WWII
Turn of the century NYC (Think: The Newsies)
Eastern Europe's Monarchy
Victorian England
French Revolution
Industrial England
The Enlightenment
German Principalities
Renaissance Italy
Crusades
Middle-Eastern/African Civilization during Middle Ages
Dark Ages
Mutha'fuckin' Vikings
Mongolian's bein' Mongolians
Rome
Fantasy (High, Mid, Low)
Steampunk

Axis Soldier x Civilian
Axis Soldier x Captured Allied Nurse/Troop
Captured Axis Soldier x Allied Nurse/Troop
Axis Soldier x Refugee
Allied Soldier x Allied Nurse
Allied Soldier x Axis Nurse/troop

Czar x Czarina
Russian Serf x Russian Serf
Other Nobility shit.

Fancy Victorian Nobleman x Fancy Victorian Noblewoman
Fancy Victorian Nobleman x Shit poor Factory Worker Woman
King x Queen
King x Courtesan
Poor people with all this lushness 'round them.

Revolutionary x Monarchist
French Police Officer x Man who stole bread

Pirate x Pirate
British Captain x Pirate
I'unno, Pirate Bullshit.

Factory Worker x Factory Worker

Explorer x Native
Explorer x other explorer

Philosopher x Dumb person
Dumb Person x Philosopher
Philosopher x Wife

Fucking Prince x Prince(ss)
WARING NATIONS YO'
Werewolf x not werewolf
Dissenting Prince x Diplomat
Nobility x Serf
Lotsa' stuff

Person from farmland x City person
Painter x painter
Nobility x peasant
Nobility x Serf

Knight x Civilian
Nobleman x Soldier
Knight x Foreign Preistess

Master x Slave
King x Foreign Diplomat

King x Queen
Prince x Princess
Lord x Lady
Knight x Damsel in Distress
Literally anything ever.

Viking raider x Unfortunate raidee
Viking man x Viking wife
Shield maidens and shit.

Genghis Khan esque x Poor Villages.
Mongolian x Other Mongolian

Gladiator x Gladiator
Russel Crowe x Me (Yummy)
Emperor x Empress
Peasant x Peasant

Elves and shit. Magic yo'

Human x Faerie

Thief x Thief

Above the Southern Gate into Bal'vold, Evening.

In front of Colonel Andrew Moore stood five thousand men. Their dark eyes shined by the torch light that flickered between the masses, reflected from their armor, and projected around. Each man was silent as a corpse, and he bet many would end the night like that. Still, the Colonel took a deep breath, watching his men with a mixture of pride, and a sad realization. This was all he had left, half of his ten thousand were either in the grave, or had fled home, and quite honestly, he wished to join them. This was an impossible feat, to take the city of Bal'vold, and though his superiors told him they were winning, he did not believe it. This stubborn and wretched land was made of mud, and fought as hard against them as the dwarves. It seemed like he was forever being outflanked, forever loosing troves of men to the damned forests, and the fabled beasts of legend that apparently inhabited it. Of course, the sensible Moore knew better then to believe such nonsense, but it was quite haunting, still, and in his moments of doubt, often he'd catch himself remarking on how those glowing balls of light, obviously some sort of exotic relative to their fireflies, in some light, seemed to be surrounding a tiny body. And if you listened, it seemed like the chiming laughter of a child. But that was the talk of fools, for everyone knew there was no such thing as magic, and Fae.

"Men!" He'd begin, shaking away the thoughts of what craziness surrounded him, and deepening his voice, reassuring, and in every respect, that of a natural born leader. These were his men, and he had one final chance to lead them. The General had given him his ultimatum, the southern door into Bal'vold fell tonight, or the King would be giving them an unpleasant visit. He thought he could fear nothing more, until the messenger informed him that his family would be receiving one shortly after, and that awoke a whole knew form a terror to the man, who did not even realize he could be so fearful.

"Men!" Once more, he repeated, before his speech began, " Tonight, we take the southern gates of Bal'vold, you and I will stride into Bal'vold, and we shall secure it in the name of our brave King. As we speak, our brethren are securing the Eastern, Western, and even the Great Northern gates. And they're waiting oh-so patiently for us, to knock down these midget-savage's door, and burn this fucking city from the ground up."

