Ezekiel

A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

House Bracken

"Fear Our Thunder"

Aegor 'Bittersteel' Rivers

Name: Aegor 'Bittersteel' Rivers

Age: 30

Biography:

Perhaps no individual is named more accurately in all Westeros. Bittersteel summises Aegor perfectly, a warrior with few peers with a heart that had felt little but acid all his life.

When Aegor was born it was weeks before his mother, or indeed any in her presence, would use the name 'Rivers' to describe the child. With his father's interest set on Barba, a rare feat of temporary monogamy for the corrupt King, and the ailing nature of Queen Naerys during childbirth, there was active rumor that the King might set his wife and true born child for the Bracken woman and her healthy child. It was the moral character of the Dragonknight and the substantial element of court which held true to the other members of the Targaryen dynasty which likely prevented the King from doing so, not to mention a rare example of the rest of the house being united against him, Daena Targaryen no doubt unwilling to see another woman's bastard child set above her own, should such matters be considered.

Thus before Aegor was even aware of the world, he had tasted the chance of greatness and disappointment. Raised largely at Stone Hedge rather than at court due to the political backlash faced by House Bracken, his failure to supplant the order of things as a newborn was evident in the upturned favour of House Blackwood, who's ancestral seat stood so near. While such things are mere rumors, it is said one of many reasons that Aegor's blade is so well honey during a period otherwise defined by continuous, if fractious, peace, is his continued involvement in the Skirmish conflicts between the two houses during his youth. A combination of the enmity between houses and their status as those who replaced his mother in the favour of the King's eye, he holds particular venom for Melissa Blackwood and her son, Bryden Rivers, his own half-brother.

This is not to say Bittersteel held particular affection for his father, especially after the King put both Lord Bracken and his Aunt to death following House Bracken's short return to prominence. Bittersteel is said to have never smiled, but it has been told when hearing of the King's death he did laugh for quite some time, no doubt in some amount of relish for his final act of legitimising the Great Bastards. Aegor was home at Stone Hedge when the news was brought, having just returned from a stint along the Dornish Marches. In the years since his maturity, Bittersteel has won many friends among the southern Lords of the Reach and Stormlands, willing to lead and fight alongside men in situations that would not earn the high honours that his siblings seek. While he may not possess such warmth, soldiers are want to like the man willing to camp among the dirt and the dying alongside them.

By this point, dreams of one day being the King had faded, indeed it seems likely they never really caught on with Aegor himself, but certainly a desire for vengeance and restitution drives a support for his brother, Daemon Blackfyre, who Aegor will admit without challenge had both a more direct claim to the throne and the greater charisma and influence to see the claim through. If Bittersteel truly cares for victory for its own merit is another matter, or if he simply wishes to set himself against his hated brother. A hatred compounded by the attentions of the woman they are both said to love, Shierra Seastar, famed as the most beautiful in all Westeros and another of the Great Bastards. If one listens to gossip, Aegor's affection is based purely on wishing to take all from Bryden, but the truth runs deeper than that, and the curse of being spurned in yet another matter haunts Bittersteel in a far more cutting manner than a throne he is simply told was once in reach.

House Bracken may not have the great wealth or manpower that other houses which support the Blackfyre cause posses, but Aegor himself brings a great deal of experience in the true nature of war and combat. He is not the great tourney winner of his elder half brother, nor the cunning spymaster of his younger, but he is soldier and killer both, in an age that has bred few of either.

Lord Raylon Bracken

Name: Lord Raylon Bracken

Age: 44

Biography:

The current Lord of House Bracken was never intended to be such, substantially younger than his elder brother, born to a different mother when his older brother Kennoth, was already a man grown and well prepared to rule their ancestral seat, indeed it would be scant few years before their father passed, a man Raylon barely has memory of. Still, a second son is hardly an obscurity, and so the young Raylon grew up being prepared for a life of a respected knight of the realm, with the expectation he might honour his family in such service, a little too prominent in the matters of succession to be considered for the Citadel.

The enmity between House Bracken and Blackwood has always been useful for keeping the men at arms of both houses sharp even in times of peace and this passes on to their sworn knights and heirs. Raylon has no great claim to be the greatest sword or commander in the realm, but he has real experience in both matters from a young age and even if he was something of an obscurity, he was no shame to his house.

History runs strangely, however, the first factor in his ascension was his elder brother propensity to bear only daughters, and only two of those, Barba and Bethany. Thus as the years wore on, it seemed ever more likely that Raylon might never be replaced as heir. As with many second sons of the realm, he had been involved in the conflicts with Dorne, but was recalled to the family seat when Kennoth was named Hand of the King, to manage family affairs and the fiefdom.

It was this separation from his family at court which ultimately saved his life, having no connection to the scandal of Aegon's second Bracken mistress. When Kennoth and Bethany were executed, Raylon found himself as the Lord of Stone Hedge, a seat he had been the effective ruler of for some years. In those years, Raylon spent much time with both Barba and Aegon, although it would be a stretch to say the relationship is a warm one, there is a certain respect between the two men. Raylon very much cares for the survival of the house, and in securing their supremacy over House Blackwood, an aim he takes more seriously than his aunt's greater desires.

