Bugman

My Brother's Keeper - A Song Of Ice and Fire Blackfyre Rebellion RP

“My Lord, your meeting with Septa Rhaena is nigh.”

Jon twitched slightly at what he heard. He supposed he had forgotten about that. Perhaps because he hadn’t deemed it important. But these days, he hadn’t deemed very much of anything important. When everyone was so much stupider, it felt simply unfair to himself to be troubled by their whiny entreaties. So many people were asking him for help, to do something, but only after they made a fool of themselves. What then is the point in helping, if as soon as things are briefly resolved the men of the world go back to their past ways?

“You can’t teach a man to fish instead of giving him a fish, if all he does is keep demanding a fish.”

He realized he had spoken the words out loud, and already began a soft moan in annoyance at the confused “My Lord?” that soon followed. Was he ailing with something? Much as he hated petitions every hour in their ever greater insignificance, he oughtn’t have forgotten this. He doubted the girl would have anything too important to say but to keep a member of the crown’s blood in the same dismissive headspace as a commoner was foolish.

It was also wrong and the man pinched himself to try to give his body a bit of a shock into wakeful activity. He despised the King, and every day he felt sardonic glee at their growing woes that began to accumulate not too long after his dismissal.

But though the menfolk had well and duly cocked it up, the ladies could hardly be blamed. He’d be a fool to think they were wholly powerless, but by and large they weren’t at fault for the state of things. To that end, he ought have treated Rhaena more kindly and nobly than he had in letting this meeting fall behind the drawers of his mind.

“Tell her I will be with her shortly. I- I had a meeting of great importance just prior,yes. Have the cooks rustle something up. Teas and whatnot. Things to pick at, wine, we ought be as welcoming as possible as befits a woman of such station.” He give a bit of a side-eyed glance at the man listening to his orders, before waving about to indicate that she was respectable for both her royal blood and her ecclesiastic position.

Spiteful, vengeful, and so much more could describe Lord Hightower, this he knew well enough. But he at least like to think he wasn’t quite a bad person, and hence bid no will to women that never slighted him. Setting aside that he didn’t want her to deliver to kin that he had effectively insulted her and her dynasty he didn’t want to offend the sensibilities of somebody genuinely faithful despite the cynicism that her privilege typically engrained.

Much as he had become a skeptic and ever more a misanthrope, he was still a believer in the Seven. He had read every treatise of the Maesters about contradictions in the scriptures and rituals, he had read every oddity of historic account and the cyclic corruption and knew well how his own distant ancestors had accepted the faith first and foremost solely to prevent themselves from being run down by the lances of the Andals as so many other ancient families of Westeros had been.

But he had more than enough to find that all the alternatives to the Faith of the Seven were so unconscionable that it was a default of sorts. For long he had examined this position in itself, skeptical in it for the reason it was likely just comfort that lead him to such. But with every new book he requisitioned from the Citadel, he found it ever more merited.

So, even if he cared not for the consequences on this earth for how Rhaena was met, and even if he cared not for her, at the very least he had to be concerned for the reaction of the Gods.

“Dress me in something new, quick. I’ve been in this a bit long.” he murmured, standing up and raising his hands. How many days had it been since he slept? More than a nap in his chair, anyway.

He wished he was more presentable, a shave and a grooming would do him good as would a bath, but at the very least as servants hurried in with food and drink and a change of flowers he hadn’t remembered asking for, he was at least making clear he was putting in effort. "Your Royal Highness!" He announced with spread arms, furs on his shoulders wriggling alongside the movement of his shoulders. "I wish things were somewhat more worthy of you gracing us, forgive me." an at least somewhat sincere bow followed this.

Jon realized he ought have asked for simple water to be brought, but it was a bit late for such a thing unprompted, lest that merely draw attention to its presence.

The bug man's hive of ideas

Hey.... I probably owe posts to my existing partners but a project is about to end which should give me more free time than I can handle....

My Brother's Keeper - A Song Of Ice and Fire Blackfyre Rebellion RP

Letters, so many letters. Jon was an incredible multi-tasker, of course. This was no exaggeration, for even now he was listening to those letters being read whilst playing a game of cards, chess, and reading a book. But perhaps it was age, perhaps it was frustration at the repetition of this over-exertion, but he grew weary of it. The droning on and on, of reports of chaos erupting amidst this fracticide. So tiresome, but something that Jon had seen coming.

Without him, that incompetent inbred on the throne would meet an even more inglorious fate than his father. He had already seemed to be accumulating a paunch in its infancy, seeming to want to emulate the worst examples his predecessor set.

Well, so be it. All that he could do was laugh, truly. The dance of dragons had made the family somewhat reticent to truly engage in the full extent of the politicking of Westeros. Jon had certainly made a concerted effort to become the hand of the King, but he wouldn’t arrange something along the lines of his predecessor. He had no patience for a civil war, and rather stability was what he sought to arrange despite everything.

Perhaps keeping the King’s loins sated was a bit too large within the balance-sheet of needs to keep the realm boring, but Jon felt that he could hardly be blamed for what followed. If he had remained hand, he would have navigated into peace and calm. Instead, ruin was coming, and the more he read into it, the more he read of what Maesters had heard from the more successfully prophetic of witches and septons alike, the more he laughed.

The strike to his ego would be compensated tenfold with how things would turn out for the House of the Dragon after this, that he knew.

Still, his children made this all too annoying. He could hardly enjoy what was to come as age started to mar him if he knew his own house would be ruined.

“Shut up, all of you.” He announced loudly, thinking for a moment, wondering where exactly his children were.

