AmongHeroes

Reign of the Usurper

[x] [x] [x]

Within the Great Hall & Cavern Ballroom | Present day

lyra ....|..... outfit

Formality. Posturing. Shifting winds and changing tides. The dance unfolded before Lyra as both spectacle and subterfuge—at once brazen as theatre, and insidious as rot beneath shadow. Though her expression remained serene, approachable, and perfectly composed, her mind raced to capture every fleeting detail of these singular moments. It was a daunting task. Already, her senses had been sharpened to a knife’s edge by the sight of Valerius—drawn, however subtly, into the orbit of the eldest princess. The silent acknowledgment from her uncle Torin had only deepened the unease, lending the moment a strange and watchful weight.

Leave it to Valerius to place his own head in the serpent’s mouth, Lyra mused, her thoughts drifting to the epic trials of Borozeer, who had danced too boldly at the whim of Fetilsvelox. The ancient tales were not triumphs—they were warnings. Men who believed themselves steadfast, only to find that will alone could not master the games of gods… or courts.

Her gaze moved again, measuring.

House Storvane gleamed at the center—gilded, intricate, and fragile in the way only immense power could afford to be. House Al’Seren stood in stark contrast, their beauty dark and foreign, like a blade forged in distant fire. House Járnbjørn carried themselves with the quiet certainty of iron—unyielding, unadorned, and built to endure. House Ganasen cloaked their ambition in refinement, green and gold whispering of coin, crops, and quiet leverage. House Velmorra shimmered with pride and peril alike, their polish unable to fully mask the teeth beneath. And House Varrow… sharp-eyed, poised, and patient—predators who understood the value of stillness before the strike.

Among them, Lyra felt—if only for a fleeting instant—small.

Not lesser.

But newly aware of the scale of the board upon which she now stood.

There was a soft swish of skirts at her side, followed by the gentle pressure of a familiar hand at her elbow. Lyra turned from the shifting currents of the hall to find her mother beside her.

Lady Elara’s smile was soft—almost sympathetic—but her eyes remained keen, unwavering in their quiet assessment.

“Duty calls us,” she said softly, before adding with subtle emphasis, “calls you, in a profound way today, daughter.” Her voice was low, melodic—reassuring, yet edged with expectation. “You are a lady of Kenra. You have every means to rise to that calling.”

Lyra’s composure broke—not in weakness, but in warmth. A genuine smile touched her lips, reaching even her dark eyes as something tight within her chest eased. For all the weight of the hall, for all the watching eyes and veiled intentions, her mother’s presence remained a constant.

Elara returned the smile with the faintest glimmer of mischief—a quick wink, a final squeeze at her arm.

“Now go,” she murmured. “Fetch your brother.”

Her lips curved slightly. “The man would never abandon a comrade upon the field… but this is not a battlefield.”

A pause.

“And I suspect he has already forgotten that.”

Lyra gave a slight nod, her expression sharpening with quiet understanding. With a brief brush of her fingers against her mother’s, she turned and moved with serene purpose toward Valerius, who stood amid the growing current of silk and steel.

“We should put food in that mouth of yours,” Lyra murmured as she slipped her arm through the crook of his elbow, her voice low and controlled. “To keep you from gawping.”

Valerius huffed a quiet breath, though his eyes remained restless. “I have never seen...

[x] [x] [x]

Within the Great Hall & Cavern Ballroom | Present day

valerius ....|..... outfit

...such a thing as this,” he admitted, wonder and unease braided tightly in his voice. Beneath his coat, his chest felt constricted, as though the very air of the hall pressed in on him. He resisted the urge to loosen his collar. “Remembering the names alone feels like one of Master Aesfeld’s tests…”

His words faltered.

A lady passed before them—her presence cutting cleanly through the noise of the hall. Valerius’s gaze followed without permission, drawn as if by instinct. Flame-touched hair, proud bearing, and a gown of cream and crimson that seemed to catch the light with every step. There was something in her movement—something assured, unyielding.

Hells… he thought. That’s—

“Selja Járnbjørn.”

Lyra’s voice slipped between his thoughts like a blade. Precise. Quiet. Certain.

Valerius did not look at her, but he could feel it—that faint, knowing curve of her lips. It irked him beyond measure that she could read him so easily… and worse, that she was almost always right.

“Of course it is,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her.

Valerius almost let himself scowl as he felt Lyra's elbow pin him in the ribs. "Would you act as if you've seen a woman before, dear brother? By the Holy Nine we know those aren't just gypsy merchants traveling behind you on campaign."

Valerious harrumphed, irked twice in as many minutes. Once again he did not give Lyra the satisfaction of his eyes.

Around them, the tide of nobility swelled, drawn in the wake of the King and his family as they moved toward the great open doors of the Cavern Ballroom. Conversation rose and folded in waves, silk whispering against stone, laughter threading through the din like distant bells.

Valerius drew in a steady breath and forced his attention forward. He cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, and settled his expression into something deliberate—something composed.

Not perfect.

But enough.

And with Lyra at his side, he stepped forward into the current.

Valerius’s carefully set expression proved short-lived. The moment he crossed the threshold into the Cavern Ballroom, it faltered—then vanished entirely.

The space opened before him in a sweep of light and grandeur so complete it stole the breath from his lungs. Candlelight cascaded from vaulted stone like captured starlight, spilling across polished floors and gilded tables. Voices rose and folded beneath the height of the chamber, softened into something almost reverent. It was not merely opulence.

It was power, made visible.

Valerius felt it settle into his chest, not as pressure—but as clarity. The tightness that had plagued him unraveled in an instant, replaced by something steadier. Something certain.

This… this was what it all meant.

“By the Nine…” he breathed.

“This way,” Lyra murmured softly, the faintest tug at his arm guiding him without spectacle.

“Of course. Yes—this way.”

He adjusted without protest, falling into step beside her, his stride measured now—not out of uncertainty, but intent. Together, they moved past the tables of highest nobility and nearer the broader assembly beyond, where conversation flowed more freely and scrutiny, though still present, was less suffocating.

Then—

Too close.

Valerius checked his step as he nearly brushed shoulders with a woman passing the opposite way.

“My apologies, my lady—”

The words came easily, but the rest of him stilled.

She was… striking.

Dark hair, lustrous in the candlelight, framed a face of sharp elegance—full lips set above a proud chin, eyes deep and arresting, as though they held more than they revealed. There was something deliberate in her bearing. Something Velmorran.

Recognition stirred—then bloomed.

Valerius’s expression shifted, the formality falling away as something genuine took its place.

“You may not remember me,” he said, a hint of warmth threading through his tone, “but we have met.”

He tilted his head slightly, searching the memory as it rose.

“You were kind enough to indulge me while I showed you my new elk bow. I could not have been more than four… perhaps five.”

The recollection brightened him—simple, unguarded, untouched by the weight of the hall around them. For a fleeting moment, he forgot entirely where he stood.

Forgot who he was meant to be.

“Do you remember what you said to me?”

^{interactions ....|.... Selja Járnbjørn (slightly), Seraphina Velmorra ............... mentions ....|.... all houses ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Tears Behind Iron - An Original Serial

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♕ 𓁿 ♕

☾ 𝔈𝔭𝔦𝔰𝔬𝔡𝔢 𝔒𝔫𝔢 - 𝔅𝔩𝔲𝔢 ℌ𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔰 ☽

♕ 𓁿 ♕

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Candlelight burned low, the orbs of orange and amber pulsing like a god’s breath with the reverberation of steady drums. Holy men, dressed in the vestments of their station, lined the stone walls at the edge of that light. Their heads bowed beneath heavy hoods, hands tucked into the sleeves cinched at their belts. Only the chanting in the backs of their throats marked them as living—and not statues carved of gilt marble.

The room was oval. At its center stood a figure, imposing and still in the shifting glow. To his left, the drumming disciples kept their rhythm without falter. To his right, a retinue of armored guards stood with hands resting—too casually—upon the pommels of their swords.

Behind the figure, just off his left shoulder, stood a short woman whose wrinkled face was made all the more craggy by the long shadows cast in the candlelight. The robes she wore and the headdress upon her brow were gilded with fine filigree, looping into runes and curling floral iconography. Mirroring her to the figure’s right stood a tall, gaunt man, likewise adorned, though in his hands he bore an object shrouded in obsidian silk.

For the figure’s part, he kept his head bowed—though not in surrender. His strong chin and cutting jaw hovered a scant inch above the crest of his broad chest, as though the weight of his own restraint pressed it there.

“You are no longer to be Aedric, son of Lucan,” said the woman, her voice as cragged as her face.

At her words, Aedric lifted his azure eyes beneath the shelf of his brow, though his head did not follow. His scalp had been shaved for the ritual, but even the faint stubble there seemed to bristle at the sound of his name spoken for the last time.

Within his chest, something stirred—familiar, eager. A voice without words. A command without language.

Take her throat. End this.

His jaw flexed once. Then stilled by force.

“From thence forth, you shall be known only as ‘Guardian.’ It is your name, your title, your calling—your purpose,” the priestess intoned. “May you die having never been dishonored with your old self again.”

For a moment, the drums continued—three slow, deliberate beats that seemed to land somewhere deeper than the stone beneath their feet. Then they stopped.

Silence flooded the chamber. Thick. Immediate. Suffocating.

At that line, Aedric—Guardian—ground his teeth, burying the hate that clawed its way up the back of his throat. It did not fade. It did not weaken. It waited.

“Show in the royal family,” said the priestess.