Lady Barba Bracken

Name: Barba Bracken

Age: 46

Biography:

The eldest of Kennoth Bracken's daughters was, and is, a beauty of some renown, a beauty matched only by her ambition and appreciation of luxury and power. Whether she had always been thus, or her seclusion in the Maidenvault alongside the princesses allowed her to both be influenced by the Princess Daena and the deprived nature of their existence, inspired it cannot be said. She was the first of Aegon the Unworthy's Mistresses to be openly recognised, and bear him a son recognised as his own. During these years Barba was treated to a life of luxury and prestige that would normally be reserved for the royal family themselves, and their were often rumours that should the Queen succumb to the illnesses that often plagued her, Aegon would marry his Bracken mistress and name her child his heir.

It was these rumours, however, no doubt encouraged by both Barba and her father, that ultimately proved their undoing, once the faction at court against them grew loud enough that the King felt compelled to act. Before long, Barba had been sent home, her child recognised as nothing more than a royal bastard, and quickly replaced by another mistress. The King would ultimately visit Stone Hedge on a number of occasions, largely for the purpose of seeing his son, but there are certainly rumours that he enjoyed Barba's company in a more intimate manner, although she never captured his attentions as thoroughly as she did before, weary as he was of those who did not remember her fondly at court.

Now, decades later, Barba is still just as motivated to recapture the success of her youth, for both herself and her son. While she may no longer be a youthful flower of court, she still possess striking beauty and despite what some would consider flaws of character, a keen enough mind to perceive the routes through which it might be attained.

Calla Blackfyre

Name: Calla Blackfyre

Age: 17

Biography:
While the fact may presently be kept from wider Westerosi society, it has been the plan for some time in the making that Calla Blackfyre, second eldest of Daemon's daughters, be married to her half-uncle, as a means to further secure the bond among the claims of the Great Bastards to the throne. Calla herself knows now that the tourney at Summerhall is the likely place for this to be announced.

As with most of Daemon's children, Calla has grown up with the expectation of their ascension, unlike her sister, to whom she is less than a year younger, she has ever enjoyed the attention of such things, a young darling of court, taking on the burden of being the less difficult of two daughters. She is known to be genuinely pleasing, if somewhat naïve, company. She sports a sense of good humour and easy charm, she just has little and less knowledge of the true ways of the world beyond what limited experience she has.

While she no doubt bears the beauty that so many of the Valyrian line do, she is not in the same delicate and ethereal way as her sister, in fact a teasing song about her enjoyment of lemoncakes has been known to cause something of a tantrum at times.

Our Final Nights: A World of Darkness Roleplay

Collab with @Ruby

This had turned out to be a rather terrible night.

The thought came to Genevieve’s mind, not for the first time, unbidden as she dived away from several small bursts of flame on the concrete walls of the tunnel she was fleeing through. She did tend to pride herself on her ability to accurately read and predict the machinations of kindred, including those many times older than herself. She didn’t exactly have a high view of Vannevar Thomas, in fact, she was very much in the process of recommending to the powers that be he was a significant sunk cost for the Camarilla. Her worst estimates, however, didn’t account for the possibility a Camarilla Prince of not unimpressive age and (faded) influence would be acting on behalf of an ancient maniac.

Still, life would be boring if it always went to plan.

The maze of tunnels which criss-crossed beneath this expansive Disney parkland now worked in her favour. She hoped that Vi still lived, but as befitting those trying to flee from immediate execution, they had split up, diving into what escape they could. She had rather less concern for her Giovanni ally, but it would likely be more convenient if he had not died. Regardless of her feelings for both, for the moment, her own continued existence was rather more pressing. The practically lace outfit was proving non-optimal, not that she had any issue with getting the pristine white dirty in such a circumstance, and at least the shortness of the skirt kept it from tangling in any of the variety of Disney themed detritus lining the hallways, it was more the lack of pockets. She’d lived through many years of much more restrictive clothing for women, but that was still a fairly major gripe at the moment.

She’d be running out of tunnel soon, thankfully, even though she hadn’t anticipated the Prince’s betrayal, she’d not provided the detail of the exit she intended to use should things go awry, nor the bike she’d hidden for such a purpose. All she could hope for was that she hadn’t given the Price enough time to sweep all possibilities when setting up his ambush. At least on the positive, once she was out of the tunnels she’d be able to get some signal and hope that Hardestadt wasn’t too busy to pick up his damn phone.

Her form was a white blur, she’d barely have registered on any CCTV system even if they hadn’t been disabled, and the winding nature of the tunnels meant that her pursuers would have to be close to get a line on her again. The kind of kindred Thomas could bring to do his dirty work were no slouches, but she imagined she at least had a greater control of the blood than most. She checked her speed only a fraction to throw open the door that marked the end of the tunnels, not wanting to present an easier target just in case there was a secondary ambush waiting for her, but on his occasion she was lucky. She’d been more than a little lucky over the course of the centuries and had no interest in being around when whoever kept track of those sorts of things came to collect on the debt. Equally fortunately, the concealed Royal Enfield she had hidden nearby beneath a rather grottier cover of cloth was still in place. It would no doubt hurt a very dear friend to know she’d placed his very pleasing gift beneath something so foul, but needs must. She’d always preferred motorbikes as a form of personal transport, when she was feeling poetic she liked to think it reminded her of horse riding.