---

Morgan looked in the mirror, turning this way and that. He had already dismissed the beauticians, their efforts to hide the wrinkles far beyond his years failing. In the end he settled for the more stately appearance he gave them, even as the other advisors spoke of how the rest of his dress would interact with the appearance of skin and hair.

“That garment is too ostentatious, my Lord. They will think you are celebrating, or take it as a sign of you flaunting funds you haven’t spend in defence of the crown.”

The man sighed. That was true enough. Where would he be without these crones?

“I think this is all that I haven’t tried on.” The Lord replied, spreading his arms for the servants to take the jacket off of him, and donning a new one. Yes, it was perfect. It was decorated with small frills as if to resemble the battlements of a tower - the High Tower - but it was nonetheless solemn for the occasion.

“Are you ready for the next rehearsal, my Lord?”

“Of course, you can be swifter this time.” Morgan declared, turning this way and that, feeling the fit of the garment. No amount of preparation could make him ready for every question that might be levelled to him at the summit, but he could get close, especially if he managed to be just quiet enough that he didn’t bring attention to himself as representative of his House, yet not so quiet as to arouse suspicion.

Of course, it would be difficult anyway. It always was.

---

---

The girls chuckled, running hand in hand down the stairs. The disparity in their age had made most expect that they’d have little interest in each other’s company, but the shock of what the rest of their family thought and expected of them had ensured their mutual company was a rare respite. Sara was faithful, she knew that even in private this was more than a mere ruse to threaten her male kin’s plots with. But her Sisters in devotion rather than blood were all much younger or much older than the mere decade gap between her and Fiona. They understood each other’s world all too well, most other women in their lives being previously nobles of lower standing, those with aspirations and especially obligations much lower by orders of magnitude.

It was a much reciprocated feeling by Sara, for her days ever more seemed to… empty. Ever since father’s failure to wed her to a man with white hair, she hardly seemed to exist. It seemed that was the culmination of her existence, and its failure to materialize meant she served no purpose. Oh yes, the good mornings and good nights and any other amount of pleasantries were there. But it seemed that father had already handed her off in his mind, and the woman that remained merely a phantom.

Both opened their mouths to speak at once, and giggled as the interruption got in the way. They turned their heads to the grunt of a Guard in the House’s colours, the man staring at the contact he found slightly too intimate given the rumours the boys told him between pints.

The man shook himself out of his stupor however, and then barked out a summons to see their Father.

---

---

Hengist looked upon the assorted mass of hedge-Knights. This was technically treason, for it was the plump arse of a man called Targaryen, not Blackfyre that warmed it. That was something he had gotten from his father. He couldn’t remember the exact verbage, but was something along the lines that sitting on a throne did not mean did not make you a ruler, it merely meant one had a bottom. He did not understand what this meant, until he just once gazed upon his new so-called King. The image hardened his resolve, and so he took off his ornate helm in the shape of his family’s titular seat.

Approaching them, he knew it wasn’t quite the gleaming legion of Sers. But they were Knights. The Hightowers were not the Lannisters, but with the banking based in Oldtown, the tithes from their peasants and vassals, and the other businesses his father left in his hands, Hengist had more than enough to spare for ravens and other messengers to martial Sers without land.

Some were surprisingly well armed, even bearing the funds for barding upon their horses. Others were so clearly stricken by poverty they had a moth-eaten gambeson as their armour, their shields seeming more like chipped bits of driftwood and old planks than anything truly useful in battle, not to speak of presentable. One man Hengist was all but certain was a grave-robber, for indeed he was well armed and armoured, but between the rust and the suspiciously old design he couldn’t believe it was from well-gotten gains. But the Knight’s credentials were legitimate, and there was no proof Hengist could level that this man’s trappings were illegitimately gained and hence he left him be.

But as much as he could decry the merits of these men, they were better than any kind of levy, and he would hazard to guess that they were better than most sellswords too.

His speech to them was brief, perhaps more laden with calls to scripture and formality than such people would appreciate, but from their reactions it was good. He laid out the moral case of ending the bastard, he promised them great riches and land as reward for following their Blackfyre King, and he laid out the great knowledge assembled about the forces they could soon encounter. Thus he had played to all three of their main senses. He had stoked their greed, their jealousy for the many landed Knights, promising them an end to the unfortunate unofficial prefix to their titles as Knights. Hengist had played on their self-righteousness, their beliefs in their oaths at least for the ones that had meant them sincerely. Finally, he had assuaged some of their martial concerns for despite everything even the worst of the men here was still a warrior, and they did not wish to walk into things blind.

It was an unfortunate thing that he was dissatisfied in doing, but a few carefully planted men within the assembly cheered at the completion of his words, which started the chorus.

A few left amidst the cacophony. Hengist knew this and (despite a whisper he’d receive later to kill them lest they join with the loyalists) he let them leave; if their cause was honourable, it ought to survive without such treachery.

Thus a very brief feast was had, the finale of what was promised to these men to entice them. It was all about as cheap and quick as Hengist could get it, but for the most of them it was still better fare than what they were used to, not to speak of the fact most of it was warm.

Their bellies were stuffed and so smiles were aplenty, even if the whores they had expected were not arranged by the more puritanical member of the Hightower sons. But morning came as it always did, and so they marched.

---

---

The assembly of Parlan was in strong contrast to that of his twin. Sellswords haggard and professional alike, some of them were certainly aware of their lot in life. Nobody wanted to be the anvil, everybody wanted to be the hammer.

But ultimately, greed motivated these men even more than the Hedge Knights of his brother. The money promised was carefully calculated to be plausible, yet more than they could typically expect. Moreover, a great many of these men were criminals of one sort or another. Petty enough that nobody would ever bother collecting their bounties, especially as far from home as they were. But, with lies and promises of pardons combined with veiled threats that their pursuers were near, it wasn’t hard to add a hefty sum of brigands to the ranks he had.

