared his throat and effectively knocked thrice on the door again. It would take some persistence, but eventually, the princess would budge; Wystan knew this much after the many long years he’s been ordered to watch over her. And it was from those many long years that she would also know: the watchdog would not back down without a fight. After an allotted time of ten seconds with no answer, he spoke to the door: “Princess Anastasia, is everything alright?”