The engine gunned to life immediately as she sat in place, not bothering for the moment, before she took off down the path eventually leading from the tunnel exit to the road. She was a flurry of blonde hair and white skirts that would have likely made for a very good commercial, but instead her hand moved to her ear, balancing the weave of the bike with one hand as she placed the call.

“Dearest Genevieve, how may I be of service?” The German tone was as clipped as ever, but judging by the fact the man had even answered, she’d probably not interrupted anything. “Wherever you are, it sounds terribly windy.”

“Lubbock got to Thomas, the meeting was a set up, take this as whatever further confirmation you need that neither of them are acting in the interests of the Ivory Tower.” They might dispute that, what she really meant was the interests of Hardestadt.

“Most unfortunate, I take it you require assistance?”

“I need somewhere his men can’t follow me, fast.”

“Well, thankfully for you I’ve been making friends with the local Anarchs, they aren’t quite so as insufferable as they used to be I’m sure, there’s an establishment near your location called the Doll Hut, there should be kindred present, but I’ll ask if they can provided someone more important for you to speak with, should you survive.” An Anarch sanctuary wouldn’t stop Thomas’ men on principle, but if they sensed other kindred, that might give them pause.

“Merci Beaucoup.” She tended to use a little more casual French with the ancient elder, any reminder that she wasn’t English, or worse, American. She bothered with no further pleasantries, as the phone was placed back into the confines of the bike’s forward compartment and shut away, the act of steering momentarily maintained by her supernaturally powerful legs as she adjusted herself, before her hands met the handlebars again and the bike really opened up beneath her. It was a moment too soon, as the space where she had been was once again lit up by the spattering of fire which denoted dragonfire rounds. They really were bringing out the kindred killers for her. It was a little flattering, to know Thomas feared her that much. The wheels of the bike spun as she took a corner at a speed well above both legal and sensible guidelines, skidding over pavement before regaining full tracking on the tarmac of road. The sudden turn gave her more of a window once more, a few more twists and turns and she’d have made it.

Those twists and turns might have taken a matter of minutes, but it dragged out far longer for Genevieve, each time she thought she might have put enough distance between her and her pursuers she was rudely dismissed of the hope. While the bike afforded her greater agility, the boxy four by fours her pursuers had acquired provided a much more stable platform to seek to cut her down from afar, and only her reactions kept them from striking true.

If they ruined her paintjob, she’d not make their ends so swift.

They’d run out of time to chase her down, however, as her bike screeched to a halt in the parking lot of her destination. It had been a part of the rock scene in LA for the last sixty years, which made it the ideal sort of location for an Anarch hideaway. For all their differences, Anarchs and Camarilla did tend to be equally predictable. She didn’t bother to try and hide the bike, her followers would be too close behind, as she swung herself off it and dashed for the door. Thankfully, there were no planned gigs on, so she had little in the way of security to deal with, pushing into the lowlight of the rock club.

Where upon, immediately, she became the focus of every single current occupier of the room. A large enough group of leather coated, piercing covered, individuals, who seemed rather unwelcoming of the blonde in white frills who had just interrupted their den of darkness.

“Uh…Hi.” She didn’t quite have the time to rustle up her full on American airhead impression, but the same approach with her native accent tumbled from her lips without a thought, even as she rallied herself to deal with lethality from potentially all sides.

Her hair was a long, straight, dark bit of finery that shimmered down her back as the woman across the room lit a cigarette. The rest of her almost rushed to have been there as her eyes hit the creature and felt the heat behind her. Her midsection taken up by a long, flowing gray tank top. Her bottoms were professional slacks; fitted things, her feet hidden an old pair of gray skating shoes.

There was a punk element to her eyeliner, the left wrist covered in leather and spikes, a brown leather katana sheathed at her feet, leaned against the couch she occupied. She may have been snug up against a wall of the club, but it wouldn’t have mattered in any practical way to those present. She would hear Genevieve, and more importantly, the Kindred woman would hear Eva right back.

“Howdy,” the woman that looked like art in a barely lit museum took a final drag of a cigarette, putting it out under the heel of her right shoe, the slow pace and measure of someone who appeared to have just woken up. “My apologies.”

There in the nearly no light, Eva smiled big and brightly at the woman that had rushed into this old, cobwebbed, haunt of summers past. “I had hoped our meeting would come at a better time. It seems Lubbock wants to kill you, while these poor gentlemen,” she motioned to the room, “are under rather strict orders to ‘extract’ you on sight. Definitely not the fun it sounds like.”

Content the butt was out, Eva flicked it into a nearby bin and found herself standing to full height. Her lips still blazed with amusement as she regarded the runner yet again. “Tell you whaat,” Eva’s voice sing-songed, part amusement, part fun, “Don’t worry about Lubbock’s folks. The quickest among them will hit a magical barrier. Likely to vaporize them. The rest of them will run away, or get taken off roads very quickly. Best-case/worst-case, I get to get involved. Worst-case/worst-case, I don’t get to stab someone today...you’d understand.” She said, sighing, dramatically. “Oh! And also these guys are fine. Top shelf chaps, them.” The sheer shine of her blood had made anything easier than it had any right being before Eva embraced the void, and returned again. She didn’t know one of the men present. Yanci did. Didn’t matter, anymore. There didn’t seem to be a will that concerned her. “I guess, anyway. Probably.”