If people knew the full extent of how Parlan had obtained these soldiers, then history would be cruel to him. But that would only happen if he lost, and if he lost then history would be cruel to him regardless. It was a cynical reality that was the default in which so many in Westeros operated. His brother didn’t want it to be so of course, but that was why his brother would lose. Plugging his nose at the smell of these gentlemen, he nonetheless grinned at his own genius, if only because he knew he had spent a lot less on this than whatever scheme he could imagine his sibling conjured up.

---

---

Jon had finished wetting his lips, and so spoke to the scribe.

“My dear sons. I do not particularly care which of you reads this, as the message is the same and so it will be copied as such thrice. Your schemes are as infantile as they are lacking in morals. But I will tolerate them, for there may be a lesson in them, or a chance to prove I am underestimating you. I will tell you know that you may do as you wish to your ends, a trial to see which of you bears the most merit. But should you directly scheme towards the death of your siblings, you will be considered as dead to me. Should they result in reprisal against our family that yields death within it, you will also be considered as dead to me. Your cousins, fruitless as they are, at least would then have proven to be able to temper their ambition amidst their mediocrity, unlike you. I hope. Cut that part out. No a bit- here I’ll cross it out myself. There. Now, if you wish your sisters any part, you will have to return and make your case to me personally, in their presence. Shrewish as they may be, I still have love and duty to them. Do not disappoint me. Leave it at that.”

What a nuisance. He had to remind himself, it wasn’t arrogance if you really were wiser than everyone else in the room.

{ ᴀ ᴛʀᴀɪʟ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ & ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ }

were there any specific tropes and the like you were looking for? A lot of my ideas were admittedly coverd. But perhaps some sort of Dwarf actively making use of aura for blast-iron could go hard!

My Brother's Keeper - A Song Of Ice and Fire Blackfyre Rebellion RP

The Hightowers

House Hightower.

^{"We Light the Way."}

H O U S E D E T A I L S _________________________________________________________ House Seat: Oldtown & the High Tower. _________________________________________________________ Region: The Reach K E Y M E M B E R S _________________________________________________________ Click to Expand Family Tree ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Name: Jon Hightower ◼ Age: 49 ◼ Appearance: Surprisingly well-kept for his age, brown hair and eyes contrasted by pale skin make him have a very standard appearance of a Westerosi Lord. However as of late his clean shaven and orderly appearance has given way to a slow creep of stubble ◼ Biography: Lord Jon Hightower was born in a good and peaceful times, the last savage wars of the continent distant memories. As his competence and loyalty to the crown was noted, some saw it as inevitable that he came to be Hand of the King. But as he did so, many contemplated if his unquestioning obeisance to Aegon was for the best of the realm, Lord Jon facilitating any whims and proclivities of the King if he so demanded them. It was thus in the eyes of many not particularly surprising that upon his King dying, Jon was dismissed from his title. Though he took his imposed resignation peacably, all at court could tell he was dissatisfied to say the least. So it was that returning home, he locked himself in a chamber of the High Tower, disappearing for a long time during which his eldest Morgan took running of the House. When he exited his self-exile, Jon was clearly unwell. Ravening about ancient readings and texts, his mood and thought changed more than the direction of the wind. While not outright out of play, Jon Hightower was now closer to a pawn than a proper piece of the Game of Thrones. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Name: Morgan Hightower ◼ Age: 27 ◼ Appearance: Morgan can look far older than he is, with stress, time in the sun, and perhaps an unlucky roll of the bloodline's dice making him appear to be of the same age as his father sometimes with slightly wrinkled skin, occassional gray hairs, and the slightest bit of a hunch, his likely only pleasant traits being his great height and the hair many Ladies would be jealous of if not for Morgan's long working nights leading to it being washed less commonly than it ought be. ◼ Biography: Morgan was born weak and frail, many thinking he would pass in infancy leading to a lack of attachment from both mother and father that believed he wouldn't make it to adulthood. But he overcame his sickness, his time alone leading to a strongly independent streak. But, lack of direction from his father ensured the youth growing into a man would dip his toes into many things, yet never master anything. He was never a master warrior, nor poet nor administrator nor anything else. Perhaps for running a House that would have been optimal, but it lead to many a would-be marriage arrangement falling through as nothing exceptional stood out from him. Now the gargantuan task has been laid unto him of managing the House amidst his father's de-facto madness. While initially a not particularly difficult thing, it was just as his own ambitions started to rise of centralizing the House's power and being rid of things long troubling it that the ambition of his siblings and other people he was meant to trust grew, their efforts pulling the House into wholly different directions. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Name: Fiona Hightower ◼ Age: 26 ◼ Appearance: Her father's daughter, long brown hair and dark eyes along with cheeks and a jaw too strong to be considered conventionally beautiful but at least pretty enough to not be ugly, everyone's eye first goes to her height, enough to dwarf all peasants and even some noble lords. While her father schemed to have her betrothed to one of the more nobly-behaved of the Targaryens, this fell through following Lord Jon's exit of the court. Now the poor girl is a bargaining chip disputed between her brothers, all the while rumours are abound she prefers the company of women in a carnal way. ◼ Biography: ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Name: Parlan Hightower ◼ Age: 20 ◼ Appearance: Shorter than father and his elder brother, Parlan could be mistaken for a bastard with his slightly rounder facial shape, his exceptionally light features in eyes and hair, compounded with much more tanned skin. Much shorter than father or Morgan, the twins are nonetheless both well built, broad shoulders bearing martially capable not exaggerated or vain musculature. ◼ Biography: Twin to Hengist, the siblings were bright and strong from an early age. Seen for some time as more viable heirs than Morgan by many, it was some time in puberty that the siblings began to quarrel. Competing for everything from parental attention to girls to the last bite of pie, it soon got to the point that they sought different paths in life almost out of spite for one another. It was only when they left novitiate studies at the Citadel that the full chasm between them was visible. It was Parlan's twin that was the straight arrow, that much clearly observable when the boys were taught how to fight in their late teenage years. Parlan used hooks and daggers everything but a proper sword, he studied the campaigns of the Dornishmen against the attempts to conquer them and the guile they used to stay independent. In civil matters, he came to take charge of the family's banking and usury, of overlooking shady trade for bribes, of control over trade of herbs and other exotics passing through Oldtown. It was thus a shock to those that eventually came to learn that he was privately martialling the family's resources to aid the Targaryen loyalists, until they had learned his brother had already sought out to aid the Blackfyre cause. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Name: Hengist Hightower ◼ Age: 20 ◼ Appearance: He looks the same as his brother, save for his body being covered with scars, whilst choosing to be clean-shaven with short, neatly combed hair. ◼ Biography: As remarked, Hengist was a self-imposed foil to his brother. Lacking the sinister and grim nature of his brother, he became far more adept at walking the well-trod path. An honourable warrior, and administrator of the roads and granaries and smithies, he became interested in the cause of Daemon Blackfyre as rumours of the bastard origins of the current King were relayed to him in a quite convincing way, and thus he became certain the rotten structure had to fall. A letter was sent to the claimant, offering what resources of House Hightower that Hengist could bear for the cause. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Name: Sara Hightower ◼ Age: 17 ◼ Appearance: Of black hair and gray eyes, the girl has always been seen as an exceptionally beautiful woman save for a set of crooked teeth that some in the family have considered knocking out to merely replace with perfect enamel or porcelain prosthetics. Just slightly taller than the average noblewoman, yet still somewhat shorter than most lads who would be prospective matches. ◼ Biography: Sara was a simple girl that didn't want for much save to please mother and father. Yet increasingly as time passed and the scheming of her family aside from her parents became clear, she soured on her kin. Knowing how even know her brothers seek to use the girl as an asset to be traded more than anything else, she took a religious path. Thus there is an uneasiness, for some believe her claim to wish to be a Septa is naught more than a threat, a bargaining tool for better treatment from her brothers, others wonder if it is sincere piety that can be used to improve the family's reputation. -