At the command, two of the disciples moved to open the heavy wooden doors that had remained latched directly before Guardian, the priestess, and the priest. Greased hinges elicited no sound as the doors swung inward, revealing a corridor beyond brightly lit with ensconced torches. A retinue of royals greeted the gaze of Guardian. The man, obviously the king, stood almost a head shorter than Guardian. His features were handsome, but haggard and heavy. In this man’s face, Guardian saw a predator that had become prey—a monarch being crushed beneath the weight of his crown.

Next was the queen, standing dutifully beside her husband. She was dark and beautiful, but utterly tired. The torchlight was swallowed by the color of her whiskey eyes, their luster dimmed well before its time. In both the king and queen, Guardian saw trepidation, weariness, and distrust. Their eyes shifted about the chamber, taking in the ritual and its practitioners with begrudging resolve, before settling—almost in unison—upon him.

Neither held the gaze long.

The king’s eyes flicked first, drawn away by something over Guardian’s shoulder. The queen followed a heartbeat later, her posture straightening by rote instinct rather than conviction. A subtle shift passed through the retinue—small, practiced movements of deference. Heads bowed. Shoulders squared. Space was made without command.

And through that space, she came.

Isolde Valencrest did not hurry her steps, nor did she linger. Each footfall was measured, unhurried, possessed of a quiet certainty that required no announcement. The torchlight followed her in, catching upon the dark sheen of her hair and the pale line of her throat, where the pulse of her blood stirred just beneath the skin. Beneath the alabaster of her complexion, that lifeblood moved unseen—surely as red as the rouge of her full lips. Where her father had been worn and her mother dimmed, there was no such erosion in her—yet.

Guardian watched her approach without lifting his head. His eyes alone tracked her, pale and cutting beneath the shadow of his brow. There was no fear in her. No hesitation. Only a stillness that matched his own.

The priestess shifted beside him, drawing breath to speak—to instruct, to warn—but the words never came. Isolde passed the threshold of the chamber and did not look to the clergy, nor to the guards, nor even to her parents. Her attention settled upon Guardian as though the rest of the room had ceased to exist.

“You will keep your distance, Your Highness,” the priestess said at last, the command thinly veiled in reverence.

Seraphine did not so much as glance toward her. She continued forward.

The guards along the wall tensed, leather creaking beneath tightening hands. One of the drummers faltered—just a fraction—and found his rhythm again a beat too late.

Still she came on.

Guardian felt it then—not in the air, nor in the sound, but somewhere deeper. A pressure. A pull. Subtle, but insistent, as though something unseen had taken hold of the space between them and was drawing it closed.

She stopped within arm’s reach.

Too close.

Close enough that he could see the fine detail of her—the way the light caught in the gray-blue of her eyes, the slow, measured rise of her breath, the quiet warmth that seemed to radiate from her in defiance of the cold stone and ritual air. Close enough that he could scent her—not perfume, not artifice, but something clean… and something else beneath it. Something warm. Something alive.

The thing in his chest stirred.

Take her.

His jaw tightened. The muscle there jumped once.

Isolde studied him openly—not as courtiers did, measuring threat and calculating danger, but as one might regard a blade newly forged. Interested. Appraising.

“This is what you would bind to me,” she said, her voice low, even, entirely her own.

It was not a question.

Guardian did not answer. He did not move. But his eyes—those pale, cutting eyes—met hers fully for the first time and did not look away.

“Your Highness, please…” said the priest, his voice high and nervous, his throat bobbing as he held the silk-obscured object before him. “This is no mere man before you. He is vverevolf. Until the ritual is complete, he is hardly more than feral…”

Isolde cut her eyes to the priest, one brow arching like the curve of a drawn bow. She held his gaze long enough for his voice to falter and die before returning her attention to Guardian. When their eyes met once more, it was like two blue hells touching—one bright as sun upon open water, the other cold and cutting as midwinter steel.

“Feral, are you?” she asked softly. “Would you rip out my throat, vverevolf?”

Looking into her eyes—their cold beauty as unreadable as the scrit of ancients—Guardian felt his blood begin to thrum within his ears. His hands, crossed before him, clenched and unclenched in slow measure as the beast within him leaned toward her words, not recoiling, not resisting, but entertaining them. The shape of it. The heat of it. The taste of it. His jaw shifted once, tightening as the urge rose sharp and familiar.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly and without haste, one side of his lip lifted—not into a smile, but into something barer. The pink of his tongue traced along the ivory edge of a sharpened canine, deliberate as the draw of a blade and just as quiet… and just as dangerous.

The king’s voice cut through the moment. “Enough of this! Daughter, this is not some carnival act. We are here out of necessity—fucking desperation, even!” At the king’s curse, the queen closed her eyes and placed a gentle hand upon her husband’s wrist. The monarch looked to her, his temples throbbing with strain, before turning back with a ragged breath. “Get on with it.”

The priestess inclined her head. “As His Majesty commands.” The drums resumed, slower now, deeper, each beat felt more than heard. The tall priest stepped forward and unveiled the object in his hands—a mask of dark metal, severe and angular, its surface drinking the light, its edges etched with sigils so fine they seemed to shift as the flames danced.

At the sight of it, something within Guardian tightened—not fear, but recognition.

The mask was raised. Pressed into place. Fastened.

The sigils dimmed.

The world shifted.

The pull came—not to flesh, but to something deeper, seizing the place where instinct coiled and hunger slept, forcing it inward, shaping it, binding it. The beast surged against it, furious, unyielding.

Break it.

His jaw locked.

“Guardian,” the priestess called. “You are bound to this woman, Her Royal Highness Isolde Valencrest. You are vowed to protect her at all costs, to live within the confines of the mask that veils you, freed only upon the cessation of the beating of your monstrous heart.”

“I do not submit,” he said. His voice came hard and thick from behind the iron of the cursed mask.

“You misunderstand,” she replied coldly. “You have already been given.”

Her hand fell.

The drums ceased.

And the bond took hold.

It came not as pain, but as certainty—a tether drawn where none had been, sinking deep, aligning, claiming. Guardian’s breath hitched once, sharp and involuntary. Across from him, Isolde stilled as something passed between them—unseen, unspoken, undeniable.

Recognition.

“It is done,” said the priestess.

The silence that followed was not the same as before.

This one lived.

Tears Behind Iron - An Original Serial

_{An original adult-themed tale of monsters, of love, of need, and of sacrifice}

Reign of the Usurper

[x] [x] [x]

Within the training yard of the Black Citadel | Present day

#CC5500 & #6495ED

Eagle to wolf…

The sword slashed downward across the imagined body—right shoulder to left hip.

Wolf to horse…

The blade’s tip rose in a dangerous flash, left hip climbing to striking height. Sweat flung from Valerius’ arms as he drove the weapon through its forms, the same beading and flying from beneath his set brow. Strike. The sword pierced downward and forward, driving itself just above the neck flange of the chest plate and below the jaw of the helm, directly into the hollow of the throat.

A definitive killing blow.

Death would come swiftly. Lifeblood spilling, breath choking out in moments.

Just like the traitor had died.

Valerius clenched his jaw, forcing the thought—the memory—from his mind. Focus.

Sliding his left foot deftly back across the packed earth, Valerius recovered his stance. Sword back to low carry; dog—efficient and easy. With his hands held low, his chest opened to the afternoon sun, tunic tied loose at the belt of his trousers. The cream of his skin rippled over iron muscle, the masculine canvas marred only by the rosé criss-cross of old battle scars and the living marks of the training ground. His breath was up now, lungs working to draw in the thin mountain air.

Again.

Valerius repeated the form, once more eviscerating his imaginary opponent upon Hearthward’s razor edge. Again. Sweat flew, darkening the dusty ground like a brief drizzle of rain. Again. Broad back to the sun now; muscled wings bearing up shoulders already burdened with the weight of House Kenra’s future.

From the arch of the practice yard’s entrance tunnel, intelligent dark eyes watched the Kenran heir from the shelter of shadow. The young man shifted within his robes—robes far too heavy for the summer heat, but garments required for his station as a solicitor of River’s End. Elian Thorne lowered his gaze respectfully as Valerius moved through another series of powerful strokes, the swordsman’s path gradually orienting him toward the tunnel. Valerius was lost to exertion, however, and paid no heed to the presence lingering in the shade. Like the inevitable pull of gravity, Elian could only keep his eyes downcast for so long. They rose—drawn to the zenith that was Lord Valerius Kenra.

“Even in the shade, you sweat here.”

Elian jumped outright in his slippers. Clamping a hand over his mouth to stifle a startled sound, the solicitor spun toward the voice, bowing before he had even fully turned, his nose nearly meeting the stone.

“My Lady!” Elian whispered sharply. “I—I didn’t see you there. I was—”

“…Preparing to advise my brother to cease his distractions and ready himself for the evening?” Lyra interrupted smoothly. A knowing—though not unkind—expression played across her face as she watched Elian squirm beneath her regard. She added, almost as an afterthought, “Valerius is fortunate to have such an attentive and dutiful friend.”

Gulping, Elian bowed lower still, dark curls falling like a curtain before his face.

“Thank you, My Lady.”

Lyra’s eyes lingered on Elian for a moment longer than courtesy demanded—not long enough to unnerve him, but long enough to measure the young man properly. Ink-stained fingers, careful posture, the faint sheen of heat upon his brow despite the shade.

“You’ve done enough watching for one afternoon,” Lyra said at last, her tone light but final. “See to your notes. The evening will give you more than enough to record.”

Relief flickered across Elian’s face before he could suppress it.

