CorinTraven

[High Casual to Advanced] Roleplay is my Heroine.

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[High Casual to Advanced] Roleplay is my Heroine.

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My Hider

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

[High Casual to Advanced] Roleplay is my Heroine.

Did you like that? My play on words right there, eh? Pretty good, heroin, heroine, like, the drug, and a female hero? Yeah, I thought it was pretty witty too.

Alright, enough with my fictional conversations! Welcome to my Interest Check, as you might have noticed, it's conveniently filed away in the 1v1 Interest Check bin, as in, I am in search of some one on one roleplays with you wonderful people! I'm Alex by the way, and as you must be anticipating, I've got a few base rules to set. I'll try to keep it short and sweet, nobody likes reading the same stuff over!

1. I like quality over quantity, if I feel like you're writing style is below what I am used to, I most likely will not enjoy the roleplay.

2. I've no limits with much of anything, I do tend to fade to black, but if you don't want to, be my guest in describing every bodily fluid you can put a name to, just don't expect me to be so inclined. Gore, on the other hand-... I love me some grittiness.

3. This is not as much of a requirement, as it is a preference. I love antagonists, if you figure yourself a good bad guy, send me a PM, because I will eat it right up. That being said, emotionally complex characters, with detectable personalities are a million times better than some run-of-the-mill cliche, evil, mustache twirling villain.

4. I tend to play the female role, and prefer MxF pairings. But I've no issue with doubling, and tend to multi-character eitherway.

Right, so, those are my basic rules, I'm actually not a very picky person, and as some of my other partners have said, I am a 'aggressive' plotter, aggressively excited, I assure you! I like to yell out ideas, and just wild plot twists with no warning. Now, here are some Settings/Pairings I'd be interested in. There are a million others, but these few will give you an idea! I've arranged them according to time period, from the most modern I'm willing to go, to way back in ye' old history.

Settings

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

Now, as you might of noticed, some of those aren't even settings, but you get the idea! Now onto my pairings...

Pairings

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

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

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

Revolutionary x Monarchist
French Police Officer x Man who stole bread

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

Factory Worker x Factory Worker

Explorer x Native
Explorer x other explorer

Philosopher x Dumb person
Dumb Person x Philosopher
Philosopher x Wife

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

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

Knight x Civilian
Nobleman x Soldier
Knight x Foreign Preistess

Master x Slave
King x Foreign Diplomat

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

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

Genghis Khan esque x Poor Villages.
Mongolian x Other Mongolian

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

Elves and shit. Magic yo'

Human x Faerie

Thief x Thief

There y'go, lots...and lots...of pairings. All of them I made up on the spot, and most are pretty generic.

In case you need one, here's a writing sample, and if you're interested in role playing with me, just shoot me a PM. Even if you don't got any idea what you want to do, I'm willing to plot, and we'll have one soon enough!

Thanks for reading my interest check, lovelies, hopefully I'll see some of you soon!

Writing Sample

Above the Southern Gate into Bal'vold, Evening.

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Knights and Nobles~Tales Of Heroes (Open)

Some said it had always been God’s will that Gwillym Hywel would be a knight; what else would explain for his inches in height above his own father, or the fact the boy had never once shown interest in any other calling than knighthood. Since his early boyhood, when he’d been smaller than Cadi- who hit her growth spurt years before the boy, he’d run about their home estate shouting and insisting that he was Sir Gwillym Hywel, greatest knight in all of Wales. Back then, the sister’s used to tease him, as he’d only just begun to learn how to swing a wooden sword, and Cadi had been his superior in both height and strength at the time. Now, though he was still a squire, it’d be far harder to jest about the boy’s dreams of knighthood, his overall appearance no longer that of a scrawny boy, but rather a well built, if still growing, man. He wore a dark leather tunic, a preferred piece for the hunt, and leggings to match. His bow and arrow were left abandoned somewhere, and if the boy had been successful in his hunt, he’d already taken the time to wash up afterwards, a bit of moisture still glistening against his smooth jaw.

“Cadi.” He spoke her name after his like a broken echo, smiling back down at his elder sister, glancing down to his clothes awkwardly as she had commented on them, confused, as he mistook her comment to be in regards to any dirt or blood he might have sullied the tanned leather with, “Ah-...uh, I didn’t think I had gotten anything on them…” He mumbled, taking a step closer as she gestured. He wasn’t as bright as his sisters, having never taken to his studies of book as he did to the sword, but the boy wasn’t exactly dull either.

“My hunt? Uh, I didn’t stay out long. I saw a doe, but she likely just dropped fawn, so I let her go. I did manage a few small rabbits, no trophies.” He shrugged his shoulder, and for a moment, it might seem as if the boy wasn’t going to blow in Eira to their eldest sister, but the moment passed, and the boy continued, “I would have had better game had I not wasted time visiting our beloved middle sister.” He paused for a moment, allowing Catrin to react, before his voice came again.

Catrin remained silent, her head nodding carefully as she listened. Having never tried hunting she did not understand the interest so many held for the activity. The resentment while mild Wil held for their wayward sister seemed misplaced, but then Cadi didn’t know how much time one needed to devote to the hunt anyway.

“I went to the Parish to see her devotion to Christ,” He could almost roll his eyes at that, “ in the flesh, and just as I expected, she was not amongst the pews. I took ten steps into the forest, and found her, apparently writing.”

Startled that Wil would so easily tell tale on Eira Cadi looked down demurely, her hands clasping before her. Up until now she had been able to deny knowledge fully of what it was Eira did beyond the castle walls.

Of course she had always suspected, Catrin being no fool. Still… Now she truly knew and that meant if her father or mother were to confront Cadi she’d have to outwardly lie or sell out her sister.

An uncomfortable place to be.

As it was Cadi was just as sure that Wil was confiding in her due to concern for Eira, who at times could be a bit careless…

“Gwillym…”

He betrayed her, or maybe it wasn’t so much of a betrayal because he did not go to their parents, who would ream the girl, but instead to their gentle elder sister, who he knew would not go confess to their overseers either. Gwillym didn’t trust Eira not to disobey him the moment he disappeared over the horizon. Catrin, at least, she seemed to listen to with a bit more heed, the two sisters having grown close to one another in his absence. “She’s going to get caught, I really do not know how she’s managed it for so long, though I suppose father hasn’t the time to visit the Parish with all this panic of war-...And she apparently is careful enough that she always arrives to the local parish before mass is dismissed.”