And she was done not enforcing her claim on her territory.

“I think I preferred the old days, ‘extract’ is so impersonal, Charles always preferred the to say he wanted to take them ‘for a quick drive and a chat,” For a moment, the blonde’s french accent adopted a caricature of the British spy she was imitating, chosen more for comedy than accuracy. She was well aware the old days was such a nebulous term for beings such as her, but by kindred standards her old days were practically yesterday.

“If it disappoints you, I don’t think they’ll follow me, those were more Thomas’ men than Lubbock’s, although I’m sure the distinction will fade soon, for now they’re a little more free thinking than I am sure he prefers for his drones.” She moved further into the room, her eyes on the woman rather than the more numerous spattering of men around the room. Undoubtedly she was the greater threat present, but she also wasn’t quite sure she could have looked elsewhere if she wanted.

“Mon Dieu, you’re tall.” It had meant to be an inside thought, but she found herself expressing it anyway as she drew closer, it wasn’t often she felt any sort of envy in the category of long legs, but if she was so inclined to such now would be the time. “You think I could trouble you for a drink before you interrogate me? Or hand me off to these not-so-lovely gentlemen?”

The gentlemen of piercing and leather and their own spikes, with holsters filled and larger weapons strapped over the width of them, simply turned on heels and made for the doors; half out of the front, half out of the back. The sound of movement, of booted feet moving with motivated haste, all of the noise was patiently waited out while Eva stared at the woman.

“Why do that? They’re under order to ‘extract or exterminate’ all facets of the Camarilla court that claims my territory: from South Sacramento to the US-Mexico line, and everything up to California’s eastern border, including the coastal islands off the shore. If you’re not one of mine and you claim any possession or authority not derived from myself, you’re on their list. Those men chasing you?” Eva smiled. “Make the list.”

Her hair flared with light as it was casually flipped, as the comment of height did nothing but encourage the smile occupying the woman’s lips. “I’ll admit the order wasn’t my idea, but it’s necessary for what comes next. As for you…well, I don’t know exactly what list you’re on. So you should tell me why you’re running from them, why they’re after you. Then I’d like you to tell me what you know about the Camarilla in my territory. Then tell me what your role is. And be honest, because I’ll know.”

“I’d heard you were different, but that is a very aînée thing to say.” Genevieve sighed, a little dejectedly at the slow seeping of her optimism. She’d come a long way only to encounter another Robespierre. She corrected herself there, French decorum would have at least resulted in her getting that damn drink first.

“My Name is Geneviève Pointe du Sandrine Dieudonné, to give you that in full, although I don’t suppose many have called me that for a while. Most people this side of the Atlantic call me Gené, or they try to, it gets pronounced Jean-e alot.” She wasn’t exactly rambling, but the magnetic pull of the elder made it easy to talk and it took some will to keep her tone steady and composed. “I’m running from them because I had arranged for a meeting between the Prince and another member of Camarilla society who has been erroneously accused of murdering Baron Isaac Abrams, terribly sorry for your loss if he was a friend. Finding the true killer was meant to aid in keeping the peace, but I suppose with your order that is a forlorn hope in of itself. Either way, it would seem Thomas has already thrown his lot in with Lubbock and isn’t keen on peace either. If it helps, I was advising that the Ivory Tower withdraw their support of Thomas’ claim to the city already.” She was rather close to Eva now, almost unconsciously taking steps towards her as she spoke. Unlike many kindred, Genevieve still had something of a pulse, her body faked the need to breathe as habit and she found her false-breath rising in pace. “I know just about everything there is to know, much as that might be hard to believe given how…ambushed, I have been, Thomas could have only met Lubbock the one time, without me knowing. I suppose that’s all it took.” Was she blushing? Her cheeks certainly felt warm. Mon dieu that was embarrassing.

Eva broke. A pane of painted and formed glass,just instantly shattered to pieces; it wasn’t destruction or grief that brought her low, but the mention of Isaac Abrams. She waited until the woman stopped speaking before doubling over, possessed by a ramp of giggles to barks of laughter to, finally, the crescendo, a stretch of uncontrolled laughter that had Eva wiping her eyes for tears that, shocking for a Kindred ,came—albeit in blood.

“Oh, shit,” It would take more than the initial moment of clarity for her to completely recompose herself. A shaking out of hands, a quick combing and tucking of hair with nails and fingers, and a dramatic turn that saw Eva once more facing the woman after some jagged pacing and general motion to get the hilarity of it out of her system.

“No,” she began, politely, like the break never happened at all, “Isaac was useful until he claimed to be a Baron. Fair enough, I don’t like titles or the publicity that comes with them, so I just stay…quiet. Over time I turn into the Baron-of-Barons, but behind the scenes. The Baronmaker. None of them, the Princes starting with the first, to the first one sent by the Ivory Tower, to the Barons…none of them did it right. So one day I decide to declare myself, public as it gets without breaking the Masquerade, we’re Anarchs with class afterall. Isaac decides to fight. Wants to contest…”

Her amusement turned to vicious ice cold anger, eyes dark and hate filled, leveling Gene. “He never worked on another meaningful project in Hollywood, the death of his soul. Figured I’d let someone else end his misery. I wasn’t in the giving mood at the time. So, uh, no…can’t say Ike and I had been friends for some time. You’re…fine. Gehenna is starting out there,” Eva said, pointing, trying not to roll of her eyes, speaking through a little sigh, “You’ve got my pass to go and try to escape to wherever you want. Maybe back home? Maybe some safe house you think is safe? I guess I’m dealing with Thomas and Lubbock. Tough luck for them.”