“Of course, My Lady.”

He bowed once more—deeply, earnestly—then straightened with visible effort. His gaze betrayed him one final time, lifting instinctively toward Valerius’s broad back as the heir moved through a final measured recovery step, the sword settling into low guard as if it belonged there as naturally as breath. Elian caught himself. Eyes down. Step back. Withdraw. He retreated through the archway with quiet haste, slippers whispering against stone, until he was swallowed once more by the tunnels and corridors that favored men who listened more than they spoke.

Only then did Lyra turn her full attention to her brother.

Valerius completed the sequence once more—precise, powerful, unrelenting. Hearthward cut through the air in a final descending stroke before he arrested the motion and stood still, chest heaving. Sweat traced slow paths down his temples and along the lines of his neck.

“Enough.”

Valerius did not turn.

“Again.”

Lyra crossed the packed earth with measured steps, skirts gathered just enough to keep dust from their hem. She stopped well within his reach—closer than most would dare—and spoke softly, so that only he could hear. “You’ve been here since the sun cleared the battlements. You’re not honing your edge, Valerius. You’re hiding.”

That gave him pause. The sword dipped a fraction.

“I am preparing.”

Lyra reached out—not to touch him, but to the blade. Two fingers pressed lightly against the flat of Hearthward, arresting its restless motion with casual certainty.

“You prepare for battle with steel. This evening is not that.”

Valerius exhaled slowly through his nose. He finally turned to face her, the sun at his back casting his features in stark relief—scarred, earnest, unguarded.

“They will weigh us,” he said. “Measure every word.”

“They will,” Lyra agreed. “And you will endure it. As you endure everything else.”

His gaze dropped, briefly, to his attire—the simple riding trousers, the worn boots, the plain tunic still damp with exertion.

“I have nothing fit to wear.”

Lyra’s smile softened—just a touch.

“No.” “You do not.”

She stepped past him, forcing him to turn as she placed herself squarely in his path back toward the keep. “You will stand taller than any silk-wrapped peacock in that hall. You will speak plainly. You will not pretend to be something you are not.”

Her eyes met his, sharp and steady.

“They invited House Kenra because they need us—not because we impressed them.”

Valerius absorbed that in silence. The practice yard felt suddenly very small. Beyond its walls lay torchlight, music, laughter, scrutiny. Alliances yet unformed. Enmities waiting only for provocation. He slid Hearthward into its scabbard, the weight settling against his hip like an old truth.

“I would rather face a shield wall.”

Lyra laughed softly. “I know.”

She paused at the archway and glanced back. “Clean yourself. Change what you can. And try not to look as though you’re marching to your execution.”

Then she was gone.

Valerius Kenra stood alone with the packed earth, the cooling blade, and the knowledge that no amount of training would spare him what awaited beyond the doors of the Black Citadel's great hall. He squared his shoulders and turned toward the keep—toward wine and watchers, toward expectation and judgment—knowing full well that tonight, he would be seen.

And found wanting.

Or not.

---

[x] [x] [x]

Within the Great Hall of the Black Citadel | Present day

Lyra’s ears rang—not from the hum of the Great Hall, but from her pulse trilling with nerves. She barely felt the swish of her skirts about her feet, nor the sweat that trickled down the valley of her corseted back. Resplendent in an off-shoulder gown of cobalt blue trimmed with crimson, Lyra kept her chin high despite the haze of her heightened senses and pounding heart. Anxiety heightened her state, sharpened her edge. The daughter of Kenra was more like her mother in that way; a stone that stood against the gale, proud and unyielding. Lord Garrick, conversely, was akin to a great tree—bending without breaking when faced with the wind. Rooted deep. Stubborn. Sure. Qualities… until the storm was too fierce and timbers began to crack.

Sliding her eyes to the left, she caught Valerius’ gaze. Her elder brother—ever the stalwart gentleman—metered his stride so as not to overtake her as he escorted her toward the royal dais. His hair was oiled back, revealing keen eyes, a proud nose, masculine cheeks, and a strong jaw. A handsome man, undoubtedly. Yet as his sister, Lyra could see the disquiet behind his gaze. She offered him a discreet, reassuring smile.

The servants had done their best. Valerius’ overcoat was a riding jacket that had seen one mile too many. The blue of the garment had faded from cobalt to a dusty, infant sky, and the embroidered Kenran knots of crimson thread were bare in places, flying loose in others. Yet the outfit was immaculately clean, freshly scented with oils of sandalwood and lavender. Lyra took pride in the fact that no matter the quality of the adornment, there was no diminishing the capable set of Valerius’ broad shoulders, nor the ease with which he returned the kindness of her subtle expression.

Looking down upon his sister from the corner of his gaze, Valerius returned her affection with a quick wink. The petite, dark woman beside him was every bit the pride of Kenra—and the Huntress that so many said she was. Poised. Intelligent. Beautiful. Cunning. She cut a fine feminine figure in her glimmering gown. Her chocolate hair was coiffed into a complicated braid that mirrored the Kenran knot woven around the sword in their house emblem. Kohl sharpened her eyes and deepened her gaze, while her small mouth was rouged in the same crimson that trimmed her gown. At her throat, a ribbon of cobalt held a small silver owl—an owl of Storvane—clutching a sapphire in its talons. Valerius knew the meaning well enough. It was a symbol of loyalty. Of unity. A quiet declaration that House Kenra was ready to serve—and ready for more than mere alliance. Ready for a future.

“My friend! My King! Your Most Imminent Grace!”

Lord Garrick Kenra’s booming greeting shattered the intimate moment between siblings, yanking both Valerius and Lyra sharply into the present. The Kenran procession had reached the dais at last—fate, undeniable and unavoidable, had arrived. Their father stood before the royal family, one arm outstretched in greeting, the other firmly clasped by Lady Elara. Garrick regarded King Rowan and the Storvanes with genuine warmth and pride as he introduced his family, his voice filling the Great Hall with the confidence of a man who had never doubted his place in the world.

Lady Elara stood with him—fox-red hair pinned beneath veil and pearls, her smile measured, her eyes keen and accounting. Where Garrick offered affection, Elara offered appraisal. Lyra could almost feel her mother’s thoughts moving like a ledger behind those eyes, tallying faces, alliances, and silent debts.

Behind them, House Kenra arranged itself with the quiet discipline of a shield wall. Guards stilled. Servants lowered their eyes. Silas Vane hovered just beyond the family’s gravity, easy and observant, a man who knew when charm was a blade best kept sheathed. Somewhere behind Lyra’s shoulder, she could feel Elian Thorne’s anxious attention like the whisper of pages turning in a closed book.

Lyra’s gaze drifted—only briefly—across the royal dais.

King Rowan wore power as a cloak meant to warm rather than smother, his smile open even beneath the weight of a realm. Queen Valenya sat beside him like cut stone—beautiful, immaculate, and cold enough to burn. Their children were arranged as if by divine intent: Maeve poised and predatory in her perfection; Dorian restless, charming, already feeding on the room’s attention; Rhea pale, rigid, trying to be braver than her body would allow.

And then there was Declan.

He stood apart, armor dark and polished, the Storvane owl emblazoned upon his chest. A man who had chosen duty over comfort and carried that choice in every line of his posture. Lyra narrowed her eyes a fraction. Not a peacock. Not a court dancer. A blade that did not glitter for applause.

Valerius shifted beside her, fingers brushing unconsciously against Hearthward’s belt at his hip. The motion steadied him. Lyra felt the tension in his shoulders, the control in his breathing, the quiet strain of knowing he would be seen tonight—measured not only for what he was, but for what he wore.

Court predators loved weakness. They loved blood even more.

Yet if any man in Aethoria was built to endure scrutiny, it was Valerius Kenra.

Lord Garrick stepped forward another pace, laughter booming once more as he clasped hands with his old friend. “My King,” he said, softer now but no less certain. “River’s End is yours, as it always has been.”

Lyra flicked her gaze—just once—to the princesses. Maeve’s eyes were polished silver, reflective and sharp. Rhea’s were not. Rhea watched House Kenra like a storm on the horizon—beautiful, terrifying, and impossible to ignore.

Lyra straightened, shoulders back, chin high. A Huntress did not flinch at danger. She welcomed it. Measured it. Chose where to strike.

She leaned subtly toward her brother, her voice barely more than breath.
“And now,” she murmured, “we see what kind of talons these owls keep.”

Valerius’ jaw set. His eyes sharpened. “Fate upon our sword,” he replied.

And as Lord Garrick’s laughter rang warm and loud through the Great Hall, the eyes of the Ninefold fixed upon House Kenra—

—the game began.

The King’s smile, while always present, grew, stretching nearly ear to ear at the approach of his longtime friend and ally. Never one for formalities, he descended the stairs of the dais, meeting Lord Kenra on even ground, eye to eye, man to man. He clasped his hands in a strong, but warm shake that spoke of nothing but welcome and companionship. "Old friend," he beamed, while clapping his other hand to the man’s shoulder. "Your presence is always appreciated. I pray your travels were steady and calm." He released his hold and took a small step back, but did not ascend the stairs, not wishing to be superior but equal.

His attention shifted from the Lord to meet the gaze of each member of the Kenra family with warm eyes and a kind smile. "Thank you all for making the long journey. I know it is not an easy road but I do hope you enjoy your time in the Citadel." King Rowan bowed his head in deference, lowering himself, humbling himself before his guests in a way that was unbefitting for a King, but the exact man he was. Of the people, not over them.