The boy shook his head, expecting Catrin to be on his side, because he knew he was being rational, with a mind tethered to reality rather than way up in the clouds where Eira’s consciousness lingered.

Cadi was quiet for a moment longer before leveling her sea green eyes on her younger brother. Little did not seem the right term anymore, for little he was not.

“Wil…” Cadi clasped her brother’s forearm imploringly, her own hands soft to the touch as a lady’s ought to be. An instant was allowed for her to be surprised by the strength there in his arm, hard and wry to grip before the eldest Hywel went on.

The boy frowned at the tone of her voice, beginning as she often did; first to speak their name, and then her words of disagreement followed. Before she’d even began her argument, Gwillym’s dark brows were beaten together, looking down at her critically as she held onto his arm.

“It’s different for you, you’re the heir and a man.” Even a few months ago Cadi would have called Wil a boy, but today she could see he was past boyhood. While a man perhaps was not entirely what he was, childhood seemed to have slipped away.

She also wanted to flatter her brother as well to sweeten his temper.

“Eira and I...We’re locked away from the world, kept in the dark about it all, expected to be sweet gentle creatures despite what is happening to our countrymen...To our lands and to our people.” Cadi let her hand drop from Wil’s arm to sweep out to the blurred window indicating the world beyond, to a freedom the girls would never truly know.

“You can fight, you can go out and stop the English and bandits and anything else. You are strong and everyone expects you to be able to handle yourself.” Long lashed eyes drifted to the shelves around them, filled with books, how many had she herself read?

“In here, we are caged. I used to fight that as well, you must recall when I was smaller…” Rebellious was the word used. Sighing Cadi shook her head as sad small smile moved over her lips.

“Eira...She is just more ...Well…” Cadi reached up to her brothers dear face to stroke it affectionately. “She is more like you my dear heart…” Catrin let her fingertips press against Wil’s lips to silence the argument she could see growing there.

“I do agree...It’s dangerous to go out alone... “ She conceded. “ I just also understand the urge to do so…” Couldn’t he?

That unyielding look of annoyance did not falter, blossoming into more of a brood by the time Cadi had pressed her finger against his lips, his hand reaching up to ensnare her own, and brought it away. “I know, Cadi.” He replied grimly, “She just worries me. I’m not going to tell father, or anything drastic, but I still don’t like it…” there was a pause, “And I was hoping you’d feel the same way. I should have figured, when have you agreed with me?” The boy shown a glint of a smile afterwards, having awkwardly allowed his sister’s affections, but now he stepped carefully back, brown eyes upturning toward the ceiling.

“I don’t know why everyone insists Eira and I are so alike, I know she hated it when people use to ask if we were twins-... She really hates it now when people call her my little sister-” The grinning remained, “But really, we’re hardly alike at all. All she does all day is pen away in her books or sulk around; when was the last time you saw me writing for leisure? Never.”

“A hobby is not a reflection of someone’s true character little brother...You know that as well as any other. You and Eira are both dear to my heart and dear to each other…” She grinned. “You both like tweaking each others tails and bickering for the sake of argument. You both act tougher than you truly are…” Cadi held up her hand defensively.

“Not that you are not a brave warrior my brother, but your heart is kind…” Cadi looked down the windows once more. The sun was shivering behind the watery clouds.

Gwillym opened his mouth to retort, but before he found the words, the gentle click of footsteps disturbed his attention. The boy twisted his chin to a newcomer, frowning as he did.

From a western door, Eira had found her way to the library, unknowing that both her siblings awaited her there. When she emerged from the high shelves, she still had the light mauve scarf wrapped around her head and shoulders, and her slate-grey gloves were still pulled over her hands, suggesting that the girl had just returned from prayer.

“Three hours at the Parish? Sister, if father had known you were so devote, he’d have sent you to the Abbey by now.” The boy teased her, a crooked grin breaking his leering demeanor.

In response, Eira pulled the scarf down from over her mouth, the tip of her nose reddened from the cold despite being covered, and sneered, “Enough of it, Gwillym. I’d sooner die then live my life in the nunnery.” She brought her hand to the center of her chest for effect, and pressed her lips into a tight line, “And father doesn’t know I returned so late, so why bother him with it? There’s nothing wrong with a morning of prayer.”

Catrin worried as her siblings started bickering almost at once. Of course Wil had been an ass immediately… But Eira couldn’t NOT rise to the occasion could she?

Why couldn’t they enjoy the limited time they had together before Wil was sent off to the borders?

An indignant snort was all Gwillym could reply, rolling his eyes, and looking out the window at the brewing storm, “Any more time spent ‘praying’, and you’d have returned soaking wet.”

With a roll of her eye Cadi conceded to herself that they must be enjoying each other’s company. Who else would Eira argue with when Wil was gone? Who would annoy and pester Wil while he was in his masters keep?

The lean girl shrugged her shoulders, the shawl wrapped around her obscuring most of her body, but one could tell simply from the frame of her face and the narrow width of her neck that she was all bone. Her eyes were now on Cadi, ignoring Wil like they used to when they were young, “And why are you away from your lessons?” She tried to imitate their mother, shifting her accent a little, and pressing her brows together in disapproval, but a second later, the smile broke the facade, and Eira’s tuneful voice returned, “-...But really, I hardly ever see you around this type of day, decide to host a rebellion?” She grinned between the two of her siblings, getting another eye-roll of Wil, but she just returned it, and tried to ignore their younger brother.

Catrin lowered her chin to hide her smile demurely. The attempted accent of their mother was rather good.

“Alas my tutor wrote me off as a bad job… I have no knack for languages…” That was simply untrue! But she didn’t want to burden her sister with the harsh realities that danger and war were at their doorsteps.

Instead the eldest fussed with her shawl and gestured to the window. “Wil is right Eira...A few minutes more and you might have been wet…” The rain had started to fall from the heavy clouds.

Uncertain as to what to discuss Catrin figited. She told Wil she’d talk to Eira about the wandering...But if she brought it up now he’d only attack their little sister. However Catrin did not want to discuss the reasons why she was not in lessons now.

Awkwardly she leveled her sea green eyes on Eira, opened her lips to start the reminders of Eira’s duty for safety, and promptly shut them.

Catrin did not want to argue.

“I’m so glad you’re both here...It’s so rare I see you at the same time…” A smile, genuine and sweet, was given to Wil and Eira. “It’s so nice.”