“It sounds to me, that whatever it is you’re convinced is happening isn’t something one can just run from.” Genevieve mused, finally moving over to the bar to perch herself on one of the rather vintage (some might just say worn) stools as she watched the woman recover from her fit of giggles. “I’m not sure what Hardestadt has mentioned to you, or yours, but once the situation with Thomas was…rectified, I was supposed to offer what assistance I could to you, so, if the world’s ending, I’ve not got anywhere better to be.” She fixed an errant blonde curl as she watched the other woman intently, a mixture of Toreador magnetism and the general good sense not to let the nastiest predator in the room out of your gaze keeping her set no matter how casual she played it.

“Unless of course your buddies still have to keep trying to murder me for being on the wrong side, that might make things a little awkward, but if you’ve any interest in bringing what Camarilla are around here that ‘aren’t’ yet blood slaves to an ancient meglomaniac, I can help with that.” She didn’t bring up Charles, her secret ‘in’ to the world of human espionage and intelligence agencies which these days were no longer under the control of the kindred, it was always worth keeping at least one bargaining chip off the table to begin with, that was, unless this rather terrifyingly powerful elder of her bloodline couldn’t simply skim it from her thoughts. She practiced thinking about a rather cute pair of fluffy bunnies just in case that helped at all.

Frosted mid-length fingernails drummed against the wood of the chair she had sat herself on, Eva’s head turned this way and that, and after a few moments of that it was sudden silence as she stopped, and smiled big at the woman. Her words were faster than normal, her tone bare and intent clear: survival.

“I’ll have the order lifted,” was all she said as her brown eyes with long photoshoot ready lashes fluttered open and shut in rapid succession. A few beats of non-functional hearts and Eva’s brown eyes were wide and open and clear once more. “There you go.”

The wood of the chair groaned as Eva’s body leaned forward, her weight pressing on her left arm, the chair’s arm underneath giving small creaks to the shifting. “Understand this isn’t talk. Lubbock and Thomas, at least Lubbock, will HAVE to be gone forever. Soon. Understand our concern is Antediluvians getting destructive and doing it soon. Days. I’ve been in touch with Arikel, with Caine. The Techno Mages have provided the support they can spare. We work on the Second Inquisition right now, this moment, and I’ve spoken to Admirals and Senators…we’ll have access to localized forces and cooperative communication with their leadership and CIC. Of course, I have to retrieve Yanci and somehow find Grace, again. Camarilla elders come to my city, desperate. The horde of Sabbat with a Cardinal at its head has pledged their support if I give them favor.” She paused, and her head shook. “Whatever that means.”

Eva lied. She didn’t know, she couldn’t say, but she had to lie that she didn't feel it. Deep in her bones, Eva felt the truth of it, even if she couldn’t put it to words just yet. Other than that, all she felt was impatient. It was time, and Eva was still only moving at the speed of this reality. “And you? Does the Withering or Beckoning affect you?”

The words sounded sharp;would yes mean something bad? Would no mean something arbitrary? There was no quarter given with her tone as she sat there and took the measure of the French woman.

“It used to.” Whatever truths Eva was keeping from her, Genevieve instead met the question with honesty, a shrug moving across her shoulders which displaced some of her tumbling blonde curls. “I think I was young to hear it, but I was lost, I thought those most precious to me dead and gone, but it was a lie concocted by one very close to what Lubbock is. But they live, and they keep me grounded.” She hadn’t seen Charles or Detlef in some time, but the fact their hearts still beat and they lived on did much to anchor her both to reality and her humanity. She didn’t very much like the glimpse of herself unmoored entirely from her mortal life. That did bring up one issue she needed to resolve.

“The meeting I had orchestrated with Thomas was also an introduction for a Giovanni, they too seek vengeance on Lubbock for his actions, so if they have survived, I imagine they may now swallow their enormous pride and seek your aid in doing so. Another monster to add to your collection.” The remark was said without judgement, as Genevieve pressed a hand to her own cheek, a tremor of emotion shifting through her. “I know not how, but they have ensnared the…soul, I suppose, of a dear old friend of mine. It is a matter I want to rectify, even if they do seek allegiance.”

To Eva, the arrangement seemed evident. Long ago she may have wondered which Giovanni, but that was decades past, back when Eva tried to know nearly every face in the City of Angels. That was long, long ago; before the end started for her. An end she had been stuck in for years since.

An end she was determined to finish, “We end Lubbock and Thomas, see if we can help your dear old friend. You get your help, I get, finally, free of Lubbock and Thomas. And then I finish what they started. Sounds agreeable?”

“I think that sounds like the best deal I’m going to get in this city…Now do you think I’ll be waiting much longer for a drink?”