His stance opened, waving his hand up toward the dais where his beautiful family watched and waited. "Allow me to introduce my family under far less ceremony," he jested with a laugh like the summer’s sun. "You are familiar with my wife, Valenya."

The Queen took a step forward, remaining tall and elegant overlooking the hall and introductions with the graceful distance of a ruler overseeing her subjects, not among them like her husband but above them. She studied the Kenras with a keen scrutiny, her mind’s quill noting their demeanor ease… Or in the young Lord’s case, a lack of propriety at the lack of finery. Were they trying to send a message that someone too kind, like her husband, would miss? Or was it simply ignorance or insolence? While she mentally crossed out the name Valerius and migrated it further down her list, her face remained a perfect mask of poise and prestige.

Delicate fingers gathered her ivory skirts as she lowered into a small curtsy. She did not drop as low as tradition demanded but low enough to be considered civil. Only her knees bent, back remaining straight as a pin and her head giving the smallest of bows. "Lord Kenra. Lady Kenra."

As the Queen stepped back, the King’s hand shifted toward Dorian who stood far more casually than ceremony dictated. His entire body was tilted, leaning into his shoulder that was pressed against the side of the throne. His hands were lazily cupped before him and his right leg was leisurely crossed in front of the other.

"My son and heir, Dorian." The King’s words never lost their levity, even though his smile shifted, betraying the discipline that sparked behind his eyes.

Dorian pushed off the throne, rocking himself upright before taking a step forward. His one loose curl bounced against his cheekbone with the movement, framing his handsome face and dark hazel eyes. His smile had hints of his father’s warmth along with a cunning sharpness that came from his mother. It curved to one side, a charming smirk that had become second nature to the point he no longer realized he was doing it.

Unlike his mother, he didn’t judge or size up the family before them, just simply took them in. His father’s wartime companion, weathered but jovial. A daughter with a cunning gaze and a commanding presence like his mother. And a son who looked like he wanted nothing more than to disappear, while dressed to stand out. Tall as a tower, a face to make any woman swoon, and muscles… hidden, but Dorian knew… He always knew. The young Lord, no doubt, was the type of man who was oblivious to his appeal and seemed far too… traditional to be interested in anything other than women. How disappointing.

The Prince tucked one arm behind his back while the other crossed his abdomen before lowering himself into a bow that lacked the formal precision his mother expected of him. While his head was low, he couldn’t fight a quiet chuckle that emerged like a jest that was whispered for only his ears. "My Lords, my Ladies, a pleasure."

The King waved him off with an incredulous scoff before beckoning forward both of the Princesses. "And my lovely daughters, Maeve and Rhea."

Both women stepped forward, a reflection of their parents, night and day. One harsh and unyielding with a sharp precision, cold and rigid like porcelain. The other was uncertain, with a warmth and softness that matched her father, malleable, but strong in her compassion. They both curtsied. Maeve was the picture of perfection she strove to be, a mirror of her mother in all of her elegance and poise. While Rhea was a little out of sync, her back wasn’t quite as straight and her movements were a bit strained beneath the multitude of fabric.

Maeve peeled away every layer of the family before them, rearranging and editing her list like her parchments laid before her. At first glance, her gaze snapped toward the silver owl clutching a sapphire, no doubt a declaration, but brazen and heavy handed to the point she had to refrain from rolling her eyes at the gesture. Then Valerius—she recalled from her notes—top of her list and highest prospective suitor looked every part a warrior, handsome too. But—her gaze trailed unabashedly down his body, taking in his worn riding attire—was underdressed, a grave mistake in the presence of royalty. Like sorting the pages of her mind, she took Valerius and slid him farther down in the stack, nestling him between Kaladan Bray and Niktos Velmorra.

Unbidden like a thought that slipped free before she could seize it, Maeve spoke. "Are those riding clothes?"

"Maeve!" Rhea gasped, her head snapping toward her sister, stunned at the judgement that fell so effortlessly from her sister’s mouth in the presence of others. Her cheeks flushed brighter than the red that adorned the Kenras’ attire from the secondhand embarrassment. Her gaze quickly fell to her hands as her fingers fiddled with the blue trim along the hem of her corset.

Behind them, Dorian snorted out a laugh, unable to hide his amusement at his ‘pristine’ sister slipping up less than an hour into the evening. The Queen shot him a sharp, sidelong glance which first pulled another laugh from him, before he averted his gaze and coughed in an attempt to mask the chuckle that still rumbled in his chest.

"Enough," the King snapped with a quiet sharpness so it would not draw undesired attention. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he turned his attention back toward Lord Garrik. "Apologies for my children. They’ve grown so accustomed to bickering amongst themselves that they forget how to behave in the presence of our guests."

Lord Garrick had placed a hand over his heart and was beginning to bow to Queen Valenya when Princess Maeve’s words cut cleanly through the warmth of the introductions. His pleasant, sun-worn features creased in surprise—but not in offense, nor embarrassment.

Beside Valerius, Lady Lyra’s eyes flared for the barest of moments. Her hand tightened around the crook of Valerius’ arm, and she felt the fine hairs at the back of her neck prickle with heat. She kept her poise, her gaze shifting almost commiseratively to Princess Rhea as the young woman mouthed her sister’s name in reproach.

Lady Elara’s vulpine eyes closed slowly, as if some quiet instinct had been confirmed. When she opened them again, her features returned to their prior serenity, save for a respectful arch now touching her brow and mouth. The matriarch of House Kenra inclined her chin toward her husband, awaiting his reply.

“My King, my sincerest apologies,” Lord Garrick began, earnest and direct, his gaze holding Rowan’s without faltering. “You needn’t offer excuse—it is House Kenra that owes an explanation…”

With a resolute set to his jaw, Valerius released his arm from Lyra’s grasp and stepped forward, coolly interrupting his father. He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed—lower than his station or the moment demanded. When he straightened, he met each of the royals in turn with a steady, unguarded gaze, beginning with the King himself.

“Your Grace. My King. My Queen. And all of House Storvane,” Valerius said. “I apologize for my appearance. I assure you I am most honored—indeed humbled—to stand before the family to whom my house is fully and wholeheartedly pledged.”

His voice remained calm, even, and contrite, despite the thunder of nerves battering at his skull. “I offer that on the road from River’s End, my trunk was lost—and with it, all attire befitting this occasion.”

At last, Valerius turned his gaze to Princess Maeve. He met her haughty, striking attention without flinching. In that moment, it felt like the bravest thing he had ever done, and he pressed forward as if charging a line of leveled lances.

“I came adorned thus tonight,” he said plainly, “of the mind that it would be slightly less offensive than wearing nothing at all.”

Maeve held his gaze, unwavering and piercing, looking down at him from the slope of her nose as he addressed her directly and drew a breath closer. She held her ground, face unchanging and stoic. All the while an image, unbidden and vulgar, crawled to the forefront of her mind. A vision of Lord Valerius, just as he was but absent his tattered riding attire, unclothed before the entirety of court. Her pulse quickened, unsure if it was from the brazen comment so openly given or perhaps an odd curiosity. It nearly drew her eyes south… There was a flicker, but she kept them steadfast and locked on his own, even when she felt a warmth threaten to bloom across her cheeks. She remained unchanging and stubborn in her stance until a boisterous laugh rumbled to life from behind her, causing her to flinch and break eye contact.

Dorian was nearly doubled over, hand pressed to his stomach as his roar of laughter returned tenfold. "Now that would make courting far more interesting."

"Dorian," the Queen hissed, her voice like a knife cutting through the small gathering.

Meanwhile Rhea looked like nothing would make her happier than to disappear beneath her skirts and melt through the floor.

"I suppose…" Maeve cleared her throat, steeling her composure to push beyond her brother’s immaturity and meet the Lord’s gaze once again. "We should be thankful that not all of your adornments were lost to your travels, Lord Valerius," she replied, pointedly saying his name when it had yet to be readily given. All the implications said and unsaid were like a silent challenge, a move on the chessboard to show a glimpse at the knowledge she had been curating for months in preparation for this exact moment.

"There is no need to apologize, my Lords," the King interjected, sparing his children sidelong glances in a bid to command obeisance. He turned his attention back to Lord Garrick before letting it settle on Valerius. "It is unfortunate that the Gods frowned upon your journey." His gaze shifted toward the far side of the dais where Declan stood like a gargoyle in black with his back to the wall, a vigilant guardian that melted into the darkness of shadows rather than demanding attention. The King’s brows rose, an idea sparking, and he set to motion.

"Ser Declan," he called toward his silent sentinel. When he caught his son’s attention, he beckoned him closer with a small wave of two fingers.

Declan had been paying attention in the unseen ways most of the guard listened and watched like paintings that hung on the walls or how statues lurked at the end of the hall. He was invisible like the servants who roamed the Citadel, only seen when called upon or they deemed it so. He had mastered the skill of stoic attentiveness, unmoved by comments, humor, or scenes, but always watching. But when his father called his name, it tore through his vigil and demanded his presence.

He looked toward his father, brows furrowed in confusion. There was a moment where he hesitated, but heeded the call, loyal and dutiful as was expected of him. Declan approached, his right hand poised at his side, left loosely wrapped around the hilt of his sword. He stopped short of invading the gathering of nobles, but close enough to hear his King’s demands at a respectable distance.

"Your Grace." He bowed.

"Come here, son." The King waved him closer with a warm smile and casual gesture that went beyond formalities and rank.