Both Gwillym and Eira reacted in the same way, both in the awkward stage of life where though they held a deep love for Catrin and another, they simply did not know how to express it. So it started with Wil snorted, and then Eira laughed a little, and then Wil laughed a little more, until they were both cracking up.

Her happy look of contentment was rapidly changing into one of disgust. Siblings. Just another word for barbarians really.

“You act like this is goodbye.” Eira jested, and Gwillym added.

“Sir Byrn seems content on remaining another week. Please, do not get emotional yet...You girls and your unbound sentiments…”

Catrin actually rolled her own eyes now. Those warm loving feelings were dissipating quickly. Perhaps she had been misunderstanding her feelings? Was it warm and fuzzy and loving or actually itchy and irritated?

“Who are you calling girls? We’re older than you, boy.” Eira responded, her eyes daggering on Gwillym, which was exactly the response he was hoping to draw from her, knowing just what buttons to push with her.

“Catrin, I’ll admit,” He bowed his head toward her, “But I simply cannot believe you are my elder. I honestly think perhaps you stopped maturing six years ago. In mind and body.”

“This coming from the boy who has been dragging around a big stick for years to hit people with…” Back in the day Catrin used to be one his victims, a few wallops coming her way until their father had put a stop to it. What good did it do him if his eldest daughter had bruises on her hands and arms?

Eira pressed her lips together, knowing he was baiting her, and she was smart enough that she knew she shouldn’t bite, but it was right there in front of her, and she had no fear to hold her tongue, at least not to Gwillym, who at worst would raise his voice when he was really impassioned. “You think just because you went off and became a knight-...excuse me, are becoming a knight, that it lends you any more years or wisdom over me, you’re absolutely wrong. You might be bigger, but you and I both know that you might have your share of the brawn, but I, little brother, have all of the brain.”

Sea green eyes swiveled to Eira. “All of the brain?” Cadi quoted sharply.

“Alright. We, We have all the brain.” Eira corrected quickly, having not meant to spur her sister.

That usual sharpened look Gwillym wore directed itself onto his sister, hating when she insulted his intelligence, though he was not daft, he knew he could not compete with her if she wanted to battle wits, and unfortunately, he would never lay a hand on her physically, as much as he might wish to sometimes, “I wish you’d been born a boy, so I’d be able to see how your brain really fairs against my brawn. I-”

But Eira interrupted him, “If I was born a boy I would be the heir, little brother,” Her voice dripped with honey, as it often did when she felt she knew something he did not, “And you’d not touch me, brother. I’d be our sweet father’s favorite.” She dragged the final word out, rolling her eyes along with it, as there was a bit of contempt in her tone, “And if we did fight, I’d be older than you, so I’d be better trained, and you would never win.”

Love? Nice? What had she been thinking?! Cadi reached up to cross her arms over her chest as this ridiculous debate went on before remembering that ladies did not cross their arms. Settling for clasping her hands before her belly the eldest could not hold in a sigh of exasperation.

“I’d still be bigger, and you will never win a fight against me” He stated stubbornly, looking down at her meager height.

“Are you suggesting if I was a man, I would be the same height? That’s ridiculous!”

Gwillym shook his head, the poison leaking from his tone as he lobbed a big dopey smile down at his sister, “No. That’s how it works. If you were a man, you would be your height.”

“And if you were a woman, you would be yours?” She added, annoyed to see how Gwillym grinned and nodded back eagerly, “Well, if you were a woman, you’d be an ugly one at that.”

Perhaps if she just left they wouldn’t notice?

“If you were a man, you’d be a girlish one, and a shame to father. He’d still love me the best. He’d disown you, and name me his heir. It’s only fair, to name the hero of Wales his most beloved son and heir.”

“You think for as large as your head is, you’d fill it with more than just hot air…” Eira snided, to which Gwillym jumped at her for, and the girl screamed, and took off between the rows of books. “Cadi! Stop him! Cadi!” She shouted, laughing between them as she grabbed a few books from the shelves as she ran past, a fast little thing, and tossed them down the aisle at her younger brother, “Wil! No! Leave me alone!” The boy could have easily caught up with her, but he gave Eira a little chase, catching one of the books, and swatting the other ones away.

Widening her eyes as the two started to bolt Cadi looked about to ensure no attendants were nearby to report their childish antics.

“Wil…” Catrin called, albeit half heartedly.

“Don’t throw the books!”

Covering her face with one hand Catrin (at a much more stately pace) followed behind her two barbarian siblings picking up the various books and replacing them randomly on the shelves.

Finally, he paced up with his older, little sister, catching her by the arm and dragging her to a sudden stop, despite her protesting. He pushed her to the floor, admittedly a little roughly, though he’d done far worse in the past. Sitting on her chest, the boy pinned both her hands expertly, grinning, “So-...How’s all the brain helping you in this situation, hm, Eira?” He teased, the girl kicking and twisting roughly.

“Get off me, Wil, this isn’t funny. Were you not just boasting about your maturity?” Eira fought, “ You’re stronger than me, don’t think too much of it, I’m half your size.”

Volumes returned to their ‘proper’ spots Cadi turned to see Wil essentially tackling Eira to the floor. Years of seeing the two fight made their sister barely flinch. Eira was tougher than she looked and Wil would never REALLY hurt her.

“Oh, I know. Are you admitting that brawn is superior to brain then?” He asked, to which the girl shook her head, squirming and pouting, “Alright then. Show me how your brain is going to stop me from spitting on your face.”

“Catrin!” Eira shouted desperately, twisting her face and closing her eyes as Gwillym threatened her, his lips puckered, ready to dribble a long glob of spit on her face, “Get this beast off me! Cadi! Cadi!”

“Enough!” She snapped, her tone sharp and foreboding.

“Wil, Knights are supposed to be chivalrous and above such petty behaviors” Such as spitting on one's sister.

“And Eira, you know full well if you ruin your gown even I cannot save you from mother’s wrath.”

Catrin bent to tug on Wil’s arm so that he might stand again, freeing Eira. Looking about nervously Cadi saw no one else peering over the shelves at them. Luck had been on their side, had not all the lords and knights been in on that council meeting surely her sibling's antics would have been caught.

Black thoughts returned and the brunette bent to give Eira her hand up off the floor. “We should prepare for supper.” She murmured softly.

Gwillym looked over at Catrin as she pulled at his shoulder, his eyes narrow, because she really couldn’t make him get off Eira, and for half a second, he looked like he might just remain. But finally, he sighed, and stood, grinning down at Eira as she stood quickly after with the help of Cadi, and brushed her skirt down, glaring at him.