A roar of approval erupted, men battered their shields together, their swords, a rumbling of bodies, a smack of steel on steel, leather on leather. They were ready to destroy this city, after many failed campaigns, they were ready to see into the great underground city of Bal'vold, and bring these dwarven shits to their knees. Raising his hand, the men quieted, and Moore gave a grin, " Many of you probably have heard that Jewelstine has fallen. In the south, those fucks are going home, while we stand here and rot, a thousand miles away from a decent bed, and our lonely wives. If we're not quick, I bet the lot of them will be keepin' our women company soon 'nough, the lucky bastards. Know what I say to that? I think it's time we go home too, I think it's 'bout time Bal'vold falls." Another roar came, louder this time, as the man drew his sword, and hopped from the raise platform. They'd shout, in joy, in rage, readying themselves for battle. It was good of them to do so, because less then a hundred meters away, the desolate cave that led to the underground city of Bal'vold stood. Hoping on a well trained horse, Moore gestured them forward, and in an unorganized and barbaric mass, they'd rush forward. It was time to meet with their brethren in the center of Bal'vold, it was time to go home.

--

Corporal Andrew Moore lay bashed and bloody on the stony ground, his horse had been shot from beneath him, and was screeching loudly to his side, the man having luckily flown far enough away to have not been crushed beneath it, but he'd been thoroughly trampled by his own men during the battle, the cave opening into a massive cavern. Intricately carved stone walls rose to the ceiling, with only tiny slits for a Dwarven archer or cannon to shoot from. One massive door rose nearly as high, of a thick and weathered wood. Lifting his head, Andrew's vision spun, and he'd feel an urge to vomit, however, he'd fight it, listening to the screams of beast and man alike, and scattered around were the dead and dying.

Had they made it at least, had they done it? He urged himself to sit up, but as he did, and looked toward those massive iron-banded doors, he saw that they were closed, and once more his vision spun, and he'd vomit down his front. Interestingly enough, as he stared down at himself, he was covered in a mixture of his own blood, and his horses. He found a few arrows poking through his thigh and stomach, and laid back miserably. He was going to die. Though, oddly enough he felt no pain, rather a soothing numbness. Every sense told him he should be screaming, but instead, in the dimness of the cavern, he reflected on his life. Most notably, he thought of how he had not struck down a single dwarf, and felt a bit of regret with that. Somewhere in the back of his mind...he knew that the gates not opening would be bad...The King-..his mind whispered, but then he felt like laughing.

What could the King do now? He was going to die-...Then horror struck him, and the man tried to sit up once more, his eyes painfully opening...and his breath coming out in ragged gasps. His family...By the Gods...

In front of Andrew, a pale face looked over him...his wife-..wasn't it? With white hair, and white eyes...No, his wife had hair of copper...and her eyes were green. This girl-...it must be his daughter then. The man smiled to her, and she smiled back, cradling him against her lap, yes..it was his daughter, she had gotten big, when he'd seen her last, she'd just been in a cradle. His mind fumbled over that, she should only be a toddler, but this girl looked older. Parts of him reminded that there was no time to be worrying about that. He'd try to raise a hand, to touch her face, cooing weakly, " Coleen..." The girl nodded, lightly pushing his hand away, and he obeyed.

"Hello Corporal...What is your name?" She'd ask cheerily, and the man puzzled. Shouldn't his daughter know her own fathers name? But he chided himself soon after, how silly, she was just a baby, how would she know his name.

After blinking up at him, and releasing a sigh, feeling comforted against her lap, and wondering why he'd sat up at all, the man answered, " Corporal Andrew Moore, dear." He'd croak out, and his daughter smiled once more, which pleased him.