H I S T O R Y ___________________________________________________________________________________ House Hightower is one of the oldest of Westeros, their founding in dispute but its legacy not. Whatever the exact details of their mythic ancestry, they nonetheless followed a conciliatory path through their whole history peacefully acquiescing to their overlords in the Reach, the arriving Andals, and then later the Targaryens. This has ensured that despite the tumultuous history of the continent, they managed to not just survive but even flourish through the ages. C U R R E N T S I T U A T I O N __________________________________________________________________________________ Having avoided entanglements of any kind after the Dance of Dragons, House Hightower's power and wealth grew as they maintained closeness to the crown. One culmination of this was appointment of Jon Hightower as Hand of the King. Yet, for all their faithful service, with the death of Aegon they were spurned as far as their patriarch was concerned. Removed from his position as Hand of the King, Jon quickly soured to the Targaryens. Briefly locking himself in to contemplate, he seemed turned almost mad. Having exited his isolation, he one one day rants about how House Hightower failed the Seven Kingdoms and hence had themselves to blame for rightfully being set aside, while on the other he gives long diatribes about how the Targaryens are now nothing without the dragons upholding their inbred rule, and how he had read prophecy in the Citadel of their imminent fall. In the absence of his stoic rule, his children, cousins, and the Maesters in their service are lead to marshal his resources. Though by virtue of owning Oldtown and the Citadel the House can marshal enormous resources, the fact they are divided and in disarray can make the House in one moment appear on hard times when its representatives are acting against one another, and in another moment appear to suddenly be Kingmakers when its disparate cliques finally act in accord.

_{__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

My Brother's Keeper - A Song Of Ice and Fire Blackfyre Rebellion RP

The Hightowers

House Hightower.