Declan drew in a deep breath as his gaze drifted between the members of House Kenra and then his own family. He paused on Rhea for a beat, just long enough to see her warm, albeit unnerved smile of gentle reassurance. He closed the remaining distance, filling the space his father opened for him with an outstretched arm that braced him across his shoulders.

"Do you recall if we kept any of your old garments?"

"I, uh…" Declan’s smile became a little uneven as the question caught him off guard. He blinked once or twice trying to push beyond duty and into the younger man who was once a Prince. "I believe most of it remains in the wardrobe in my old chambers." He knew his father had the answer before he spoke. It was his wish to keep everything the way it was when Declan decided to step down and join the guard. That revelation didn’t require his assistance, but beneath it all he knew it was a way to include him as his son, even when position demanded otherwise.

"Wonderful!" The King clapped him against the back of the shoulder once before redirecting his smile toward the Kenras. "I think Lord Valerius might be a bit tall, but your old attire would serve him better than collecting dust," he concluded with a pleased nod. "You shall aid him with this tomorrow, yes?" While worded like a command, the King’s tone showed the gentleness of a father to a son, not a King to a subordinate.

Declan bowed his head with a small smile. "Of course. It would be my honor."

"Then it is settled." The King’s smile grew with a radiated warmth, pleased in knowing he was able to help in some small way. He gave his son one last pat to the back before releasing him, and letting him return to his post.

The King’s warmth, his kindness, and the magnanimous finality with which the matter had been concluded took a long moment to reach Valerius’s consciousness. When he loosed his words to the princess, the arrow had flown truer than he had ever imagined. For in truth, Valerius hadn’t envisioned at all—he had spoken, innocently brazen and daringly wholesome. The way the princess looked down upon him from her high place, imperious, impervious, beautiful, was like that of a poised blade glinting in the morning sun before biting deep.

Yet, no bite came. Something else had shimmered instead, subtle and so imperceptible that Valerius questioned whether he had seen it at all. What’s more—she had already known his name.

“Your Graces,” Valerius said at last, his mind finally catching up to the moment. Pulling his eyes from Maeve, he inclined his head first to the King, and then to Ser Declan. “You do me a kindness that I will never forget. Thank you, truly.”

Lord Garrick took the moment to step to Valerius and clap his son upon the shoulder. “Well,” the Kenran lord said, “there’s nothing quite like missing trousers to bring people together.” Garrick chuckled heartily at his own jest, the laughter somehow taking the edge off the lingering bite of the Queen’s rebuke of Dorian. “Though we Kenras have already thrown decorum to the wind, please allow me the indulgence of introducing my family.”

“Your Graces, my wife, Lady Elara Kenra,” Garrick continued, reaching out with the hand not resting upon Valerius’s shoulder to warmly indicate his spouse.

At her introduction, Lady Elara executed a perfect curtsy, inclining her head just so that her circlet of pearls fell aesthetically across her brow. “It is my most esteemed honor to see you again, Your Graces,” she said, sharp eyes demurring respectfully from King to Queen, and then across the Storvane progeny.

“Valerius, my son and heir,” Garrick added, squeezing Valerius’s shoulder, pride evident in his smile.

As Valerius bowed once more, he intentionally gave his attention to every single one of the royals. He recognized in that bare moment the King’s warmth, the Queen’s striking resoluteness, Prince Dorian’s chaotic charm, Princess Maeve’s lingering formidability, Princess Rhea’s obvious discomfort, and in Ser Declan a complicated dutifulness. His head swam as he took them all in—a realization that this truly was only the beginning of the intrigue to come. Valerius blew out a subtle breath of relief as his father moved on to introduce his sister, but the Kenran heir could not help but hazard one last glance toward the eldest princess.

“And finally, but certainly not last in my heart, my eldest daughter, Lyra.”

Like her mother, Lyra curtsied in a fashion that was courtly and well-honed—if less striking in its entirety than that of Lady Elara’s. Much as her brother had done, Lyra gave each Storvane the respect of her eyes. Heat still blossomed at the back of her neck from Princess Maeve’s cutting remark at Valerius, and she gave the eldest daughter her least regard. Conversely, Lyra found herself slightly smiling at Princess Rhea. The youngest royal had an awkward, innocent beauty to her that reminded Lyra of her brother—a soul perhaps naturally too pristine for the vulgarity of the court.

“It is such a joy to meet you all, Your Graces,” Lyra said. “The blessings your family has imparted upon House Kenra have been lauded within the halls of River’s End my entire life, and I am grateful for it.”

“Well said, my dear. Hear, hear!” Lord Garrick declared. Still beaming, the Lord of House Kenra at last completed his own bow to King and Queen. “My King, My Queen, the knotted sword of my house is yours to wield. So happy am I to once again join at your side for such a joyous occasion. May fortune favor both our fates, twining us together for generations to come.”

The royal siblings’ stirrings had settled as their father handled the matter swiftly with a selfless charity that colored all of his actions. Dorian’s laughter had eventually vanished beneath the soft roar of voices that filled the hall. Maeve remained portrait perfect, her posture and presence never faltering aside from her discerning gaze that would give its due respect during introductions but inevitably find its way back to Valerius. And Rhea’s discomfort eased when she caught sight of Lyra’s faint smile that only seemed to blossom when their eyes met. It was small and missable, but to Rhea it was a brief moment where she felt like she was seen through the chaos of her siblings. Her own smile, just as quiet and timid, grew like a silent exchange between both women, an unspoken understanding lost beneath the exuberance of their fathers.

"The halls of the Black Citadel shine brighter with the presence of you and your family, old friend. I look forward to the tales and revelries we shall share, and the fruitful prospect of strengthening our bonds further." The King’s smile widened as he gave Lord Garrick a parting hug with an ardent pat to his back that spoke of their years of companionship, not a King to a Lord, but two friends reunited after years apart. With a final bow from himself, followed by parting curtsies from the Queen, Maeve and Rhea, and a bow from Dorian, the King climbed back up the dais and reclaimed his place among his family.

With the formalities concluded and the King returned to his place upon the dais, the great hall seemed to exhale. Sound rushed back in like a tide long held at bay—voices swelling, laughter blooming, the scrape of chairs and the low, expectant hum of a court awakening to itself. Servants flowed between the gathered houses with trays of wine and silvered plates, and banners stirred in the high vaults above as if even the stone wished to listen.

House Kenra did not linger beneath the royal eye. Lord Garrick moved first, broad shoulders already turning toward familiar faces and old allies emerging from the press. His laughter rang soon after, warm and unmistakable, cutting through the din as he clasped forearms and drew men close in greeting. Lady Elara followed at a measured pace, her attention already divided—eyes sharp as she assessed the shifting geometry of the hall, noting who approached whom, who lingered too long, and which smiles rang hollow. Lyra remained with her mother for a time, answering polite overtures with grace and practiced warmth, her posture relaxed but her awareness keen. She watched the room as a hunter watches tall grass—patient, discerning, and wholly unfooled by ornament.

Valerius drifted more slowly, peeled away by necessity rather than intent. Lords approached with courteous nods and measured curiosity, some offering praise thinly veiled as appraisal, others testing him with questions of River’s End, of pirates, of steel and harvest and loyalty. He answered each in turn with the same steady candor, conscious of his bearing, of the worn jacket upon his shoulders, of the weight his name now carried in this place. Yet for all the voices that met his ear, for all the eyes that sought to measure him, his attention betrayed him in small, traitorous ways.

More than once, as he turned or shifted or paused between conversations, Valerius found his gaze straying—drawn back toward the dais, toward a figure framed in ivory and sapphire and restraint. Each time he corrected himself, grounding his thoughts as he would his stance in battle, reminding himself that the night was young and the court a dangerous place for idle fixations. And yet, the memory lingered all the same: a poised gaze held without yielding, a name spoken before it was offered, a presence sharp as a blade and just as difficult to forget.

Lyra noticed the pattern before Valerius did. She said nothing—only watched him from across the hall, one brow lifting almost imperceptibly as she took in the subtle tilt of his head, the fraction of a heartbeat too long his attention lingered in one direction. Suddenly ill at ease, Lyra shifted away, her thoughts uncertain. Looking up again, Lyra froze. Across the hall, half-hidden in the shadow of an arch near the dais, her eyes locked to the scrutiny of her uncle.

The Keeper of Secrets, Ser Torin Kenra, regarded her as if his stony expression veritably pulled the thoughts from her mind. A cold shiver thrilled down her spine, gooseflesh puckering her skin despite the warmth. The man lifted his chin, his face canting ever so slightly in a way that conveyed a message even across the span of the crowded hall.

I have seen what you have seen.

^{interactions ....|.... House Storvane ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... @Mjolnir}

Reign of the Usurper

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𓌜 ♠︎ 𓌜

N O T A B L E . R I V E R ' S . E N D . L O C A T I O N S

𓌜 ♠︎ 𓌜

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B R A C K M E R E Situated at the fork of the Trorane River Delta, and a mere stone’s throw from the Bay of Kaen and the North Sea beyond, Brackmere is equal parts fortification, fishery, trade hub, and tannery. Animal hides and game meat flow from Brackmere Wood, the Plains of Relai, and even the basin of Cragehollow to pass onto the ships of the Blue Fleet, and beyond to trading ports across the north. These same ships of the trade fleet bring in the plentiful fish of the Glasrial Coast to be smoked and salted for distribution to the citizenry of River’s End, and as far afield as Stonefallow and Ironcrag. Brackmere is a bustling place, known for relative safety, economic opportunity, and as a sanctuary for those looking to spend their coin on sweet-stalk vodka and Kenran ale. As a fortification Brackmere is formidable, being surrounded on three sides by the Trorane River fork and the navigable delta on the fourth. A siege of the city is only traditionally possible by traversing the four stone causeways, known as the Four Stags, that lead to the city’s main gates. Though the delta is navigable, however, the final outlet of the Trorane River as it feeds into the Bay of Kaen is prone to blockades. To help protect against this vulnerability, the oceanside fortification known as the Sable Spire was constructed. ...........................................................................................