If he was going to remain, he might be unnerved by the fact that Eira would likely enact her revenge, though he knew his sister was the type who’d spend months plotting, a very patient girl, and he supposed in a few months when he returned, he could worry about what torture awaited him. For now, he was victorious, his hand batted away by the girl, who pulled her scarf back over her face, and turned away from the boy. She acted upset, but Wil knew that by supper, she’d be over it, just needing a few moments to mourn that she’d lost.

In the meantime the boy felt the usual pains of hunger plaguing him often despite the fact that at home, the boy ate at least three large meals a day. But he was growing, as his mother and father insisted, and so he looked forward to the upcoming meal, “Catrin’s right. I’ll go wash up-...Eira, I suggest you should to.” He eyed his sister, “Last thing you need is for father to discover a forgotten grass stain, hm?” He offered, though she was still cross with him, waving the boy’s advice away.

“Thank you, Catrin…” She murmured to her sister, but then made her way out of the library, embarrassed by Gwillym.

The boy could hardly care, grinning like a big dope, and shrugging his shoulders at Catrin, “Wonder what crawled up her skirt…” He remarked, before making his exit as well, overeager as he was reminded of the upcoming meal.

Knights and Nobles~Tales Of Heroes (Open)

APRIL, 1256 A.D.
MONTGOMERY WALES

Eira never spent very long in the forest, though she often wished she could, instead the girl knew she should only sit for, at most, an hour. Then, her plan was to actually visit the Parish, in case her father ever came asking, and sit alone amongst the pews with her eyes closed and her head bent. The girl was always careful to time herself, leaving the castle sometimes before the sun had even risen, the forests dew-covered and cold. But it was important she did not arrive to the church too late, and if her father ever came questioning the Priest, he’d say what everyone expected; Eira was a devoted Christian who simply preferred to pray in privacy. She was too smart of a girl to leave such an obvious trail of her misdeeds. But today, the spring air was crisp and refreshing, not yet warm, but lacking the severe biting cold as winter. A fur shawl across her shoulders was enough to keep the girl warm as she sat against the hazel, and penned whatever thoughts plagued her into the leather book. More time passed than she anticipated, perhaps because the forest trail had thus far been abandoned, and there were no sounds from reality to draw her back from her writing.

It was the approach of feet that did finally bring the girl’s brown eyes up from her black ink. Squinting up through the trees, she realized that the sun had risen farther then she expected, not too dramatically, perhaps she’d dithered fifteen minutes past her mark, but the girl’s lips moved in a silent curse nonetheless. She corked her ink, and wiped the tip of her quill off on the stray rag she carried just for that reason. Her hands were splotched black, as if covered in terribly bruises, but Eira had just dragged her hand through still wet ink. The girl seemed to hardly care though, wiping her hands down on the rag, which only lightened the stains barely, and pulling her gloves back over the pale skin. It was a trick of the trade, having ruined enough pairs of gloves in her lifetime to fill a chest, and her teacher’s always hated how the girl seemed to disregard such stains, chastising the girl until finally she made habit of removing her gloves before she wrote. Ears alert on the footsteps, a single set, that grew louder in their approach, Eira waited, pressed with her back to the tree, her scarf pulled over her head and face so only her eyes were visible, and both hands pressed to the many branches of the hazelnut tree. And then, just as the steps reached their crescendo, they stopped, and with them, Eira’s heart.

Her shoulders drew in as the girl stood still, knowing she was not visible through the foliage; but why else would the footsteps stop only feet from her? ‘Maybe he has to relieve himself…’ she thought with a mix of hope and disgust. A branch snapped to her right, and the girl turned toward the sound, body tensed and coiled to bolt as soon as she saw the figure emerge.

“Eira Mared Hywell! Why in God’s green earth are you in the forest alone!” A voice boomed, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Eira mistook the speaker for her father, with a similar depth. She screamed, jumping back as the familiar visage of her brother stepped into view, his eyes narrowed in stern annoyance, though he did have a sliver of a smile upon seeing how much he’d frightened her.

“Gwillym! You ass!” She responded, moving forward to push his big frame, but the boy, her younger, hardly moved, a short bow in one hand, and an arrow in the other, or else it was just as likely he might have pushed her back. A few years ago, he definitely would have, but Gwillym liked to think himself above physically fighting with his sisters; chiefly because there was no sport in it anymore, both girls his lesser, as well as that chivalrous streak in him that knew he ought not hurt them. “And what is that for, huh? Were you going to shoot at me?!” Eira stood a few feet from her brother, no longer the least bit frightened, because though Gwillym tried to act as if he was the rational one and the boss, she knew that she was his elder, and he had no right telling her anything.

The boy peered down at the bow, having forgotten he’d been carrying it, so caught up in tracking his sister down, “Oh-…No,” He slid the arrow back into the quiver, and strung the bow across his back, “I had intended to hunt small game-…But I thought I ought to find you first.” His voice sharpened at the end, returning to the question at hand; “Enough, you watch your mouth.” He advised, which he earned a daggered look from Eira, because he knew as well as she that he’d spoken far more vulgarly then she, “And you still have not answered me; what are you doing here?”

“I was writing, was all.” Eira answered sullenly, grasping the leather book close to her chest, both arms across it.

“Writing about what?”

“Whatever I feel like writing-…Hey, you go on, leave me alone, I don’t pester you about every minute detail of your squirehood.”

“Ha!” He scoffed at his sister, who scowled up at him, “You may as well! Always asking me about the war, what it was like to see battles, to be in a skirmish, to see men killed, you’d think you’d tire of it.” His hand came out to try and catch the side of the book, rip it away from her, but Eira was too quick, dancing back, and though it would have been simple to pursue and pry the book away, Gwillym didn’t feel like it.

“You don’t even like reading anyways, Wil.” Eira responded, watching him with distrustful eyes, but the boy no longer seemed interested in going after her book, “How did you know I was here?” She asked finally, her voice now taking a softer element, “You’re not going to tell father… Are you?”

The boy rolled his eyes at her, like she was his little sibling, asking an obvious question, “How did I know you were here? Well, first off, I’m the one who brought you to this place originally, which I never would have if I thought you’d come out here alon-“

“You came out here alone.” She interrupted the boy, annoyed with his tone.

“Yeah but I’m a man.” He answered smartly, causing Eira to now roll her eyes at him.