Our Final Nights: A World of Darkness Roleplay

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A Song of Ice and Fire - the Blackfyre Rebellion

House Bracken

"Fear Our Thunder"

Aegor 'Bittersteel' Rivers

Name: Aegor 'Bittersteel' Rivers

Age: 30

Biography:

Perhaps no individual is named more accurately in all Westeros. Bittersteel summises Aegor perfectly, a warrior with few peers with a heart that had felt little but acid all his life.

When Aegor was born it was weeks before his mother, or indeed any in her presence, would use the name 'Rivers' to describe the child. With his father's interest set on Barba, a rare feat of temporary monogamy for the corrupt King, and the ailing nature of Queen Naerys during childbirth, there was active rumor that the King might set his wife and true born child for the Bracken woman and her healthy child. It was the moral character of the Dragonknight and the substantial element of court which held true to the other members of the Targaryen dynasty which likely prevented the King from doing so, not to mention a rare example of the rest of the house being united against him, Daena Targaryen no doubt unwilling to see another woman's bastard child set above her own, should such matters be considered.

Thus before Aegor was even aware of the world, he had tasted the chance of greatness and disappointment. Raised largely at Stone Hedge rather than at court due to the political backlash faced by House Bracken, his failure to supplant the order of things as a newborn was evident in the upturned favour of House Blackwood, who's ancestral seat stood so near. While such things are mere rumors, it is said one of many reasons that Aegor's blade is so well honey during a period otherwise defined by continuous, if fractious, peace, is his continued involvement in the Skirmish conflicts between the two houses during his youth. A combination of the enmity between houses and their status as those who replaced his mother in the favour of the King's eye, he holds particular venom for Melissa Blackwood and her son, Bryden Rivers, his own half-brother.

This is not to say Bittersteel held particular affection for his father, especially after the King put both Lord Bracken and his Aunt to death following House Bracken's short return to prominence. Bittersteel is said to have never smiled, but it has been told when hearing of the King's death he did laugh for quite some time, no doubt in some amount of relish for his final act of legitimising the Great Bastards. Aegor was home at Stone Hedge when the news was brought, having just returned from a stint along the Dornish Marches. In the years since his maturity, Bittersteel has won many friends among the southern Lords of the Reach and Stormlands, willing to lead and fight alongside men in situations that would not earn the high honours that his siblings seek. While he may not possess such warmth, soldiers are want to like the man willing to camp among the dirt and the dying alongside them.

By this point, dreams of one day being the King had faded, indeed it seems likely they never really caught on with Aegor himself, but certainly a desire for vengeance and restitution drives a support for his brother, Daemon Blackfyre, who Aegor will admit without challenge had both a more direct claim to the throne and the greater charisma and influence to see the claim through. If Bittersteel truly cares for victory for its own merit is another matter, or if he simply wishes to set himself against his hated brother. A hatred compounded by the attentions of the woman they are both said to love, Shierra Seastar, famed as the most beautiful in all Westeros and another of the Great Bastards. If one listens to gossip, Aegor's affection is based purely on wishing to take all from Bryden, but the truth runs deeper than that, and the curse of being spurned in yet another matter haunts Bittersteel in a far more cutting manner than a throne he is simply told was once in reach.

House Bracken may not have the great wealth or manpower that other houses which support the Blackfyre cause posses, but Aegor himself brings a great deal of experience in the true nature of war and combat. He is not the great tourney winner of his elder half brother, nor the cunning spymaster of his younger, but he is soldier and killer both, in an age that has bred few of either.

Lord Raylon Bracken

Name: Lord Raylon Bracken

Age: 44

Biography:

The current Lord of House Bracken was never intended to be such, substantially younger than his elder brother, born to a different mother when his older brother Kennoth, was already a man grown and well prepared to rule their ancestral seat, indeed it would be scant few years before their father passed, a man Raylon barely has memory of. Still, a second son is hardly an obscurity, and so the young Raylon grew up being prepared for a life of a respected knight of the realm, with the expectation he might honour his family in such service, a little too prominent in the matters of succession to be considered for the Citadel.

The enmity between House Bracken and Blackwood has always been useful for keeping the men at arms of both houses sharp even in times of peace and this passes on to their sworn knights and heirs. Raylon has no great claim to be the greatest sword or commander in the realm, but he has real experience in both matters from a young age and even if he was something of an obscurity, he was no shame to his house.

History runs strangely, however, the first factor in his ascension was his elder brother propensity to bear only daughters, and only two of those, Barba and Bethany. Thus as the years wore on, it seemed ever more likely that Raylon might never be replaced as heir. As with many second sons of the realm, he had been involved in the conflicts with Dorne, but was recalled to the family seat when Kennoth was named Hand of the King, to manage family affairs and the fiefdom.

It was this separation from his family at court which ultimately saved his life, having no connection to the scandal of Aegon's second Bracken mistress. When Kennoth and Bethany were executed, Raylon found himself as the Lord of Stone Hedge, a seat he had been the effective ruler of for some years. In those years, Raylon spent much time with both Barba and Aegon, although it would be a stretch to say the relationship is a warm one, there is a certain respect between the two men. Raylon very much cares for the survival of the house, and in securing their supremacy over House Blackwood, an aim he takes more seriously than his aunt's greater desires.