S A B L E . S P I R E Built by the forebears of House Kenra known as the Line of Tror, the Sable Spire is a small combination lighthouse and fortification used to protect the inlet of the Bay of Kaen and the Trorane River. In recent generations it has also come to serve as a shrine to the governing force Lacra, with pilgrims ranging from across River’s End to pray and ask for blessings of the Waves of Life. Situated at the fork of the Trorane River Delta, and a mere stone’s throw from the Bay of Kaen and the North Sea beyond, Brackmere is equal parts fortification, fishery, trade hub, and tannery. Animal hides and game meat flow from Brackmere Wood, the Plains of Relai, and even the basin of Cragehollow to pass onto the ships of the Blue Fleet, and beyond to trading ports across the north. These same ships of the trade fleet bring in the plentiful fish of the Glasrial Coast to be smoked and salted for distribution to the citizenry of River’s End, and as far afield as Stonefallow and Ironcrag. Brackmere is a bustling place, known for relative safety, economic opportunity, and as a sanctuary for those looking to spend their coin on sweet-stalk vodka and Kenran ale. As a fortification Brackmere is formidable, being surrounded on three sides by the Trorane River fork and the navigable delta on the fourth. ...........................................................................................

A V I L O R E . E Q U E S T R Y Located near the southern foothills of Brackmere, Avolire Equestry serves as the hub of husbandry for the vaunted Brackmere Iron-Hides. Run by the wealthy Rambullet family for twelve generations, the Equestry is one of the largest complexes of its kind in all of Aethoria. Boasting dozens of stables, pens, tack lodges, and housing for its extensive staff of trainers and craftsmen, Avolire Equestry is a small village in its own right. Beyond the primary economic exports of River’s End—namely fish and game-stock—the sale of Brackmere Iron-Hide horses throughout Aethoria accounts for a significant portion of the wealth flowing into the province. ...........................................................................................

F O R T . T W O B R E W Fort Twobrew is a fortified game and hide–processing hub located at the northeastern edge of River’s End, less than half a day’s ride from the Stonefallow border. Hunters and hidesmen use Fort Twobrew as a staging point for expeditions into the surrounding forests and mountains. The fort has long been a point of contention in the dealings between River’s End and Stonefallow, with the latter claiming that the fortification serves as a base for Kenran-sanctioned poaching parties that range into Stonefallow lands. This accusation is vehemently denied by House Kenra and Lord Garrick. Nonetheless, Fort Twobrew has seen its fair share of battles between the forces of River’s End and Stonefallow retainers. ...........................................................................................

[CLOSED] 𝖂𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝕳𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝕳𝖆𝖘 𝕵𝖔𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖉 : Advanced Gothic Dark Romance (M for F)

𖤐 CLOSED 𖤐

♱ 𝖂𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝕳𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝕳𝖆𝖘 𝕵𝖔𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖉 ♱

_{“If this love is a sin, then why does it feel like prayer?”}

They were never meant to touch.

One was sworn—by blood, by vow, by sacrament—to serve the divine will. The other was marked by sin, curse, or heresy, a living contradiction to holy order. In another life, in another age, they might have been executioner and condemned… or saint and temptation.

Yet God, in His terrible wisdom, bound them anyway.

Their union was not born of love but of necessity—a miracle wrought through prayer, ritual, or prophecy. Together, they were meant to seal a breach, hunt a blasphemy, or stand against something older than scripture. For a time, grace flowed. Faith held. Desire was denied.

Until it wasn’t.

What followed was a fall—not the dramatic kind sung of in hymns, but the slow, intimate corruption of certainty. Doubt crept in. Touch lingered. Prayer turned desperate. When the truth finally emerged, it shattered more than faith; it damned them both.

Now they are bound still.

Through divine punishment, holy covenant, or a curse disguised as mercy, they are forced once more into each other’s presence. The Church watches. Heaven is silent. Hell waits patiently.

Between whispered confessions and stolen glances, they must decide whether their love was a sin…
or a truth God Himself was unwilling to forgive.

_{“God was silent when we fell — but Heaven still remembers our names.”}

𝐎𝐎𝐂 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬

The above plot hook is an open-ended taste of my desire to build a dark romance roleplay within a world that is gothic, ecclesiastical, action-fueled, and sexy. I want to build a deeply rich and resonant story with a talented and imaginative partner who desires the same. Read on for further heretical details...

𐕣 - 1x1 play-by-post
𐕣 - Supernatural or divinely touched characters required (angel, fallen angel, demon, saint, cursed cleric, possessed mortal, heretic, etc.)
𐕣 - Heavy themes: Forbidden desire, faith vs. temptation; guilt, shame, and devotion; love as salvation or damnation
𐕣 - Aesthetic themes: Strong dark Christian / ecclesiastical aesthetic (cathedrals, relics, vows, confessionals, miracles, damnation)
𐕣 - Enemies-to-lovers / duty-vs-desire dynamics welcome / heterosexual pairing
𐕣 - Emotional intensity > rapid pacing
𐕣 - Gothic, gritty, sensual tone (fade-to-black friendly, but detailed smut preferred)
𐕣 - Collaborative worldbuilding is a must

_{“They bound us in His name, never asking what He would demand in return.”}

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐬

𐕣 - Adult female writer
𐕣 - Advanced writing level (If we are unacquainted I will ask for a writing sample, and I'll happily provide one as well)
𐕣 - Willing and eager to worldbuild and engage deeply
𐕣 - Preference for playing a character that is sexually submissive
𐕣 - Comfortable with heavy adult themes (I don't mean all smut - violence, manipulation, psychological torment, etc.)
𐕣 - Committed and desiring a long-term partnership

𐕣 𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝑫𝑴 𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𐕣

Reign of the Usurper

[x] [x] [x]

In the depths of the Black Rose brothel | Present day

#355E3B

From where he sat at the foot of the man-sized torture table—for that’s exactly what the sturdy piece of furniture was—Ser Torin Kenra could not simply shift away from the insistent prodding of the thing. Leaning forward at the waist, he reached behind himself with his one remaining hand, feeling for the offending device.

His fingers brushed something hard, smooth, and cool, wedged among the ebony velvet pillows arranged to prop him up. Grasping it fully, Torin pulled it free of its pillowy confines and brought it around before him.

“By The Nine,” Torin scowled.

The phallus was carved of dense hardwood—lacquered, smooth, and obscenely detailed. Its size beggared belief, more cudgel than pleasure device. Torin lifted his gaze along his crooked nose, one eye perpetually squinting in judgment, and fixed the woman before him with the full weight of his displeasure.

“Ah, my apologies, Lord,” said the Domme with a flat tone. Stepping forward, her black silks rustling, Domme Xyla plucked the object from his hand as casually as if retrieving a tankard needing refill. “I had little time to prepare for your arrival.”

Torin wiped his hand on his trouser leg before waving away the apology. The metal hook affixed to the stump of his left arm flashed dully in the dim light. The Keeper of Secrets had been in fouler places—and had worse things pressed into the small of his back.

“No bother. Pray, continue,” Torin said.

The Domme hid the phallus in some shadowed drawer and then claimed the only true chair in the space. Crossing one long, muscular leg over the other, she settled her silks with practiced grace. Torin knew her to be of Sunderlandian descent: sun-kissed skin, dark hair, vulpine features, and immersive eyes. A striking, dominating beauty—and one of the Valley of Kings’ most sought-after disciplinarians. She happened to be one of Torin’s most reliable informants as well.

Torin did not often deign to visit informants personally, but the Domme’s calls were an exception. Visiting the Black Rose was said to be beneath nobility—especially one in direct service to the king. Yet it was equally accepted that nobles loved whoring as much as anyone else. Slinking down to a brothel as part of his duties conveniently upheld appearances that Torin valued his cock for more than its utility in urinating while standing—though that assumption was wholly untrue.

“A huntsman from your homeland paid for my services two days ago,” the Domme began. Her filed nails drummed a slow rhythm atop her thigh, her accent rich but clear. “In his state, he was very forthcoming…”

She picked at her thumb nail with another. “He reported he had completed a hunting expedition—along with a cohort of other Ender brethren—with the approval of Lord Kenra himself. A hunting expedition that took him well within the borders of Stonefallow.”

At the mention of River’s End’s volatile eastern neighbor, her manicured brow rose fractionally.

Torin’s face remained impassive, the squinting scowl as rigid as stone. Internally, he cursed. How could his brother be foolish enough to risk such blatant provocation? Peace with Stonefallow was recent and fragile. The previous border skirmishes, born from an earlier spat over Ender poaching, had nearly sparked outright conflict. If expeditions were now truly sanctioned by the Lord of Brackmere himself, there would be hell to pay—and the currency would be blood.

“This huntsman,” Torin growled. “What was his name?”

The Domme canted her head as though recalling a dream. “Trarrow, Lord. That was the name he offered. At least in my company.”

Torin chewed his cheek when no recollection surfaced.“What else about him?”

The Domme recited what she knew—appearance, demeanor, idle talk, even the preferences he indulged during his time with her. Little of it was immediately useful, but Torin’s traplike mind gathered every detail. When she finished, Torin pushed himself off the cushion-covered bench and rose to his feet. His hook came to rest naturally at the broad leather belt around his waist.