“Hardly…” Eira answered, and Gwillym continued.

“-…Anyways, I never would have brought you here if I knew you’d come here by yourself, I have half a mind to tell father simply because you’re going to get yourself abducted. Girl like you? Out here like this? It’s a wonder you’re not already gone, dragged off by some rapers.”

“Oh shush, you always exaggerate, I’m hardly a five-minute walk from the Parish, it’s not that dangerous out here.”

“Yes, it is.” The boy’s voice took on a grave tone, one Eira could not argue with, only stare on, her lips pressed together as Gwillym began to speak again, “But, you did not attend Church with Father and Mother this morning, and Catrin said you had gone to pray alone at the Parish-…so after Mass, when I saw you weren’t yet back, I wandered down to the Parish and-“

“Did you speak with the Priest?” Eira interjected again, her eyes wide as she did not want the Priest to have any suspicious of her.

“…No, I just looked amongst the pews and saw you were not there, and so this was the first place I checked. Doesn’t help that you’re easier to track than an injured deer. I saw your footsteps pressed into the deer trail, and I followed them to here. Really, Eira, anyone with even slightest skill, would have found you here if they walked past and were intrigued. Not many child-like prints wandering off into the brush…”

“Oh save it-…Fine, I’ll be more careful.”

“No, not ‘I’ll be more careful’. Don’t come out here at all. If you really need to come see these trees, heaven knows why, I will bring you.”

He thought it was a fair exchange, though the annoyed look on his sister’s face said otherwise, “You’re leaving in a week.”

The boy shrugged his gangly shoulders, “Fair enough, I s’pose you’ll just have to relish me when I’m around, and manage when I’m gone.”

Eira snorted, “Fine, I won’t go into the woods alone,” Unless of course, you’re gone and can’t do anything to stop me, she added in her mind, and it was almost as if Gwillym could read her mind, because the boy seemed less than thrilled by her agreement.

“I’m serious, Eira, you wouldn’t be the first girl to wander off alone into the woods and never come out, and you wouldn’t be the last.”

“You’re so dramatic, Gwillym, really, you’ve travelled the world and been in far more dangerous places then the Forests surrounded a castle. I think I can manage.”

He did not respond, annoyed by her easy dismissal of fears he knew were legitimate, but he knew that to continue to debate with the girl would only draw his anger, and he hated getting angry at his sisters. There was something about the way they looked at him afterwards that made the boy immensely guilty. Instead he gestured for her to follow, Eira complying well enough, as they stepped once more through the deer trail, and down the path toward the Parish.

“I am legitimately going to the Parish now, Wil, if you want to go hunting. It’s a short walk.” She spoke again after they emerged from the wall of trees, but Gwillym shook his head.

“I’ll just walk with you, Eira. You’re the biggest pain in my arse, and I’d probably be better if you got picked off by some highwaymen, but I’d rather see you there safely.”

“You worry too much…”Eira murmured, though did not protest her elder brother’s presence, making it to the Parish at around nine, and the duo split from there, to go about their separate days of training to be a knight, and whatever training to be a Lady Eira felt mandatory to complete to keep her parents satisfied.

Knights and Nobles~Tales Of Heroes (Open)

•Character Name: Lord Gwillym Iestyn Hywel

•Gender: Male

•Age: Seventeen

•Height: 5’11”

•Appearance:

Gwillym was the youngest by a year, but many assumed him older than his elder sister Eira. Perhaps it was his height, though he wasn’t towering, he did stand the tallest of all three siblings. Or just as much his demeanor, the boy’s visage often a tight brooding. His dark brows, not exactly black, but a charred shade of brown, were often pressed together, as if he was concentrating hard, and it made the boy look rather uninviting to strangers.

His skin was light, but several shades darker than his sisters, especially in the summers where he spent many of his days out beneath the beating sun. When he was young, he used to burn, but after years of abuse, the skin would be tender for a day, but darken soon after. His shoulders were broadening, but at this stage the boy appears almost awkward, not yet filled into himself, though his squirehood has lent age to his frame compared to other boys. He kept his hair relatively short, trimmed shorter on the sides, with a bit of length at the top, but never enough that it falls in front of his dark eyes.

•Personality: Though the boy appears rather standoffish, his siblings and close friends knew the boy for his natural ease. He was a dedicated squire, which drew his father’s admiration as the boy approached his own knighthood. Being the youngest, but only son to Viscount Gwallter, Gwillym finds himself protective of his elder sisters. Specifically, Eira, because of the two, she was the one who always sought out trouble, Catrin having her wits about herself and remaining where she ought to. As a boy on the cusp of his manhood, there was a deep set aggravation in the boy’s bones, he found himself temperamental, if not outwardly, then in his confused mind. Much of his training has helped in converting that brewing anger into something productive, though some days he feels even hours of sweat and work aren’t enough to get it all out. Perhaps that is why the boy always appears to be in such a deep, dark, contemplation; forever caught in the hormonal moodiness of adolescence, and with constant worry on his mind.

•Nobility Title: Heir Viscount

•Martial Status Unwed.

•Biography: Even from early childhood, Gwillym had known he wanted to be a knight. As a boy, he was throttled by his caretaker’s many times for stealing metal buckets from the staff, and punching eyeholes so he could wear it around like a helmet. Him and the other boys would play intricate games of war, beating each other mercilessly with sticks and running around the rocky hills hooting like beasts. So at eleven years old, when his father introduced the boy to Sir Bryn Moss, where most boys would be apprehensive and frightened at the prospect of leaving their family for months, Gwillym had asked to pack his things that very day, drawing a deep laughter from the assembled guests at the table, and Gwalter was proud of his over eager boy.

A couple weeks later, however, Gwillym did ride away with Sir Bryn, and spent the next six years at the man’s side, where he saw war and battle, at first from a distance, but at his age, he had been involved in a few brief skirmishes, ad remained unmarked from any of them. However, with the threat of war with England escalating, Gwillym waits with baited breath for his first real chance to prove himself, and hopefully earn a knighthood in doing so.

He and Eira had grown up close, and she’d been the most distraught by his eagerness to leave their family, if a bit jealous that her little brother would be allowed to see the world when she’d have only the horizon. Still, whenever he returns home, he makes it his business to interfere in whatever business his sister kept, often to her annoyance, but he knew better than anyone how Eira actually spent her days. Cadi and his relationship was close, though in a different way, as he actually held a lot more trust and respect for Catrin, treating her more as an elder then the almost gawkish Eira. They argued, sure, but he often went to her for council to deal with increasing complexity of life, as he felt she would understand better than anyone with her extra years and maturity.