Then, her eyes went dark, and this made him cringe, " Rest now, You have lost the battle." He nodded, knowing his daughter was disappointed, and when she lowered her lips to his, he'd think it to be a kiss, but then..the world went black, and he felt his body cringe, and the pain became suddenly realize, then vanish...tears coming to his body, but he was soothed once more. Her voice cooed despite her lips against his, urging him to close his eyes, to let go. He was eager to let go, feeling himself go limp, and soon, and felt nothing, saw nothing, said nothing. Of course, he did not realize he was dead, Isa had to look at the withered corpses of an old man, shrunken in his proud uniform, and covered in a mixture of his own blood and vomit. Disgusted, the Witch pushed him away, noting his name.

Zarr would not reach him in time, but there were three more idiots that did survive this pathetic attempt at taking the city. Only one door had even opened, the eastern gate was rammed opened, and the force entered the city, eager to meet with the other three, however, that did not happen. And just as quickly as the doors had opened, they closed...and two thousand men were trapped inside, without any hope of escape, within an hour, they were either taken prisoner, or killed once the dwarves ran out of place to keep them. Her master would not much like this defeat, and she supposed it was about time for her to return, and tell him. Glancing around at all the dead and dying, the witch picked a rather young man, with a gash across his belly.

If any medics were coming to retrieve the living, which they weren't, the boy may have a chance. If he was really ambition, he may even be able to crawl to safety, but Isa would reach him much sooner, at her touch, he stopped screaming, and looked startled at her, murmuring, "Mum?"

She'd nod along, sighing, and with a few minutes, she'd leave another shrunken old man on the battlefield, wrinkled and liver-spotted. His white hair clutching desperately to his head and chin, and skin hanging from his bones. That was enough for now, and within a moment, it was as if the Witch had never been there, all that was left were two impossibly old corpses.

The church bells called with a cold, metallic chime, cutting through the empty air without resonance, just one crisp ring followed by the next. Down in the streets, small groupings of people paused to observe the church. A wooden structure that was built around the stone bell tower. Its tower was the tallest structure in Exeter; a dedication to God by a late Lord- and if Eira recalled correctly, it'd been her great-great grandfather who lay its foundations. It had been his son who had climbed its steps to toll the first Sabbath bell thirty years later. It had been his son who had constructed the wooden church accompanying it, and it had been his son, Eira's father, who had complained endlessly that the wealth his family had accumulated had been squandered housing a bell.

If you asked her though, which people rarely did, she thought it was a nice church, built on the tallest hill in Exeter and it made a grand monument to break up the squat wooden housing of the city proper. She liked the bells, she thought they sounded pretty, and she enjoyed the services put on by the priest who kept the parish. The only other stone structure in Exeter was the castle, and even then it seemed short and boring compared to bell tower. It's main hall stood as one large rectangle, a hall to receive court, yet the room grew crowded when more than fifteen men gathered.

Eira remembered as a child, her father received another Lord to discuss the marriage of her elder sister, Catrin. She remembered his face flushing when there wasn't enough room in the hall for both his men and those he hosted, and the embarrassment as he sent his own men away. He sent her away as well- there hadn't been room, but she'd heard rumors that afterward the other Lord had demanded he increase Catrin's dowry to convince him that her father was a worthy man, and that their allegiance would be prosperous. Eira often wondered if her own marriage had never been brought up because of the incident, her father resenting the affair of betrothal as it reminded him of his place in the hierarchy, a lowly lord with a lowly plot of land but nothing more.

Up on the second floor of the castle, in a corner room built off a narrow catwalk that overlooked the main hall, the lonely daughter of the lowly lord sat in a recessed window, the panes of glass fogged by the warm air of the hearth pressing against the cold air of the late autumn outside. She pressed her sleeve against the window and rubbed. Outside, the world was cloaked in a fog, and she watched as figures bobbed in and out of the cloudscape, carrying grain and wood and an array of other supplies to prepare Exeter for winter.

How odd, she noticed, the city seemed without many of the men around. Yet peasant daughters and wives, young boys and old men, worked all the same. Winter would come regardless of where their husbands, sons, and fathers were, and it'd be no less brutal because of it.