^{"We Light the Way."}

H O U S E D E T A I L S _________________________________________________________ House Seat: Oldtown & the High Tower. _________________________________________________________ Region: The Reach K E Y M E M B E R S _________________________________________________________ Click to Expand Family Tree ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Name: Jon Hightower ◼ Age: 49 ◼ Appearance: Surprisingly well-kept for his age, brown hair and eyes contrasted by pale skin make him have a very standard appearance of a Westerosi Lord. However as of late his clean shaven and orderly appearance has given way to a slow creep of stubble ◼ Biography: Lord Jon Hightower was born in a good and peaceful times, the last savage wars of the continent distant memories. As his competence and loyalty to the crown was noted, some saw it as inevitable that he came to be Hand of the King. But as he did so, many contemplated if his unquestioning obeisance to Aegon was for the best of the realm, Lord Jon facilitating any whims and proclivities of the King if he so demanded them. It was thus in the eyes of many not particularly surprising that upon his King dying, Jon was dismissed from his title. Though he took his imposed resignation peacably, all at court could tell he was dissatisfied to say the least. So it was that returning home, he locked himself in a chamber of the High Tower, disappearing for a long time during which his eldest Morgan took running of the House. When he exited his self-exile, Jon was clearly unwell. Ravening about ancient readings and texts, his mood and thought changed more than the direction of the wind. While not outright out of play, Jon Hightower was now closer to a pawn than a proper piece of the Game of Thrones. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Name: Morgan Hightower ◼ Age: 27 ◼ Appearance: Morgan can look far older than he is, with stress, time in the sun, and perhaps an unlucky roll of the bloodline's dice making him appear to be of the same age as his father sometimes with slightly wrinkled skin, occassional gray hairs, and the slightest bit of a hunch, his likely only pleasant traits being his great height and the hair many Ladies would be jealous of if not for Morgan's long working nights leading to it being washed less commonly than it ought be. ◼ Biography: Morgan was born weak and frail, many thinking he would pass in infancy leading to a lack of attachment from both mother and father that believed he wouldn't make it to adulthood. But he overcame his sickness, his time alone leading to a strongly independent streak. But, lack of direction from his father ensured the youth growing into a man would dip his toes into many things, yet never master anything. He was never a master warrior, nor poet nor administrator nor anything else. Perhaps for running a House that would have been optimal, but it lead to many a would-be marriage arrangement falling through as nothing exceptional stood out from him. Now the gargantuan task has been laid unto him of managing the House amidst his father's de-facto madness. While initially a not particularly difficult thing, it was just as his own ambitions started to rise of centralizing the House's power and being rid of things long troubling it that the ambition of his siblings and other people he was meant to trust grew, their efforts pulling the House into wholly different directions. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Name: Fiona Hightower ◼ Age: 26 ◼ Appearance: Her father's daughter, long brown hair and dark eyes along with cheeks and a jaw too strong to be considered conventionally beautiful but at least pretty enough to not be ugly, everyone's eye first goes to her height, enough to dwarf all peasants and even some noble lords. While her father schemed to have her betrothed to one of the more nobly-behaved of the Targaryens, this fell through following Lord Jon's exit of the court. Now the poor girl is a bargaining chip disputed between her brothers, all the while rumours are abound she prefers the company of women in a carnal way. ◼ Biography: ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Name: Parlan Hightower ◼ Age: 20 ◼ Appearance: Shorter than father and his elder brother, Parlan could be mistaken for a bastard with his slightly rounder facial shape, his exceptionally light features in eyes and hair, compounded with much more tanned skin. Much shorter than father or Morgan, the twins are nonetheless both well built, broad shoulders bearing martially capable not exaggerated or vain musculature. ◼ Biography: Twin to Hengist, the siblings were bright and strong from an early age. Seen for some time as more viable heirs than Morgan by many, it was some time in puberty that the siblings began to quarrel. Competing for everything from parental attention to girls to the last bite of pie, it soon got to the point that they sought different paths in life almost out of spite for one another. It was only when they left novitiate studies at the Citadel that the full chasm between them was visible. It was Parlan's twin that was the straight arrow, that much clearly observable when the boys were taught how to fight in their late teenage years. Parlan used hooks and daggers everything but a proper sword, he studied the campaigns of the Dornishmen against the attempts to conquer them and the guile they used to stay independent. In civil matters, he came to take charge of the family's banking and usury, of overlooking shady trade for bribes, of control over trade of herbs and other exotics passing through Oldtown. It was thus a shock to those that eventually came to learn that he was privately martialling the family's resources to aid the Targaryen loyalists, until they had learned his brother had already sought out to aid the Blackfyre cause. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Name: Hengist Hightower ◼ Age: 20 ◼ Appearance: He looks the same as his brother, save for his body being covered with scars, whilst choosing to be clean-shaven with short, neatly combed hair. ◼ Biography: As remarked, Hengist was a self-imposed foil to his brother. Lacking the sinister and grim nature of his brother, he became far more adept at walking the well-trod path. An honourable warrior, and administrator of the roads and granaries and smithies, he became interested in the cause of Daemon Blackfyre as rumours of the bastard origins of the current King were relayed to him in a quite convincing way, and thus he became certain the rotten structure had to fall. A letter was sent to the claimant, offering what resources of House Hightower that Hengist could bear for the cause. ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Name: Sara Hightower ◼ Age: 17 ◼ Appearance: Of black hair and gray eyes, the girl has always been seen as an exceptionally beautiful woman save for a set of crooked teeth that some in the family have considered knocking out to merely replace with perfect enamel or porcelain prosthetics. Just slightly taller than the average noblewoman, yet still somewhat shorter than most lads who would be prospective matches. ◼ Biography: Sara was a simple girl that didn't want for much save to please mother and father. Yet increasingly as time passed and the scheming of her family aside from her parents became clear, she soured on her kin. Knowing how even know her brothers seek to use the girl as an asset to be traded more than anything else, she took a religious path. Thus there is an uneasiness, for some believe her claim to wish to be a Septa is naught more than a threat, a bargaining tool for better treatment from her brothers, others wonder if it is sincere piety that can be used to improve the family's reputation. -

H I S T O R Y ___________________________________________________________________________________ House Hightower is one of the oldest of Westeros, their founding in dispute but its legacy not. Whatever the exact details of their mythic ancestry, they nonetheless followed a conciliatory path through their whole history peacefully acquiescing to their overlords in the Reach, the arriving Andals, and then later the Targaryens. This has ensured that despite the tumultuous history of the continent, they managed to not just survive but even flourish through the ages. C U R R E N T S I T U A T I O N __________________________________________________________________________________ Having avoided entanglements of any kind after the Dance of Dragons, House Hightower's power and wealth grew as they maintained closeness to the crown. One culmination of this was appointment of Jon Hightower as Hand of the King. Yet, for all their faithful service, with the death of Aegon they were spurned as far as their patriarch was concerned. Removed from his position as Hand of the King, Jon quickly soured to the Targaryens. Briefly locking himself in to contemplate, he seemed turned almost mad. Having exited his isolation, he one one day rants about how House Hightower failed the Seven Kingdoms and hence had themselves to blame for rightfully being set aside, while on the other he gives long diatribes about how the Targaryens are now nothing without the dragons upholding their inbred rule, and how he had read prophecy in the Citadel of their imminent fall. In the absence of his stoic rule, his children, cousins, and the Maesters in their service are lead to marshal his resources. Though by virtue of owning Oldtown and the Citadel the House can marshal enormous resources, the fact they are divided and in disarray can make the House in one moment appear on hard times when its representatives are acting against one another, and in another moment appear to suddenly be Kingmakers when its disparate cliques finally act in accord.

