Avatar of Missy Mina
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    1. Missy Mina 10 yrs ago
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7 yrs ago
Current God, I have such a terrible love hate relationship with waiting. On the one hand, it's torture; on the other, the anticipation is a bit addicting.
4 likes
7 yrs ago
I'm aliiiiiiiiive! If you'd like to rez any games you had going with me, hit me up!
1 like
9 yrs ago
First ingredient of meatball recipe? “1 bag of frozen meatballs.” Thank you, recipe. Thank you so freaking much.
9 likes

Bio

I love fantasy (high fantasy/classic sword and sorcery are my absolute favorite) and struggle with slice-of-life. I currently have a very demanding job that leaves little time to be as active as I once was.

I'm always open to random chats and plot/game ideas.

Most Recent Posts

Gwendolen's uncle had barely finished his request when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and as she turned her head, a shatter of something against the floor. Reflexavly she took a defensive stance, her hand going to her hip to draw her blade as chaos erupted around her. But she could grasp nothing but air for she did not bare arms at court unless serving as general to her king. She could see only shattered earthenwear on the floor over a spatter of what must have been the contents of the cut. Her eyes shot up but she saw nothing. She frowned. Odd thing for assassin to carry with him. And strange place for a scout to have come. No spy would be so foolish as to take a morning meal into such a precarious place.

Her eyes shot to her father, already men she knew well dressed in the heavy armor of the king's guard were whisking him away. With a growl in the back of her throat she turned from the rushing crowds and retreated out the door she came. She lifted her skirts and ran through the halls, already panic of house staff and the militant precision of house guard coming into play. She reached her room in record time, flinging open the doors to take up her sword and her mother's amber cloak pin. She had yet to enter a battle without it and she would not start now, when it seemed things were most dire.

She strapped her sword to her side and was again running across the castle as fast as her nimble legs could carry her. Only it was not shelter she sought. She would not let her father face this cowardly enemy on his own. But when she finally reached the throne room, she found it besieged by... by her own people? For a brief moment she thought the enemy might have stolen palace guard uniforms but it was shattered as she began to recognize faces among the throngs. Her heart broke but instead of spilling tears like a shattered vase, she felt anger like a cracked mountain spilling lava. White hot rage filled her like nothing she had felt before. Before she even rightly knew what she was doing, she had her sword drawn and was cutting down any that fought against those men protecting the doors of the throne room. But it was quickly apparent that they were badly outnumbered and Gwen quickly called her men back for a retreat into the throne room to barricade the door.

“Treason!” She shouted viciously into the echoing chamber, “The blood of our own guard stains my hands and I will have the head of the man who forced my hand in this!” she seethed. She could see nothing but red and would have been surprised that the saying was so literal if it were not for the fact that the rage left no room for anything else. And then she suddenly realized she was seeing red because there was blood in her eyes. It was only as she began to try to calm herself so that she might think logically of their survival that she had even begun to notice the horrible burn the red liquid caused in her eyes.

“Treason? It is not possible.” Her father said, wide eyed as he approached his rather feral looking daughter.

“We have no time for this.” She cut her father's heart broken confusion off quickly. “The door will only hold so long. We must get everyone to safety before that.” Her father was already nodding and opened his mouth to speak when there was the all to familiar sound of blade being sheathed in flesh and Gwen was staring uncomprehendingly at the several inches of blade her suddenly muted father had protruding from his belly. There was a long beat of utter shock. No one seemed able to move a muscle. Not even Gwendolen could manage to do anything to stare.

This was not real.

This was not happening.

This was a dream.

And then her father made a choking sound as the blade was pulled from him and the man fell to his knees. Gwen did not realize that horrible, god forsaken sound had come from her own throat as she watched him fall. She raced to her father's side, the rest of the world irrelevant and unnoticed. She reached her father just as he began to slowly fall forward and caught him. She pressed her shaking had firm to his rapidly bleeding belly and met his confused, pained gaze with wide eyed fear even as she tried to sooth him with lies that all would be well. She was so oblivious to the world that she did not even realize that her uncle was speaking as he wiped his blade cling on a neat square of white cloth.

“I have waited years to do that, little brother.” he hissed.