“You’ve done well, Mistress,” he said, adjusting himself. He withdrew two golden coins and placed them at the foot of the torture table before moving past her. His mind was already distant, dwelling on the grim conversation he would soon have with his brother.

War in the north is all the king needs. Damn your eyes, brother! And for what? A few hides and herd sires? The Nine help us.

Domme Xyla stood as her patron shuffled past, offering a dignified bow and quiet word of thanks. The coinage vanished into her possession with the seamless ease of long practice.

Torin reached the chamber door and grasped the iron hasp—then froze. The metal was warm beneath his fingers. With silver hair hanging around his face, he lifted the hook from his belt to sweep a few strands behind his ear, clearing it. Eyes tilting upward as though the heavens might aid his hearing, he stood utterly still.

Beyond the wall to his left, voices murmured. Male voices. Not the language of passion—the tone was too sharp, each phrase clipped.

Moving with the care of a man stepping onto thin ice, Torin placed his ear against the plaster. Domme Xyla, reading his sudden stillness, went silent. She heard the voices too, though she could not make out the words.

Torin listened, his one squinting eye beginning to twitch as the meaning sharpened. Declan. Dorian. The princes of the realm—arguing fiercely inside a brothel chamber not ten feet from where Torin stood. Their exchange carried the cadence of old rivals trading blows they knew all too well.

With a genuine sigh of regret, Torin remained fixed to the wall. Like a gargoyle, he kept his place until the voices spilled into the main body of the Black Rose, heralded by the thud of a heavy door opening. Only then did he move to his own entryway and listen again. The hook returned to its place on his belt.

Domme Xyla watched him, curious but stoic. Though Torin’s scowl never faltered, the unwavering focus in his posture spoke of danger and iron will. After a long moment, he grasped the metal hasp and gave her a curt nod.

“The way is clear,” he said. “If you hear more of River's End, do not hesitate to reach out. The usual way will do.”

Without another word, the Keeper of Secrets slid open the heavy door and shuffled out of the Black Rose—past Madame Lyssa, past the bawds and their too-sweet perfumes—his scowl and grim purpose leading the way.

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Reign of the Usurper

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Along the banks of the Trorane River, River's End | Some weeks past

#CC5500 & #6495ED

“Lift, man! Lift!” Valerius Kenra hissed through gritted teeth. Sweat dripped from the hair about his eyes. The knuckles of his large hands were white with strain, clutching the haft of the carriage axle as his broad shoulders pressed into the underside of the disabled vehicle. The stitching of his obliques and the horseshoe of his triceps filled the white cloth of his sweat-sheer tunic like wind filling a wetted sail.

From his place at the working end of the log that was levering up the wheel, the Master of the Hunt Silas Vane gave his lord a plaintive grunt of effort as his only reply.

“You’ll never get the wheel on lifting only that high, brother.”

Through the salty haze of his strain, Valerius managed to turn his head just enough to look up at his sister. “Perhaps…” he wheezed, “…if you could return to your place as silent ballast in the other carriage you could let us finish?”

For the barest of moments, Lyra Kenra regarded her brother’s words and predicament before moving to add her own weight to lifting the carriage. From behind her, a slight “Eep!” of dismay came from one of Lyra’s handmaidens as the eldest daughter of House Kenra placed herself into harm’s way. Dismayed though the servants all were at the sight of the stubborn Kenran’s handiwork, there was no doubt that the addition of Lyra’s muscle was making a difference. The carriage with its damaged wheel moved askew just high enough of the rut for a manservant to lug the part from the axle, and for the replacement to be slammed home.

What should have been a triumphal occasion was dashed, however, as the sound of rending cordage and the hiss of lacquered wood sliding from atop the tilted carriage was subsequently followed by a distinct thump and splash. Eyes wide, Valerius wriggled from beneath the carriage as it settled upon its new wheel. The gathered servants gaped in disbelief as Valerius sprinted his way to the far side of the carriage, and to the banks of the blue-green ribbon that was the river Trorane. Floating briskly downriver, and back towards Brackmere and the sea, was Valerius’ finery trunk.

The tall knight and lordling of Kenra dragged his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. His hazel eyes followed the trunk, full of all his best robes and adornments, wind its way down the river like the most expensive autumn leaf the Trorane had ever floated.

“Ah,” said Silas, coming to stand beside his lord as he slapped the dirt from his hands. “That’s one way to get out of a ball, milord.” The master of the hunt softened his jibe with a wry, but genuine, smile. “I can ride after it, if ya like? It’s possible it’ll get hung up at Walker’s Turn downriver, which isn’t too far back.”

Valerius removed his hands from his dark hair, the locks pinned back across his scalp from the mixture of sweat and axle grease. Lungs still working from exertion and now exasperation, Valerius merely scowled for a time then, at last, he smiled. Not looking to Silas, he clapped the man on the back between his well-formed shoulders. “No need, my friend. Boreal wanted that trunk for a reason, and I shall not doubt their reasoning.” Valerius withdrew his hand, and hitched up his trousers, but not before ensuring that he had wiped a significant amount of grease onto Silas’ back. “The ladies of the Black Citadel will just have to take me as I am—riding clothes and all.” He met Silas’ skeptical gaze. “Please prepare our departure. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

Not waiting for the huntsman’s answer, Valerious knelt at the side of the river. Reaching down, he washed his hands in the silt and sand of the bank, letting the cool water drain some of the heat from his aching fingers. Is every force meant to be against me, Lacra? he thought, addressing the force of the river’s waters. With his elbows resting upon his bent knees, no reply was forthcoming. Behind him, Valerius could hear the bustle of the house train crescendoing as the retinue of servants, guards, and beasts of burden prepared themselves for the resumption of the journey down the King’s Road.

Valerius did not hurry himself to join them. The retinue was still weeks away from the Valley of Kings. A few more minutes with his thoughts would not harm his journey any more than fate had already done. As he continued to wash himself in the river, Valerius scoffed at the thought. Fate, indeed. Cool river water cascaded in rivulets down his neck, pooling into the valley of his clavicle and at the crest of his chest. Leaning back upon heels, Valerius looked up into the azure sky. “Fate Upon Our Sword,” he spoke aloud, reciting the motto in hushed tones. “If only a princess’s heart could be won upon a blade…”

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Approaching the Black Citadel | Present day

#CC5500 & #6495ED

Navy and silver pennants fluttered upon the mountain’s breath, luffing in lazy arcs from their places atop the guard towers along the King’s Road, signifying the final leg towards the Black Citadel. Upon the same hot and oppressive sigh of air, the sounds of the Valley of Kings grew in its cacophony, adding noise and the hum of life to air thick with the odors of the same.

“Make way! Make way, there!” A booming voice called down the busy street. The officer of the King’s Guard and his fellow Raven used the imposing size of their mounts as much as their commanding calls to clear the road ahead. Each of the warhorses upon which the honor-detail rode were twenty hands high at the shoulder, broad of neck and thick of chest. The citizenry before them flowed around their massive slate-gray forms, collectively scowling in frustration, but not dawdling. The real possibility of being trampled by lacquered hooves awaited any who did not heed the warning.

From her vantage within the covered carriage, Lyra smiled at the sight of the steeds of the King’s Guard. They were Brackmere Iron-Hides, a breed of warhorse coveted across Aethoria, and native to the plains of River’s End. Exorbitantly expensive, Lyra had no doubt her uncle had some hand in convincing the Ravens of the Black Citadel that they required such mounts. This was so, even though in all her studies of Aethorian history Lyra could not recall a single recounting of a King’s Guard cavalry charge. It was comforting to Lyra that at least one pillar of House Kenra understood that power and influence was a crop that required constant tending. Altruism and charity were fruits only harvested upon the scythe of relevance. Ser Torin Kenra, Keeper of Secrets, knew this labor well. With the shadow of the Black Citadel upon her, it was a skill that Lyra vowed she would also master.

As the towers and battlements of the great seat of Aethorian power drew nearer, the empty eyes of House Storvane’s snow owl sigil gazed down upon the procession of House Kenra. Shifting her attention from the King’s Guard and their chargers, Lyra lifted her eyes to follow the banners of the King’s house for a time. She ensured that the phalanx of Storvane retainers that escorted the retinue would note that she was giving the king’s symbols its due. Yet, she was also careful to not crane her neck like a gawping bumpkin—the court of Storvane would get her honor, but not her awe.

It had been nearly a decade since Lyra had seen the marker of the king on anything but a royal seal. Though her father regarded King Rowan highly, Lord Garrick Kenra was a loyal and relatively far-flung vassal—there was little need for state visits or martial posturing on the part of the king when he had a loyal hound ready to heel at the sound of his whistle.

“I hear Prince Dorian is quite handsome,” the handmaid seated beside her said to both Lyra and no one in particular, as she stuck her head out of the carriage window to gape at the mountain that was the Black Citadel.

“The Peacock?” Lyra replied, reaching out to gently pull the girl back into the carriage by the sleeve of her gown. The lady of Kenra and her handmaidens had had some version of this same conversation roughly a thousand times since they had departed Brackmere, and the arc of the plot was as predictable as the procession of the sun. “You mean the accidental prince?” Lyra said, smiling at the corners of her eyes. “Handsome he may be. Unfortunately, his betrothed would have to be wary of bastards popping up like weeds from Ashmar to Phoros for the rest of her days.”