Now, he and Sir Moss spend a final week or so in Montgomery, as campaign season closely follows the first days of spring, and Gwillym finds himself with growing anxiety on the prospect that this would be the year he would finally test his steel, which excited just as much as it terrified the boy.

•Starting Location: Montgomery

•Likes: Riding, sparring, talking of war with Sir Bryn Moss, teasing his sisters, hunting

•Dislikes: Long books, the English, his father’s endless lectures, losing spars, endless weeks of dredging rain

•Notable Skills: Gwillym is proficient with the elm short bow, the longsword, the shortsword and shield, and the long spear, but he favors lance and mount. He’s quite advanced in his squirehood, and thus all skills associated with knighthood were honed, if not even perfected in some areas.

Knights and Nobles~Tales Of Heroes (Open)

APRIL, 1256 A.D.
MONTGOMERY WALES

The great ash-grey walls of Montgomery Castle cast long shadows toward the west, deepened by the intense morning sun that hung still low in the sky. And the silver birth wood forest took on a heavenly glow as it basked its bark in warmth of a spring morning. Lying between these two climates; the dark western wall of the castle, and the illuminated trees, there was a well-trodden dirt path, beat flat by beast and man, and it served as a bridge between the worlds. A scarfed girl, her steps leisurely as her brown eyes bobbed between the castle and forest, navigated her way from darkness into light. The sun shone through the thin cloth wrapped around her head as she turned to look around, passing a cart of spliced logs. The peasant who drove it had been awake loading the damned thing since the sun’s first whispers of day doused the horizon. He paid her little heed, and she continued on her way pleasantly.

Eira used to be afraid when she passed strangers out in the open, afraid that they could see that she did not belong there, afraid that they could somehow know with a glance that the girl had no business outside of those ash-grey walls. However, she learned quickly that most people kept to their business, and as long as she acted as if she belonged, very few would question her. Even as she left the castle boundaries, under the guise that she would be visiting the local Parish for morning prayer, not even those who knew her questioned the girl. Instead she walked out without drawing a blink of an eye, and when she came to the crossroad between Montgomery’s Parish and its forest, she took a left instead of a right.

The noises of a spring forest were just reaching the young woman’s ears, the different birds chittering away as they often did. It was so natural and organic, dynamic in its lilt, and it brought calm to Eira’s breast. Noises in the castle were often so mechanic, echoing down the halls and regurgitating once over themselves. It was the clatter of pans, the shuffle of feet, the repeating of words and the sound was ugly and crass. Though here, there was a peace and openness that Eira found comforting. Every direction but west, the girl was greeted with openness; an open field, an unwinding path, a limitless forest. But then when she looked behind her toward the castle she saw only one thing; a high, dead end wall. Perhaps that was way she risked her father’s rage to visit the forest so frequently, the girl liked the tantalize her fingers across the flames of freedom, knowing there were a thousand opportunities, but always returning to the castle that she felt she hated.

Why?

It was a question Eira had debated herself, an analytical girl, dissecting even her own wants and actions as if she was a third party, viewing from a distance. Her ultimate thesis came down to the security that the castle provided her. Walls were limiting. They limited the world she could get into, but as well, it limited the world from getting in to her. Off every direction, there was something great, but there was also something terrible, and Eira was a slave to that terror. But she felt relatively safe upon the boundary between her known world and what lie outside it, especially since she’d come to explore the paths through the forest, never venturing so far that she couldn't see the castle rose up in defiance upon its stony hill.

A leather bounded book in her hand, and a vial of ink and quill stashed in a satchel draped across her shoulder, the girl searched for a lonely spot to sit. A dozen yards or so within the trees, Eira stopped and turned off toward the right, where a path had been carved through the thicket by the numerous deer and other creatures that claimed this forest as their own. She seemed to know where she was going, venturing a few steps, and then creeping behind the thick base of a hazel. Out of sight from the path, though close enough that she’d hear any approach, Eira felt safe enough to sit, withdrawing her ink and quill, and dying the tip black as she began to write.

Knights and Nobles~Tales Of Heroes (Open)

•Character Name: Lady Eira Mared Hywel

•Gender: Female

•Age: Eighteen

•Height: 5'2"

•Appearance:

At her modest 5’2”, Eira was always admittedly jealous of her elder sister’s, in her opinion, more graceful height. Well into her nubile years, she was still often seen and treated as a child, which she faulted not only to her girlish stature, but to the fact that she was not the eldest. Even Gwillyn, her younger by a year, was often allowed more responsibility and independence then Eira herself. Though that, she knew, was not due to their age, but to the simple fact that God had borne him a man, and she a lady. An unpleasant reality of life the girl accepted at face, but resented at heart.

Her brown eyes were the same richness as her hair, which was a few shades lighter than her siblings, and contrasted well with a skin tone becoming to women of her stature. The girl was very fond of burgundy, champagne, and colors of a similar pallet, and her wardrobe attested to such favor. Like her sister, and any moral woman of her day, Eira dressed modestly, tight collared dresses, and long binding sleeves to match. Her chestnut hair was rarely, if ever, seen out of the elaborate crown braids she’d perfected in her childhood, and so its profound length was lost to anyone besides the matrons charged with her or her elder sister. Either way, her shear veils did well in hiding away the silky wisps of hair that had fallen out of their place in her braid.

•Personality: The middle, and perhaps, the least important of three children; one sibling the eldest, and the other, the heir, Eira has lived her life with a grudging knowledge that she was often, and would perhaps always be, ignored. When men propositioned her father for a daughter’s hand in marriage, they always requested the hand of his eldest daughter, Catrin. And he always denied them. Though Eira herself, truthfully, did not yet wish to be married, she did however resent the fact that she was never sought after like her sister. This led to a budding envy toward Catrin, one not filled with malice, but still, in the dark recess of her mind, it tick-tick-ticked to her subconscious, a reminder like that of an inconvenient itch, of her own inadequacy.