It had been winter which had taken Eira's mother away some five years ago. It was a time of sickness, and cold, and though the girl did not recognize it, she held a real and dreading fear of the season as it encroached once more. Perhaps that was why she bundled herself in her room, a heavy fur wrapped around her despite the heat of the fire, staring out at the cold air was enough to chill her bones. A sickness caught her stomach as she looked out at what should have been a calm, pleasant morning. Though it was foggy, the sun was still shining off over the eastern forests, and there was no reason for her to believe this day was any more dreadful than the last. Yet, her skin chilled for but a moment, and the young woman shivered.

Turning from the window as if it would dismiss the feeling of dread, Eira touched her stockinged feet to the ground, cold still seeping despite the thick woven yarn, and rose. Her room was fairly small, with just a bed, the window, a chest for her clothing, and a desk her father had gifted her so she could practice her penmanship in privy. The desk was a large table with a matching chair, dominating an entire wall of her room, and mostly empty besides Eira's bible and a neat row of feather quills.

She approached, her large brown eyes peering around the room despite knowing it was empty- it'd become habit to check obsessively as she approached the spot. Her father was gone and her matrons would never enter her room without her permission, however the girl still got nervous even looking at the loosened stone in the ground, a discovery she'd made on accident some years back when she'd pushed her chair over it and felt it pivot beneath her. Then she began to pry at it, and lift it, and soon found that whatever mason who'd laid the floor had left an imperfect hole beneath one of the stones just large enough for a couple scrolls. It was there Eira kept her most personal writing, opinions on her life, reflections of the world, and her doubts and most personal fears. Sometimes the young woman would keep texts she was not meant to have stored beneath the half-formed stone, but as of that morning, she had only her own writings.

Using her fingers to wedge into the dusty cracks of the floor, she slowly eased the stone up, and set it to the side as she pulled a cylinder of rolled papers, the outside coated in dust. Expression was not an act Eira had ever been permitted, and so she guarded these writings of hers close, knowing that should her father ever find out she had the audacity to form such opinions- even if she never spoke them, he'd have the papers burned and surely take her desk away. It was not Lady-like of her to comment on war and death and the nature of her position, that was for men to debate, and yet Eira did have her thoughts, and if she could not state them she knew her only respite would be to write them down, release the pent up aggression and anger and whatever other emotion pained her into ink, and stow it away so no one could find it.

Now she delicately unrolled the scrolls, her eyes half-reading, her mind half-reciting, the written words she'd penned and taking power in the fact that they were her words and her thoughts. It was likely an odd thing to draw pride from to the outside observer, but to Eira, this was her rebellion, and her only time to speak unbridled. It calmed her, and after a page, she slipped the scrolls back, and replaced the stone in its crevice.

--

Despite that dreading fear, when Eira returned to her bed that evening, the day had been quite pleasant. Though she was rarely kept charge of, with her father and brother gone- off defending the coast from raids, Eira roamed freely from the castle and through the city, her long hair bound in a braid and kept modest by veil. Despite the lack of men, the township was relaxed, the air had warmed to almost pleasant by afternoon, and the threat of winter seemed more distant without the cold. When Lord Gwalter had left several days prior, it'd been a near jovial parade as he marched with his son and his army to repel the heathens, and though perhaps they should have felt threatened, Exeter felt safe. Eira had walked all the way to her wooden walls before she'd finally been stopped, a single guard manning the gate, and he knew enough about the Lord's middle daughter to pick out her mousey frame among the peasantry. He'd sent her back with a light chiding, having no one to escort her without abandoning his post, so he allowed her to return on her own merit.

On the walk back, the sun began to set, and the cold came sharply with it, dark clouds rolling off the coast and darkening the sky. Eira might have decided that to be the premonition this morning, she'd been sensing the storm, but the girl enjoyed falling asleep to raindrops so when she sat once more in her window sill, her fears seemed unfounded.

Long past the time she knew she was expected to bed, Eira sat still in that windowsill, a quill and paper in her lap, pressed against a piece of wood she'd crafted into a makeshift desk. Because no one was home, she decided to take advantage that no one would notice the candle in her window, and peer out into the township to help clear her thoughts before she committed them to paper.