Lady Barba Bracken

Name: Barba Bracken

Age: 46

Biography:

The eldest of Kennoth Bracken's daughters was, and is, a beauty of some renown, a beauty matched only by her ambition and appreciation of luxury and power. Whether she had always been thus, or her seclusion in the Maidenvault alongside the princesses allowed her to both be influenced by the Princess Daena and the deprived nature of their existence, inspired it cannot be said. She was the first of Aegon the Unworthy's Mistresses to be openly recognised, and bear him a son recognised as his own. During these years Barba was treated to a life of luxury and prestige that would normally be reserved for the royal family themselves, and their were often rumours that should the Queen succumb to the illnesses that often plagued her, Aegon would marry his Bracken mistress and name her child his heir.

It was these rumours, however, no doubt encouraged by both Barba and her father, that ultimately proved their undoing, once the faction at court against them grew loud enough that the King felt compelled to act. Before long, Barba had been sent home, her child recognised as nothing more than a royal bastard, and quickly replaced by another mistress. The King would ultimately visit Stone Hedge on a number of occasions, largely for the purpose of seeing his son, but there are certainly rumours that he enjoyed Barba's company in a more intimate manner, although she never captured his attentions as thoroughly as she did before, weary as he was of those who did not remember her fondly at court.

Now, decades later, Barba is still just as motivated to recapture the success of her youth, for both herself and her son. While she may no longer be a youthful flower of court, she still possess striking beauty and despite what some would consider flaws of character, a keen enough mind to perceive the routes through which it might be attained.

Marvel Comics: Dawn of X

Remy LeBeau

Name: Remy LeBeau
Alias: Gambit
Age: 32
Place of Birth: Louisiana

Powers:

Molecular Acceleration: Remy has the power to take the potential energy stored in an object and convert it to kinetic energy, thus “charging” that item with explosive results. He prefers to charge smaller objects, such as his ever-present playing cards, as the time required to charge them is greatly reduced and they are much easier for him to throw. The only real limitation to this ability is the time required to charge the object. The larger it is, the more time it takes.

Most charging takes place through direct skin contact. The power of his explosions is dependent on the mass of the object he is charging, for example, a charged playing card explodes with the force of a grenade. He typically cannot utilize his powers on living matter or organic molecules.

History:

Born with blazing red eyes, the child that would become Gambit was abandoned shortly after birth, no doubt the generally highly religious and superstitious communities of the Bayou wanting little to do with the baby possessing the eyes of a demon, he was taken in and raised by the Thieves Guild. Few mutants exemplify the complicated and convoluted nature of the mutant factions than Gambit.

The young Gambit was commissioned to recover the diary of Nathaniel Essex from the Weapon X Facility in Canada. While he was ultimately discovered in the act, the chaos created by Logan’s escape managed to enable Gambit to escape. Appalled by the experiments he had seen at the Facility, he burned the diary. Back in New Orleans. Despite some suspicions, Essex eventually accepted the story, and Gambit became a respected and established member of the guild.

As part of a peace pact between the Thieves' Guild and their rivals, the Assassins Guild, a marriage was arranged between Remy and Bella Donna Boudreaux, the granddaughter of the head of the Assassins Guild; however, Bella Donna's brother Julien objected to the marriage and challenged Gambit to a duel. Remy killed Julien in self-defence, but was excommunicated and banished from New Orleans in an attempt to maintain the fragile peace between the two guilds.

First brought to the attention of the X-men while assisting in recovering a de-aged Storm from grave danger, the adventuring criminal had little in common with Xavier or other important members of the X-Men, and those who he might have aligned with were the kind to be most suspicious of him. Despite this, after several further encounters he would ultimately join the team. Whether this was due to a true change of heart from the Ex-Thief, or rather more to do with the Southern charms of a certain member, remains up for debate. He would, over time, become a well liked and valued member of the team. This made the revelation that he had long been a double agent working for Sinister, despite his reasons, all the more painful for the X-Men, in particular for Rogue. In their rage, the team abandoned Gambit in the Antarctic, a situation he was unlikely to survive.

The wraith-like Mary bonded with him, allowing him to survive until he reached the Savage Land, a hidden jungle nestled in the icy wasteland. There, Remy struck a deal with the enigmatic being known as the New Sun. In exchange for passage back to America, Remy agreed to run errands for the New Sun, a being that turned out to be a version of himself from other realities. The New Sun’s aim was the destruction of alternate versions of himself, but once this was revealed, Gambit was ultimately able to overcome his assailant, and make it home to America.

Various adventures followed, and despite earlier conflicts, Gambit returned to membership with the X-Men once the nature of his betrayals, and his lack of agency in them, was revealed. Similarly, Rogue and Gambit, despite their tempestuous nature, rekindled their relationship and it has been ‘largely’ uninterrupted since, even surviving Gambit’s brief period of domination by Apocalypse as his Horseman, Death. Ultimately this culminated in the pair finally marrying, the result of a failed ceremony between two other mutants instead becoming the impromptu matrimony of the pair, in a manner that seemed quite suitable for these two.

Since this time, Gambit has settled on Krakoa for the time being, while his wife remains a core part of the X-Men’s effort, he appears to have hung up his hero boots for the moment, quite content to bartend in the Lagoon. It’s a mystery if even Gambit believes the longevity of this attempt at a life no involved in heists and heroics.