However, being the middle child did have its benefits, as Eira sustained a healthy relationship both with her elder sister and younger brother, along with a laxer upbringing comparatively to Catrin, who had far more expectations placed upon her. Though Eira was not exactly sharp tongued, she was a very free thinker with varying conventions on what ought to be acceptable of ladies such as herself. Most of those thoughts, however, Eira keeps unspoken, only rarely sharing them with Catrin or Gwillym, because she was bright enough to know how dangerous an unfiltered mouth could be. Still, once impassioned, the girl chomps at the bit to rant and express her ideals, and so she has taken an interest in writing, under the guise of wishing to master her penmanship, but in reality, it is not the flowery shape of the words that interests her nearly as much as their meaning. Save a few essays of free thought she keeps hidden within the bindings of her thick bible, Eira burns her writings shortly after their conception.

Though Eira was not exactly untrustworthy, she was exceptionally sneaky, often venturing from her expected place within to keep, sometimes within the company of Gwillym, and sometimes on her own. It was a trait only she, the forgotten middle child, could properly develop because surely if Catrin or Gwillym went missing for as long as she sometimes did, they’d be discovered gone. However, for Eira, her mother and matrons often figured the girl was in her room, reading or practicing her writing, when really the girl was elsewhere. On the rare occasion she was caught, Eira was able to either lie or play dumb, and because she was treated as no great importance, the girl escaped with a light punishment in most cases.

•Nobility Title: Viscountess

•Martial Status: Unmarried

•Biography: Born in the height of winter, Eira was the second daughter to Viscount Gwallter Hilarius Hywel, who had been hoping vehemently for a son to secure his legacy. However, instead the midwife presented the man with a second daughter, and though he did not resent the girl, he was however, disappointed. She grew up under the constant supervision of different nursemaids and matrons, taught the manners of a lady from a very young age, though her interest in courtesy feigned as the girl’s mind blossomed past such arbitraries and repetitions quickly. Still, she learned as she was meant to, though never prided herself in the same way Cadi always had.

As children, her and her elder sister had been inseparable, Catrin, a green eyed four-year-old, dragging behind her the bundled toddler that was Eira, playing dress up and treating the girl as her own personal doll because at the time, Eira’s understanding of language was limited to babbled words and points, so she was unable to protest. As they aged, they would play together in the courtyard, soon accompanied by an even younger sibling, that cherished son Viscount Gwallter had always wanted.

She was not an exceptionally naughty child, nor was she pure in her goodness, though like most, she bobbed between the two hemispheres, reciting her prayers, though sinning all the same as mortal men were prone to do.
Just beginning her adult life, Eira knows that soon the freedoms of her youth will be stripped away by the oppressive nature of marriage, should her husband so wish to rid her of them, and so with an almost nervous zeal, the girl clings to what childhood remains, while still yearning for the independence of adulthood she knows she likely will never have.

•Starting Location: Montgomery

•Likes: Writing, listening to gossip/talk of the war, riding

•Dislikes: Her own shortcomings/irrelevance when compared to her siblings, lectures

•Notable Skills: Master penmanship, adequate sewing

Tales of Lucenrai: The Fallen Kingdom

Princess Vera Drewery

Character Sheet

Appearance:



The product of generations of gentle breeding, Princess Vera has, or at least had, not only the predisposition to beauty, but the means in which to uphold such an appearance. Prior to being led away from her home in some desperate line of invalids, she'd been quite taken up with her own vanity, as nubile girls tended to be, still new to the male attention they'd just begun to receive. She stands at a modest 5'4", with a narrowness that can be accounted to both the natural slimness she'd inherited from her mother, along with the awkward transition phase puberty had left her in. Not quite yet a woman, she still tries to hold herself with the maturity and dignity expected of her, having been taught since her girlhood how a Princess ought to act, and despite the expected rebellion adolescence brought, she did well to fit the mold. Since the departure from the capitol, a change has befallen the Princess. She's taken a grim mood, and like a plague, whatever sadness or depression rots her soul, has also taken a toll on her outward appearance. Her blue eyes are cupped by purple bruises, the products of sleeplessness. Though she remains hygienic, she abandoned the intricate braids and up-dos she'd once been fond of for a simple silver-blonde braid down her back. Travelling exhausts her, but the true haunt lies not in perils of the journey, but the fear and guilt she feels from what they are escaping; the destruction of her people, her home, her family.

Name: Princess Vera Drewery

Age: 16 years old

Personality:

Most would describe the refugee Princess's presence as ghastly. Since the caravan set north, she'd grown cold and quiet. Though in the public, one might mistake her coldness to a clandestine determination, those who witnessed her privately would know the girl was far from hardened. On the contrary, she had gone completely numb from the situation, not a panicking ball of fear, but rather a unresponsive specter. She was frightened, yes, but more so that frightened, the girl was guilty. Though she had no part in the city's downfall, the escalation of such taking place throughout her childhood where she was but a terrible witness, still, as Princess, she knows that the people will look to her as their leader, the entity to which they pledge their loyalty to in exchange for protection from such horrors. Yet, she was just a girl, just as vulnerable and as helpless as these refugee children, fleeing, just as them, a great Armageddon.

The duality of her role as both a leader, and a helpless refugee, leave the girl confused and frightened of the decisions to come. She knows little outside a scholarly knowledge of where they were headed, and of what trials and tribulations were ahead. What she fears the most is what lies behind them, should they move too slowly, and her father's army fall too quickly. The idea of capture brings the girl nightmares, and her own mortality dawns on her once immortal mind. The realization that she is no longer a privileged elite, a carefree girl unknowing of the consequences of the world, brings with it only more fear and confusion for the Princess to sort through, leaving her to feel trapped in the labyrinth of fate.

Backstory:

Vera's childhood was as normal and as utterly bizarre as you'd expect from a little royal Princess. She had no tragedy, no ultimatum or curse to steer her far from the path of being your average girl, a little more refined, a little more cultured than a peasant girl, but with no remarkable trait to seperate her besides wealth and authority. Her life was comfortable, she did her schooling and listened to her parents; so had you asked an eight year old Vera where she expected to be when she was sixteen, she'd assume she'd be looking for a husband, rather than looking for refuge.

It is rumored that the heiress had been courting a young man before the invasion had begun, however, she never speaks of such a man, and rumors were plentiful within the castle walls. The day she was told that she would be leaving the city with the caravan, the Princess had first outright refused, the youngest and only unmarried child of a bountiful line. Her sisters were to being taken with their husbands, either fleeing as well, or barricading their own estate (should that estate still exist to barricade. Her brothers, those who were not within the King's service, would either remain at the castle to rule in their father's stead, or again fled in a different direction from the Princess and her parade. Now, separated from the comfort of her home, Vera must deal with the abandonment of her old life, and forge forward toward anew.