_{__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

My Brother's Keeper - A Song Of Ice and Fire Blackfyre Rebellion RP

Thinking a shift series of Hightowers with a finger in all the pies.

From Ashes We Rise: Chronicles

These in-person meetings were now the default of the Martian Parliament, Salkor mandating such as a means to ensure some further measure of personal investment in the good order of the planet and this assembly. Anybody not present in person without accounting for it would be considered as having abstained from the meeting, anybody insistent on appearing through remote means would have restrictions on their capacity to speak and vote. Arguments that it was inefficient to attend physically when they could speak wholly adequately through transmissions would be countered with a simple observation: research could be done, orders relayed, and whatever other duties they would claim demanded their time had more than enough means to be done remotely upon the Red Planet just as easily as they could be done through personal intervention. It wasn’t as if any of the representatives turned centrifuges or engraved microwafers through their own hands or mechadendrites.

There were some frustrations with this arrangement nonetheless. For one, with everyone present in person it was much harder to deal with constant interruptions – figures speaking over one another, so on and so forth. The amplifiers of their voice were largely formalities, for turning them off for those that wanted to truly raise their voice would not stop their own bombastic amplifiers sometimes within devices as small as a finger resonating across the colossal scene. Worse yet, despite themselves being constant violators of it, they all believed that it was outright religious dogma (and indeed, in some sense it was with many scriptures bearing canons that spoke of this) for the Cult of the Machine that all must wait their turn and speak in an orderly and timed fashion. This meant that on top of the many and omnipresent violations of the many strictures of the Parliament, further time, goodwill, and something so pathetically human as sanity was wasted on everyone pontificating on each other’s infractions demanding Salkor do something about them. On the few instances he brought up the hypocrisy of the masters present - largely as an experiment rather than with sincere intent to have this endeavour bear fruit - he received long litanies that read more as rants about why each violator was somehow exceptional and deserving of extra time, or to interrupt another.

All by the will of the Machine God of course, the self-presumed divinity of their word justifying all without question.

A door opened, and Salkor was reminded of yet another privilege every attendee assumed they had; being late. Briefly he attempted to penalize those that were tardy, yet another trait so disgustingly reminiscent of the weakness of the flesh despite them citing business in their Forges they had to attend to that got in the way of timeliness. But nonetheless many still had the audacity to not come on time, or now did not even come at all. Reluctantly he waived these penalties now, unless the offender did something else objectionable at which point they were merely a way to incur further punishment on those that earned his ire.

Archmagos Kerano, a creature that would elicit disgust among humans and many of the Red Planet’s denizens alike. He opted largely for organic augmentations instead of those of steel. But those that had underestimated him in the recent violence suffered for it. The seemingly unsystematic meat covering his form was as unnatural as plasteel that made the bodies of other Tech-Clerics. Grown out of studies in meticulous labs it hummed rather than pulsed, transfer of blood and nutrients optimized to be faster and more discrete. Perhaps it was marginally less durable than the manufactured armours elsewhere on Mars but would-be assassins saw his vital organs regenerate in moments after attacks that would have felled other Archmagoses. Centuries from now people would have terms for what he resembled, an unfortunate coincidence of his tentacles and bulbous chunks of muscle looking not dissimilar to a chaos spawn; it was an analogy Salkor's mind wouldn't be tormented with for a long time.

But all of this was a distraction. He let the fleshy thing take its position, before resuming his point. “The audits of production are again inconsistent across almost all Forges. The agreed upon quotas to prepare for Terran Imperialism is not met. Every Forge that cannot explain the discrepancy will be subject to sanction.” Binharic complaints assaulted his feeds at the same time as his auditory sensors were overwhelmed.

“Access to magrails will be restricted. Access to orbital transports will be restricted. Access to-” and suchlike continued from Salkor’s unabated speech. A human couldn’t hear it over the cacophony, though he knew well enough that everyone present could filter out and process every single thing said despite its simultaneity. Eventually the Fabricator General finished his words that were not quite clearly sincere warning nor aggressive threat. It was only some time after that did all the Archmagoses finish their own angry retorts. They had slowly started to understand the somewhat paternal fashion that the Speaker had come to use with them, waiting for every individual tantrum to subside before continuing. Yes, he was wasting his own time standing on formality but he was wasting theirs in equal proportion and there was so much more of them here. On some level, he supposed they understood that in this war of attrition, he was expending and losing less than they were in total and gradually submitted to his efforts in taming their unruliness. “Further,” he continued. “There is a failure to re-militarize among more than half of the Forges present. Defences are not erected. Similar sanctions will be applied to any that refuses to adjust production to a standard of fortification that is being cast to every one of your receivers now.”

What a nuisance. He was born on earth and he saw the weakness of the flesh epitomized yet he couldn’t help notice so many parallels between the leadership of Mars and a squabble of tribal Terran children.

“These sanctions will only harm our effort to prepare for the Terrans.”

“Then do not make them applicable to you.”

Silence.

“We are forced to do such. We cannot trust those that so recently took arms against us.” This was from another voice, and raised much much more proverbial finger pointing about the recent conflict.