Roland still had enough of his own guard with him that he did not fear the shaken men that were still loyal to the king. They had just watched their king's death blow, Roland had no doubt they would put up an emotional fight but neither did he doubt that it would be a short one. And he was right. The guard were dead in minutes and that left only the huddled masses of horror stricken courtiers who were weeping and wailing and begging for mercy like the cowards they were.

Even the death cries of her loyal men fell on selfishly deaf ears as she watched the life wink out of her father's eyes, his last breath leaving him in a dull hiss as the natural weight of his chest and the lax diaphragm let the air seep back out of him. She felt numb. She felt like she were watching some play at a distance. Her face was expressionless as a few precious tears leaked from her eyes. This time, she did hear her uncle's words.

“Gwen, know that you will die like the rest of these common cowards for you are not worthy enough to even die by my blade,” and with that, he spat on her and walked away, opening the door for his men so that he could leave before the bloody slaughter started.

She wiped away the spit with a hand that went from shaking like a leaf to eerily calm as guardsmen filtered in; taking no hurry with it as she was the only armed person left in the room. Gently, she moved her father from her lap to the marble floor, gently kissing his brow and closing his eyes before she stood tall before the traitors. She drew her sword and with none of the ceremony she normally used to honor battle and all those who would fall in it on both sides, she took to hacking. She set aside the great swelling tsunami of grief and loss and sorrow that threatened to wash her away and plunged head first into the slow and steady and burning flows of her rage. All the while, as she hacked and slashed at them, taking limps and lives with each swipe of her blade, she hissed at them.

Traitors.”

“You dare abandon your post?”

“You dare turn against your king?”

“Liars.”

“Filth.”

“You are not worthy to even taste my blade.”

And on and on as she lost herself in the madness of loss and rage. Their disloyalty had cost her her father. She would not let them live. But their numbers were growing as they began to realize she was still a threat and called for help. She barely recognized that already most of her father's court was dead. She had wondered why the floor was so slippery and realized it was because most of it was already covered in blood. Sense was finally starting to kick in. She had to get out. She had to escape. She had to summon the aid of her kingdom's allies and she could not very well do that if she were dead!

It was hard to tear herself away from the battle but she was already tiering and the numbers were less and less in her favor. Even she could not deny she faced death if she continued. And so, she fought with a burst of sudden careless viciousness that was enough to throw them off before she made a break for a servant's entrance to the throne room. The halls the servants used were often narrower and would put her unarmored form at an advantage of her armored guardsmen. She was fast through the halls, darting and weaving until she realized she had put some distance between herself and her captors when she reached the kitchens. She nearly kept going but spotted a girl with a cut throat on the floor. The girl was well dead, no doubt. But... but even if she made it out of the palace, they would chase her with everything they had. Unless they thought she was already dead.

She had never been so grateful for the simplicity of servant's clothes as she cut herself out of her own and dawned the maid's. She barely dressed the girl before she heaved the girl's body into the massive hearth of the kitchen. She did not think they would look too closely at the body with it so badly burned; nor at her sudden suicide. It was not at all uncommon for royals to take their own lives rather than give an enemy the satisfaction of taking it for themselves.

Then she was running again, though trying to be much stealthier this time around as she wanted no one to suspect she might not be dead until she could summon up an army of her own—a loyal one. It felt like an eternity before she was in the dungeons trying to remember exactly where the escape was supposed to be in this place. She had been shown it briefly as a child but everything looked so different when you were barely three feet tall. It didn't help matters that she was exhausted and only now realizing just how many cuts and gashes she had from her carelessness in taking on the entire treasonous lot of palace guards. Oh gods, if she had come all this way just to die in the dungeons like a coward fool, she would kick every god she could find right in the balls.
lol that would have been too perfect
Gwen: I am Simba! RAWR~! Oh, wait, no