Covering their mouths, the handmaidens stifled giggles and demure sniggers at the vulgarity of their lady. As the women continued to chatter softly, Lyra leaned her head back against the velvet header of the carriage’s interior. The mirth was a welcome tonic for the tension that had been building along with the stifling heat as the delegation of House Kenra had descended into the Valley of Kings. Confident in herself though she was, this was to be the most consequential moment of Lyra’s life. The halls of Brackmere and its tangled worries seemed small and inconsequential here—as dichotomous and vast as a tied string was to a tangled net. Reaching up, Lyra smoothed her fingers absently over the embroidered sword and knot motif emblazoned across the swell of her bosom. Fate Upon Our Sword, she thought.

“We’re at the gates.”

Valerius’ voice startled Lyra from her thoughts. Sitting up, Lyra looked out the window to where Valerius bent atop his own Iron-Hide steed to carry his voice inside the carriage to her. His face was sheened with sweat, hazel eyes peering with genuine care from beneath the shelf of his brow. She noted how road grime and perspiration had discolored the crimson and cobalt of his riding coat. The servants had done their best to clean and mend, but there was little that could hide such abuses. The garment, along with much of Valerius other remaining riding attire, had been pressed into near constant service for weeks after the loss of his trunk.

“Thank you, brother.” She gave him a soft smile. A smile that belied the anxious thunder of her heart within her chest. “A journey over at last, only for another to begin again.”

Valerius winked at her, his mouth tugging into a lopsided grin. “It’s just wine and wenches, sister,” came the oft-used reply. It was a phrase the siblings had exchanged for years, always denoting an air of extreme nonchalance when the reality was frequently anything but.

She offered a knowing expression as she watched Valerius spur his horse forward, trotting headlong to the fore of the column as the open gates of the Black Citadel yawned before them. It was in her brother’s nature to charge forward, taking command, lifting his eyes up and out to the heavens and the challenge the Nine placed before him. She loved him for that nature, and it welled pride within her heart to see it.

Lyra let her short nails fall to the corsetry about her waist, her fingers finding the subtle ridge amidst the boned structure of the garment where the stiletto knife was secreted. She had not meant for the entire loss of her brother’s clothing when she had nicked the cordage of the tie-down weeks ago. At most she had hoped for the large trunk to topple off, splinter, and for a few pieces of finery to be soiled by mud or wood splinters. What had occurred along the banks of the Trorane, however, had been an occurrence she could never have foreseen. Boreal, the Tempestuous Winds, and the governing force of chaos, had taken her small act and magnified it a hundred fold.

Lyra felt her face flush with more than just the valley’s heat. One small act of mischief in the past had conjured up a present that had been truly unpredictable. She had left Valerius at a disadvantage now, but that alone was not what had set her color to rise about her neck. So many acts, great and small, were before her now. The machinations of the rival houses were one thing to work against, but chaos itself? No king or queen, no matter how powerful, wealthy, or loved was free of its neutral disdain.

The abrupt halt of the carriage steeled Lyra, bringing her fully into the moment and out of her thoughts. A blanket of quiet fell across the courtyard as the din of the carriage’s wheels rattling across the cobbles ceased. Silence hissed inside her ears. Dust swirled about the windows, briefly obscuring the party of silhouettes that had been waiting to greet the Kenrans.

Just as abruptly as the carriage’s halt did the door beside Lyra click and swing open. A set of wooden steps was placed level with the carriage’s floor, followed instantly by a finely gloved hand offered in support and greeting.

“Milady, welcome to the Black Citadel.”

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Reign of the Usurper

H O U S E . K E N R A

^{— . lords of river's end . —}

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H O L D . brackmere

S I G I L . sword and knot

C O L O R S . cobalt blue & crimson

W O R D S . fate upon our sword

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L O R D . G A R R I C K . & . L A D Y . E L A R A L O R D . F C . sean connery . L A D Y . F C . connie nielsen H E X C O D E . #0047AB . H E X C O D E . #DC143C Upon the life-giving bow where the Trorane River Delta meets with the North Sea, the lords of House Kenra look out from Brackmere across the lands of River’s End, and revel in the hope, prosperity, and opportunity they see therein. A people known for their altruistic pragmatism, sense of justice, and the joy of a simple life, House Kenra stands apart from the high intrigue of the Aethorian court. While other houses trade in whispers and shadows, Kenra trades in steel, sustenance, and the promise of prosperity. Located in the fertile, distinct biome of River's End, they are a relative breadbasket for the frozen north and the shield of the coast. They are staunch, perhaps the only, true loyalists to King Rowan Storvane, viewing his "reign of the people" as the highest form of justice. Lord Garrick Kenra respects the King as much as he loathes the capital itself, and the perceived stain that such a hive of oiled vipers puts upon his longtime ally and friend. A mountain of a man, Lord Garrick is jovial, capable, and direct. He views intrigue and subterfuge as the play of weak men, and as such, Lord Garrick gives such matters little thought. However, he is pragmatic enough to know that continuing King Rowan’s reign through stable succession won’t come by chance, and House Kenra will focus its might to bolster such a noble goal. While Garrick holds the sword, Lady Elara Kenra holds the pen. She manages the massive logistics of River's End. She is sharp, observant, and far more politically astute than her husband. She knows they are walking into a roil that Lord Garrick is woefully underestimating. Though she is much more of a strategist than her husband, Lady Elara is still every bit a Kenra--she can fight, drink, sing, and dance with the best fishwives the Delta can breed.

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V A L E R I U S. K E N R A A G E . 24 . G E N D E R . male . S E X U A L I T Y . heterosexual H E X C O D E . #CC5500 . F C . jacob elordi • . blunt . • . loyal . • . kind . • . martial . • . honorable . • The eldest of Lord Garrick and Lady Elara’s progeny, Valerius Kenra is a man raised to be his father’s son. Tall, rigid, and honorable to a fault. He is arguably one of the best swordsmen of his generation, but he has zero charm. He speaks plainly and finds courtship baffling. His time as a teenager fighting against Free Cloak pirates along the Glasrial coast has made him confident and capable with a blade, but utterly lacking in tact and seduction when it comes to the fairer sex. Aware of his shortcomings, Valerius takes to his duty to his house with not so much alacrity, but a stoic resolve. He appeals to a Royal who wants a protector and stability, not poetry. He offers the Royal heir an army and a husband who will never lie to them--even when the truth would do well to be softened with polite fiction.

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L Y R A . K E N R A A G E . 23 . G E N D E R . female . S E X U A L I T Y . bisexual H E X C O D E . #6495ED . F C . sarah-sofie boussnina • . cunning . • . observant . • . willful . • . confident . • . pragmatic . • Known affectionately--and derisively--as the Huntress, Lyra Kenra, eldest daughter of Lord Garrick and Lady Elara, lives up to her moniker in every sense of the word. Athletic, observant, capable, strong, and cunning, Lyra is a Kenra of River’s End that is a true amalgamation of her parents’ qualities. Raised in equal measure in the halls of Brackmere and amidst the pines of Brackmere Wood, Lyra exemplifies the balance of skill and character Lady Elara wishes Valerius would possess. What Lyra lacks, however, is her eldest brother’s sense of duty to the goals of House Kenra. Lyra takes the family’s motto to heart in the truest sense--wishing to forge her own fate, free of the constraints of a predetermined life.

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S E R .T O R I N. K E N R A A G E . 51 . G E N D E R . male . S E X U A L I T Y . ASEXUAL H E X C O D E . #355E3B . F C . mark hamill • . cynical . • . fierce . • . stoic . • . intelligent . • . idealistic . • The last surviving sibling of Lord Garrick, Torin “The Hook” Kenra, is the most stalwart of champions for House Kenra. Though he loves Garrick dearly, Torin is wary of his brother’s unyielding support for the altruistic king. His wariness is born upon the awareness that the tides are shifting for King Rowan, as much as Garrick chooses to disregard such notions. As King Rowan's Master of Secrets, Torin views his role in the family as its most staunch protector amidst the shrouded and complex role as the court's whispering shadow. Where Garrick often chooses “King and Country” as his lodestone, Torin’s loyalty is solely to his family and its continued governance of River’s End. Thus far, in his tenure as Master of Secrets, these allegiances have aligned--but that is a marriage of circumstance that could easily change. Cynical, intelligent, and gruff, Torin is a man bent on keeping House Kenra’s status quo. His nickname derives from the steel fishing-net hook prosthetic that has replaced the lower half of Torin’s left arm. As a young man, Torin lost the arm in battle, fighting for King Rowan’s cause.

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^{N P C s . O F . N O T E}

S I L A S . V A N E While the Kenras are stoic and rigid, Silas is fluidity personified. Dark-haired, roguishly handsome, and possessing a silver tongue, he is the charm that Valerius lacks. He manages the House's hawks and hounds but functions socially as their diplomat in informal settings. Silas is fiercely loyal to River's End, but he is bored. He craves recognition. He acts as the House's "fixer" for problems that honor forbids Garrick from handling. He is a wild card because while he serves Kenra, he plays the game of thrones for the thrill of it, often taking risks that make Lady Elara nervous.

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E L I A N . T H O R N E A soft-spoken young man with ink-stained fingers and a perpetually nervous demeanor. He grew up as a ward in Brackmere and became Valerius’s only close friend. Where Valerius is the body of the House's honor, Elian is the mind. He is ostensibly there to record the history of the event, but his true value lies in his knowledge of precedent. He can weaponize old laws and treaties to defend House Kenra when they are verbally cornered by wittier opponents. He is the one person Valerius trusts completely with his insecurities.

Hey.

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