“None of these objections will matter if the Terrans ransack and pillage our holy world.” Salkor overclocked every single core of his processors, the effect analogous to time slowing down. He had an impulse for a speech. But would it be wise? Emotion was never truly gone, much of the writings of the scriptures memorized by all present hinting to that even if denying the principle.
He decided against it. The Fabricator General wouldn’t stomach being told to get on with it by these centuries old walking and hovering relics.

“Techno barbarians.” Came a voice from old withered lips, Archmagos Kalovan electing to use (at least, seemingly) unaugmented human utterances to speak. A sucking noise that a young Salkor might have seen as disgusting punctuated every syllable, but thankfully he had evolved enough to ignore it. “If we are unable in our current state to annhillate their unenlightened realm, then I would declare that either our dogmas are false, or we have failed to adhere to them.”

One of Salkor’s many mechadendrites tapped his Omnissian axe lightly. “Such arrogance will not serve. The Writings of Elder Zotian, Canon Nineteen. The Omnissiah’s greatest miracle is no personal intervention, but the endowing of capacity and reason to let the faithful overcome any hindrance to the divine order they are to bring about. Venerable Ulyzhec in the Fourth Epistle to the Phaetonites: Proactivity in the Machine God’s name is a virtue unto itself, for they that show sloth in their efforts are lacking in the graces of the Motive Force.” In both cases, Salkor was certainly paraphrasing, and even then they didn’t support his point outright. But citations of blessed archives even if tangentially relevant did give pause to those that wished not to obey the directive of the Fabricator General.

Another voice spoke, the chittering of Archmagos Nicil. “And if our defences should fail? What then?”

Salkor almost responded too quickly, for he along with others didn’t truly regard the defeat of Mars as a possibility. But, brashness could be seen as primitive folly.

“Provisions for evacuation will be made.” Confidence was not something that could be heard on something so neutral as a monotone mechanical enunciation, nor could it be seen in body language of a mechanical beast as himself. But nonetheless, part of him hoped he projected it.

Slowly, voices again began to speak out of turn, the connective handshakes of software not happening to maintain that orderliness Salkor so thoroughly sought.

“But, they will not be necessary.” He spoke over the litanies of grievances before they managed to coalesce into something uncontrollable. Rhetoric had to go offence now, to compensate for the concern. “Our projections indicate that - provided acquiescence to the terms outlined is given - the Terran hordes will be destroyed. To you, the faithful to the vision, possibilities will be open greater than ever conceived. Imagine, the archaeotech stores of Old Earth opened. Faithless barbarians turned en-masse to servitors in the sanctification of that barren world for the Machine God, and the unearthing of what has been lost to any archive.”

That interested them, as expected. But now that he had raised their mechanical passions, their expectations had to be tempered. “But that will only come to pass if the Terrans bring violence on our world, and we persevere with sufficient reserves remaining to mount punitive expeditions.”

Finally, he had them in a frame of mind he could work with. Stoking the furnaces of their greed for the unknown at least for now got them obeisant to his demands. Yet, he had managed to make no promises he couldn’t keep. No wars needed to be had, merely defences prepared.

All was well on the Red Planet.

For now.

The bug man's hive of ideas

Really hoping for something in the Arcane/League of Legends/Runeterra setting right about now!!

World of Darkness great too.

From Ashes We Rise: Chronicles

Amunal looked upon his people, their arrayed numbers. To many of the cultures he had shepharded, they were the wisest, most intelligent. In two generations, people had gone from struggling to understanding how to work iron all the way to machine tools, power in their homes, so on and so forth. Amunal had barely even taken an active interest in their lives, almost all that they had learned was but second-hand knowledge from a being that was studying physics that eclipsed that of any theoretician on Mars.

It was thus that while these learned men had in mere years ingested more information than many human minds could muster, they were amoebas. Inferior, tiresome, boring. And yet as an impulse from his very core, he knew that this very inferiority was something to be shepharded. So clearly beneath the long-eared breed of the starlanders, it was in his very genes to protect humanity. He knew in part because he had examined his own flesh, his own making.

But… between his examinations of himself and the entire universe with the complex devices he had forged by crushing metal into advanced alloys with his bare hands, the Starborn knew that there was some aspect to this world he couldn’t examine. It frustrated him almost to the point of tearful emotion. There was some unexamined variable, some fundamental truth that would ground all of his epistemic and ontological queries. He had examined that neighbouring planet time and time again, and they were no closer to solving what plagued him so thoroughly. There was nothing to describe the unpredictability that he so often observed in the universe, there was nothing to account for the randomness.

There was….

Chaos.

It was beautiful once he came to the realization of it. It was a dark thought, one he dare not articulate for the danger he put into mortals. But this word he had for the roll of dice that determined far more than logic and sanity ever could enamoured him.

Without it, what purpose would anyone serve? Automata, puppets of disgusting meat and sinew and bone that were predestined to ignominious lives regardless. Those seeking nothing more than immediate hedonism at best, or those seeking to continue their lineage for some barbaric yet equally meaningless philosophy of attaining some form of supremacy either real or more typically merely imagined to be real. Perhaps the worst logical conclusion was merely the obsession with survival out of fear of the unknown that might come after death. The unknown was meant to be made known, and on some nights Amunal even dreamed of death for this very reason. But he never spoke of this, for such thoughts would quickly spiral into a death-cult in lesser minds.

It was with Chaos that a man staving off the barbarians attacking his farm to protect his woman could be anything more than a genetic predisposition to guarantee reproduction; it was by the virtue of Chaos that this was love. He had no capability to accept illusion of free will where there was none, in a world without Chaos. It was thus that he was infinitely grateful for it, seeing it as an undeserved gift brought forth by a truly loving Demiurge. There was no way to articulate his gratitude for it, and so it was that he remembered kneeling one night and praying towards it, for what else could Chaos be but God? God in His ultimate wisdom, creating a world such that it might give him the opportunity to truly come to conclude his existence in his own right.
It was Chaos that one day he sought to make the God of these people. For decades he had instilled in them that their prior pagan beliefs were mere echoes of Sophia, the feminine personification of knowledge as it translated to in one of the long dead court-languages of the planet.