Skills and Abilities:

Journeyman embroidery:
Raised in a castle among other women, Vera knows plenty in regards to sewing and the related crafts.

Professional penmanship/scholarship:
Her handwriting is a lavish cursive font, a trait learned through her extensive schooling.

Journeyman communication/dialect:
She has a refined tone and an expanded vocabulary. As well, she knows a decent amount about how to influence and manipulate people through conversation.

Journeyman dance:
She knows many dances from her cultured upbringing.

Journeyman riding:
Vera's been riding since she was little, though mostly for sport, she still has a decent level of control of a horse.

Novice politician:
Surrounded by different Lords, Advisers, and various politicians, as she's grown in age, she's also grown more aware of the appearance needed to successfully rule. Most of the knowledge lies in little bits of wisdom her father and mother have bestowed to her, but she clings desperately to those shards of knowledge now more than ever.

Equipment:

-One well-bred riding horse
-A leather bag filled with various seals, inks, and scrolls meant for official documentation
-An arctic fox-fur lined cloak, trimmed with an icy silk and threaded in a dull lavender
-Black leather riding boots
-Various small pieces of jewelry with the royal crest upon them
-A steel dagger
-Heavy woolen stockings
-A medium bag with a different set of clothes
-Her tiara is also rumored to be hidden among what belongings she keeps strapped to her horse

Tales of Lucenrai: The Fallen Kingdom

Character Sheet

Appearance:

My Hider

The product of generations of gentle breeding, Princess Vera has, or at least had, not only the predisposition to beauty, but the means in which to uphold such an appearance. Prior to being led away from her home in some desperate line of invalids, she'd been quite taken up with her own vanity, as nubile girls tended to be, still new to the male attention they'd just begun to receive. She stands at a modest 5'4", with a narrowness that can be accounted to both the natural slimness she'd inherited from her mother, along with the awkward transition phase puberty had left her in. Not quite yet a woman, she still tries to hold herself with the maturity and dignity expected of her, having been taught since her girlhood how a Princess ought to act, and despite the expected rebellion adolescence brought, she did well to fit the mold. Since the departure from the capitol, a change has befallen the Princess. She's taken a grim mood, and like a plague, whatever sadness or depression rots her soul, has also taken a toll on her outward appearance. Her blue eyes are cupped by purple bruises, the products of sleeplessness. Though she remains hygienic, she abandoned the intricate braids and up-dos she'd once been fond of for a simple silver-blonde braid down her back. Travelling exhausts her, but the true haunt lies not in perils of the journey, but the fear and guilt she feels from what they are escaping; the destruction of her people, her home, her family.

Name: Princess Vera Drewery

Age: 16 years old

Personality:

Most would describe the refugee Princess's presence as ghastly. Since the caravan set north, she'd grown cold and quiet. Though in the public, one might mistake her coldness to a clandestine determination, those who witnessed her privately would know the girl was far from hardened. On the contrary, she had gone completely numb from the situation, not a panicking ball of fear, but rather a unresponsive specter. She was frightened, yes, but more so that frightened, the girl was guilty. Though she had no part in the city's downfall, the escalation of such taking place throughout her childhood where she was but a terrible witness, still, as Princess, she knows that the people will look to her as their leader, the entity to which they pledge their loyalty to in exchange for protection from such horrors. Yet, she was just a girl, just as vulnerable and as helpless as these refugee children, fleeing, just as them, a great Armageddon.

The duality of her role as both a leader, and a helpless refugee, leave the girl confused and frightened of the decisions to come. She knows little outside a scholarly knowledge of where they were headed, and of what trials and tribulations were ahead. What she fears the most is what lies behind them, should they move too slowly, and her father's army fall too quickly. The idea of capture brings the girl nightmares, and her own mortality dawns on her once immortal mind. The realization that she is no longer a privileged elite, a carefree girl unknowing of the consequences of the world, brings with it only more fear and confusion for the Princess to sort through, leaving her to feel trapped in the labyrinth of fate.

Backstory:

Vera's childhood was as normal and as utterly bizarre as you'd expect from a little royal Princess. She had no tragedy, no ultimatum or curse to steer her far from the path of being your average girl, a little more refined, a little more cultured than a peasant girl, but with no remarkable trait to seperate her besides wealth and authority. Her life was comfortable, she did her schooling and listened to her parents; so had you asked an eight year old Vera where she expected to be when she was sixteen, she'd assume she'd be looking for a husband, rather than looking for refuge.

It is rumored that the heiress had been courting a young man before the invasion had begun, however, she never speaks of such a man, and rumors were plentiful within the castle walls. The day she was told that she would be leaving the city with the caravan, the Princess had first outright refused, the youngest and only unmarried child of a bountiful line. Her sisters were to being taken with their husbands, either fleeing as well, or barricading their own estate (should that estate still exist to barricade. Her brothers, those who were not within the King's service, would either remain at the castle to rule in their father's stead, or again fled in a different direction from the Princess and her parade. Now, separated from the comfort of her home, Vera must deal with the abandonment of her old life, and forge forward toward anew.

Skills and Abilities:

Journeyman embroidery:
Raised in a castle among other women, Vera knows plenty in regards to sewing and the related crafts.

Professional penmanship/scholarship:
Her handwriting is a lavish cursive font, a trait learned through her extensive schooling.

Journeyman communication/dialect:
She has a refined tone and an expanded vocabulary. As well, she knows a decent amount about how to influence and manipulate people through conversation.

Journeyman dance:
She knows many dances from her cultured upbringing.

Journeyman riding:
Vera's been riding since she was little, though mostly for sport, she still has a decent level of control of a horse.

Novice politician:
Surrounded by different Lords, Advisers, and various politicians, as she's grown in age, she's also grown more aware of the appearance needed to successfully rule. Most of the knowledge lies in little bits of wisdom her father and mother have bestowed to her, but she clings desperately to those shards of knowledge now more than ever.

Equipment:

-One well-bred riding horse
-A leather bag filled with various seals, inks, and scrolls meant for official documentation
-An arctic fox-fur lined cloak, trimmed with an icy silk and threaded in a dull lavender
-Black leather riding boots
-Various small pieces of jewelry with the royal crest upon them
-A steel dagger
-Heavy woolen stockings
-A medium bag with a different set of clothes
-Her tiara is also rumored to be hidden among what belongings she keeps strapped to her horse