lololol
I think Roland wouldn't have needed to put so much theatrics into killing the king if the king's court was on his side. So I guess they're all getting murdered. Gotta wonder who the hell he's going to use as a scapegoat though lolol
She loves her dad and is pretty devoted to him so she would likely have to know without a doubt that he was dead before she'd leave or be tricked into thinking he was already away and waiting for her. Would Roland actually kill the king if the entire court is with them?
She's not armed. So if she wanted to protect her father, she would have to go back to her room for her sword. She wouldn't be able to borrow one from the guards since they'll need every sword they can get. Then she would have to rejoin the battle but she'd see her own palace guard turning on one another which would be all kinds of horrifying for her as she realizes that this is a coup. It would mean she'd have to fight her way into the Throne room though; not that she would be too upset about that. And then we can have her be sent ahead and all that.
Hey, @Azena I'm not really sure where to take it from there since they still haven't met? Just a short thing about the chaos erupting or something? Time to write Richard's death, yeah?
King Richard greeted his brother warmly and offered the men that came with him as much good welcome as could be managed on such short notice. But it seemed his big brother was having none of it. Not a terribly great surprise. Roland and Richard had always bumped heads to a degree before their father's passing. But when the throne was passed over Roland's head to Richard, their sometimes contentious relationship had become painfully strained. Richard always hoped some day his big brother would lay aside his hurt on the matter but each time they met, the king could see if festering away inside the older man. It was a sad thing to watch one's own brother be consumed by something like that. And the older they got, the more Richard could only hope they would make amends before the end. He wanted no ill feelings between he and his brother when they passed into the realm of their ancestors.

But by the serious look on Roland's face, Richard knew well that there would be no time for talks of reconciliation this day. No, Roland came only to bear bad news before the sleepily assembled court.

“Brother, tell me, why are you here? You must have ridden all through the night to reach us.” Richard's voice boomed into the room as he tried to stifle a yawn. He was a man that worked late into the night, not one that rose particularly early. And so, Roland began to tell Richard and the court of the attack.

“Estal has been attacked.” A wave of startled gasps went through the court and suddenly everyone was very much awake. “I believe Count Montierro played now small part in the betrayal and I believe he means to come for you next, brother.”

It was the first time Roland had called King Richard “brother” in perhaps over a decade. It touched the king deeply and in ways he had not expected. The throne was a lonely place—especially when one was making absolutely no friends among the court that filled the halls of one's home. To think his brother might call him so again, might worry for his safety... it warmed him. Though the idea that Montierro of all people would try to attack Roland was a bit... well that was a bit odd.

“Count Montierro has no army. Are you certain it was him?” the king asked.

His brother gave a solemn nod, “Yes, there is little doubt in my mind. I believe he hired soldiers of fortune for this deed. Please, allow me to station my men in the castle. We cannot allow this man to strike at the throne directly. I have seen his hired hands at work, I know how he will strike; I would ask that the command of the palace guard be given to myself.”

Richard considered if for a brief moment. Of course, Gwendolen would not be pleased. If there was battle to be had she would want to command her soldiers and knights and likely ride out with them. But Richard could not stomach sending his daughter to battle again. He had barely been able to tolerate her trips to the borders, he could not chance her blood being spilled on his very own doorstep.

Richard gave a slow nod, “Very well, your med may eat and rest from their long journey before they take their posts.”

Meanwhile, pacing in her room, Gwendolen was near to pulling her own hair out. She couldn't just sit there while her father held court. And while she loved her uncle dearly, she was not always sure she trusted him. She had visited him on her return from the borders and there was occasionally a queer sort of spark in his eye as he surveyed the lands or looked out towards Valeria—though it was too far away to spot on the hilly horizon—that made her rather uneasy. She did not know why it made her uneasy and felt rather ashamed for being a bit suspicious of her uncle. But that he was here now was not a good sign.

Roland was a man of riches and conveniences; much to the dismay of his people. He would not have ridden so hard all through the night to reach the castle if there was not urgent matters to attend. So she decided not to wait for her father's summons. She summoned her maids and was made ready for the day. As she wanted to attend court, she was dressed in muted gold and rich brown. Her maids complained a bit at her continued persistence of such dull colors when there were rich reds and royal blues and stunning purples in her wardrobe. But Gwen found she preferred the muted deer tones these days and could not be swayed. Her hair was braided and face lightly decorated before Gwen slipped her feet into her slippers and dismissed her girls, making her way to the audience chamber where it was likely her father was hearing out Roland's news.