But as he ever felt more weak in confrontation with the unknowable, it felt good to surrender to Chaos. Chaos would be the name of the one true God, the acceptance of a great inevitability that was the only way to account for so much that couldn’t otherwise be explained.

But all of this was a flash of thought on the matter of his people. They were the brightest, and the brightest were the best. They weren’t the scribes and scriveners of old, these were not hunchbacked stuttering fools, these were philosopher-Kings groomed specifically for this in the event Amunal died. Which, in the coming days, he might.

The Asclepians were not standing idly amidst the sudden change of their sister planet, and so the people of Brahms had to act lest they were acted upon.

It did not take Amunal to understand the long-ears were here in part because of the ancient war that ravaged this planet. It did not take him long to understand that these people were forced into their eternally primitive state by the planet so near yet so far.

In some sense he was appreciative of the wisdom of this world’s ancients, so carefully hiding away their technology just for the day someone like him would be there to capitalize upon it.

So it was that after addressing the best the world had to offer, he went to address the second, third, fourth, and so on in order of bestness.

Finally, they descended into the depths of the palace of Ummariah. Drones and other craft of the Asclepians were already visible in the atmosphere to the Primarch’s eye, they were coming for him. Little did they know, he was coming for them. It was a tragedy, one he would have to pray to this unknowable Demiurg to forgive him for. But people would die before his gambit could be completed.

He felt the first rumbles in the earth as faint vibrations from the violence on the surface of the world, but he didn’t show it. The men and women arrayed before him still looked the slightest bit uncomfortable with their new weapons and armour, for Amunal simply hadn’t the time to truly train them as he needed to make them competent users of these pieces.

It didn’t matter. There was a non-negligible chance most of them would die. All of them, even. He just needed to get himself to the leaders of Asclepius, and force them to end this madness.

When the humans finally felt the violence outside, hearing and feeling it reverberating in their boots, when that happened was the moment that Amunal finally activated the device.

He had spoken of it briefly, but most of the people with him were only here because of their personal faith in him rather than comprehending this concept. It was a teleportarium, superstitious markings of religion covering almost every corner. But it still worked, and with very little effort it was able to bring this small force unto the world that caused the woes of Brahms.

It was a shock. Amunal had envisioned it. He had envisioned worlds even more advanced than this, if anything. But seeing it in person so close rather than through bare eyes was an entirely different experience. But there was no time to muse. Already in the first second of teleportation there was horror. In some instances his assortment of warriors was already dead. A few had teleported into objects, the teleportarium’s thinking engine not adjusting sufficiently for them and hence they had bushes poking out of their skull or decorate fountains where their hearts should be. In a few particularly horrifying cases, they had teleported straight into the bodies of some Asclepians. Displays of gory anatomy never intended to be seen by anybody were on display both for the Brahmian invaders, and the shocked native Asclepians.

But there was no time for such ponderings. Amunal already urged his people onwards, feeling the slightest disturbances in sight and sound that heralded the reserve defence drones of the planet going towards their location.

They were faster than he expected, but slower than he feared.

Some of his own people were too uncontrollable, centuries of mythologized frustration apparent as they tried to take revenge on the Asclepians. A few he executed with a flick of the trigger on the laser weapon comically too small for him even if it was designed to be operated by human crews. The other barbarians he tolerated, if only because he expected justice to catch them otherwise.

Snatching a handheld electronic tool from one of the passerbies, it did not take long for the Starborn to understand how it worked, and shortly after use it to prevent a lockout from the nearby civilian vehicles from the security apparatuses of the world. Buggies more for leisure than practical use, they could nevertheless be forced to travel quite fast if safety measures were overridden to simulate a person suffering from a medical condition and so they flew to the Palace of Knowledge.

Out of almost five thousand people Amunal had assembled, only about three hundred made it to the Palace. It was enough.

Many Asclepians that didn’t need to die, did in fact die as their feet pounded up. The distance wasn’t far, but to all who were truly focused on what they were here for felt that their travel was taking an eternity.

Before they could enter it, a monumental blast door dropped down to bar their progress. Amunal wouldn’t let it touch the ground to seal them off however; in but a flash of movement he caught it in one arm, and then rammed it upwards breaking the sealing mechanism to keep it in place.

A single shot to the sensor apparatuses of the automated defences that came out of the walls made their exotic and advanced weaponry useless, and it was at this point that he simply ran past the Brahmians he brought with him, their services no longer necessary.

Arriving at the chamber where the apparatus of governance of the Asclepians was located, it was not too different to what he had expected. Ancient fellows with overgrown yet groomed white beards down to their knees. Pseudo-clerical clothes that gave some pretension of modesty yet were indisputably ornate to a person not deluding themselves.

But his eyes were immediately drawn to something else. To something that beneath the skin and hair and clothes was him. A mirror of his own creation, dressed in the same robes and fineries. He was already standing, having come to the same conclusion from having seen Amunal on the vid-feeds.

They approached each other, extending their hands to commune far faster than they could with verbal speech. In but moments they relayed to each other the whole of their lives, the slightest of vibrations in their fingers making a language they wordlessly decided on.

Through this, there was only one conclusion they came to; their superiority over all present made them ever more competent to rule.

But it was already clear enough, they had divergent philosophies. A mutually beneficial test of supremacy was in order.

At once, and in their own respective languages, both Primarchs spoke to their own people: “Stop the violence.”