She slipped in quietly, keeping near the edge of the room, behind most of the preoccupied courtiers. She had no desire to be shooed out if they were talking about something her father would rather she not hear. She nearly seethed when her father gave Roland command and felt her gut twist uneasily. Somehow she did not like this—for more than having the chance to test her mettle again taken from her grasp. But her father's word was law and he was likely to be cross at her for not having waited for his summons like she had said she would. (Though honestly when had she ever actually waited for her father to call her?)
Gwendolen remembered the first days of her return to Valeria nearly a month ago. She had been so tired from dusty roads, bloody battles, and some of the most god forsaken terrain to set camp on that she had spent her first week bath simply sleeping entire days away. She would break only to bath in beautifully hot water that contained exactly no surprise fishes or snakes or peeping men, and eat food that had been cooked in a proper, well stocked kitchen with spices aplenty. That first week, home had never looked so wondrous. She had thought she would be glad to never, ever, ever leave again.

But that was nearly three weeks ago. Now she was testing the mettle of anyone and everyone who happened to pass by the training yards. She was almost painfully bored already. She had lessons daily—with what had to be the oldest man in the world—on diplomacy and courtly matters. Her father rightly worried that her time at the edges of the kingdom, painting the borders red on occasion thanks to some rather strange rebellions, had made her forget some of the finer points of dealing with stubborn nobles and sensitive neighbors. Gwendolen found the lectures so dull she could feel them working like a numbing agent on the mind. And apparently she was not alone for the old man put himself to sleep regularly with his own talking.

Of course, today like every other day since she had stopped sleeping like a winter bear, the moment she was free from her lessons, she was away to the training fields and fighting every man and woman who passed by. She especially enjoyed teaching a few tricks to some of the more neglected squires and pages. Too many of the knights that were stationed in the capital, she noted, did not train their young warriors properly. They were relegated to the basic duties of their stations; getting horses and pouring wine for their masters. Gwendolen would have none of that. These were the boys and girls that would become the men and women who fought for her kingdom one day. She would not have them know nothing of a sword and shield!

But as the day began to yield itself to night, she knew it was time to retire; even if she still felt like she had days and days of energy to spare. She would have to find some way to burn it or she would surely go absolutely mad. She knew Nonios felt much the same. Already he was becoming a bit of a bastard to the stable hands and she knew if he was not ridden hard soon, someone was libel to get dragged around or bit. Nonios had once been quite a gentle—though tricky—soul like herself. But it was not just the men and women who came away from battle with scars none could see.

She scrubbed herself of sweat and dirt and soaked a time in clean water to ease her muscles and help sooth her enough to sleep. Finally she was dressed and put to bed. She drifted in a dreamless sleep for at time but soon, lurking up from the darkness of nothingness came vivid nightmares of things all too real. The cries of horses not meant for war falling in battle. Lost limbs. Lost lives. Crows flocking, their calls like a horrible song for the dead.

She woke with a gasping start and found herself covered in a cold sweat again. She filled the basin by her bed and splashed her face clean before trying to lay down in bed again to sleep. But she could not. She could not even pretend to try. Too many ghosts lay that side of her lids for her to close them. So after much tossing and turning, she rose again and donned a light robe. Barefoot and quiet she made her way to her private gardens to find the sky was already blushing faintly with the sun. Not true dawn just yet, but not quite the pitch darkness of night, either.

The fresh air helped—she told herself the fresh air helped, at least. And it at least whisked away the cold sweat that clung to her skin still with a pleasant little chill. But soon she was restless again and wandering. But not for long. She frowned when, as she was returning to her room to perhaps dress for the day or rearrange her sitting room or something to get rid of some of this chaos in her, she spotted her father looking very much like he had dressed in a great hurry leaving his chambers with a few servants still putting the finishing touches on him.

“Father?” she called down the hall, changing course from her room to his side. He perked a bit at seeing her, though he still looked rather perturbed and sleepy.

“Gwen, what are you doing up this hour?”

“I should ask the same. And fully dressed at that!”

“Your uncle is here causing a bit of trouble. I am not yet sure what he is here for but he has said it is of the utmost urgency and will speak to none but me. So I must go greet my darling brother and hold council with him.”

Gwendolen frowned a little in worry, “That is a bit odd. The lands he cares for are not near enough the border to be effected by the rebellions. But if you or he have need of me, call me with haste. I am well awake and I am always ready for a fight.” She was only halfway teasing as she smiled and kissed her father's cheek.

He gave a weary little smile and a pat, “That's what worries me.”

And then he was away and she was left to return to her room and pace about like a caged tiger waiting to be summoned.
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