Story Arcs:

Married Life and An Actual Job: Trying to achieve some sort of stability, how’s that going to go?

Espionage: If the above fails, Gambit has long been associated with the shadier dealings of the X-Men, Brotherhood, and more, certainly a skill set the new mutant state needs as it entrenches itself.

Marvel Comics: Dawn of X

Even for one possessed of great mental control, Jean Grey was distracting. Eric imagined he could stretch the belief that it was a facet of her powers, but in truth that would be giving himself too much credit. It had far more to do with the cascade of red hair, the sing-song of her laugh as the giggle tumbled forth and the way the shimmering emerald of her outfit flared after her waist into her hips than any great telepathic ability.

"I believe there are still grooves." He mused quietly as she turned course on their conversation to discuss the furniture and its unintentional use. A lesser man would have joined the grin, but he prevented such, instead offering a warm smile at her acceptance of the request he had made of her, allowing his previous words instead to suggest that he hadn't quite forgotten either.

The next words which issued forth from her steeled him, allowing the warmth that had been building from her presence to drip away. Matters with Wanda were never easy, and her own children were often even more extreme. He could not blame them, but it was still a complication. They were wounds he one day wished to heal, but for the moment, had kept on cutting.

"Thank you, Jean." The words answered the summation of both her agreement and the news she had passed on, even as she was drifting away, the enclosing hold of his helmet slipped away, allowing the other, less horrifyingly powerful, telepaths of the island to reach him from beyond its restraining hold. She had only just passed the lip of the balcony before Magneto began his own flight. Unlike Jean, he did not drift leisurely, the Master of Magnetism soaring into the air as he twisted the force of the world around him, moving at a speed that was enough to draw attention from the ground below.

The attention only grew more intense as he neared his destination, dropping lower in descent, the exited inhabitants of the Lagoon turning from their revelry to note one of the Quiet Council moving towards them at speed. It wasn't panic, it was just good gossip. He did not land with force, nothing quiet so dramatic, but the magnetic ripple at him suddenly coming to a half a short distance from both Emma Frost and the two boys. Without the helm, the passing wave of energy shuddered through his own grey-white hair as he halted in mid-air, before gently drifting the final foot to touch down deftly.

"Miss Frost, I do hope you are enjoying the festivities." His initial greeting was directed to his fellow council member, before his attention shifted to the forms of Wiccan and Speed. "Welcome Home."

ASOIAF - Fire and Blood

FINE YOU'VE TWISTED MY ARM

I think my personal favourite is the Blackfyre Rebellion because we hadn't done that one for ages even back in the day, but I'll happy take the other two as well.

Marvel Comics: Dawn of X

"Jean, my thanks on your promptness, I hope I have not disturbed your plans too greatly." Erik's response to Jean's arrival was much in the manner of her greeting. Unlike her communication with Charles, and perhaps others of her more long term allegiance, it remained spoken, in the clipped politeness of humanity rather than the freeflow of mutant telepathic thought. In this instance in particular the latter would have been impossible, the cold metal of Magneto's helm placed upon his features. A sure sign these days that Eric whished to keep his thoughts from straying into the minds of those who might wish to listen. "I would offer refreshments as a good host, but I imagine the selection and the celebration I have taken you from would be far superior, so we shall be direct." Eric's hands met behind his back, his eyes drifting from the form she struck, having just touched down on the structure of his home. His focus settled on the view of the island, and the celebrants, even as he spoke again.

"I am sure you well understand the fragility of this, even as we celebrate. What Charles and I have had to become to ensure it, among the work of others, has necessitated a pragmatism that is far from his first vision, as much as it was my own." As the man spoke, he extended one hand, a trio of metallic orbs floating from within the chamber he had been waiting in, beginning to turn and rotate in perfect even synchronicity around his hand. A form of meditation, but also no doubt, demonstration. "It could not have been done without it, but I also believe we have lost something important, and equally necessary." Once again his eyes settled on her, a turn of his head to bring her back into focus, all the glimmer of her outfit and the blazing corona of her red hair. The woman who had held creation within her.

"It is necessary for you to take a place on the Quiet Council, to hold Charles to account, myself as well, although I doubt you would ever refrain from that duty, even if you weren't." Time and shared struggle had done much to ease the scars of the past, but the memories of their own terrible power turned on each other was still there. "It has to be you, you are a beacon to them, the people celebrating below, even those who hate you, and more importantly, only you could make us appear trivial, were it to be needed." It was certainly not a question, although it fell short of an order, a statement impressing upon her the importance of what he was saying, and perhaps addressing the need for the wearing of his helmet, to prevent him being convinced otherwise before he could bring the matter to her.

Chronicles of the Grim Crusade - Warhammer 30000 RP Side Thread

Rahken System
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Mithra Sub-System
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The Moon of Thotha
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Pre-Compliance

"He wishes to speak with her? Now? Alone!?" The unbridled sense of pain in Kvasi's youthful voice crashed across the relative silence of the night, the artificial cool air of Thotha’s habitation domes washing around those few present on the balcony.

“Peace, Nephew, I am sure he will speak with you in time. Matters are moving swiftly.” Iroah Khafre’s hand closed around the younger man’s shoulder, a tone laced with sympathy, but with no real conviction as to the truth of the situation. Below them, motes of light interrupted the deep blue of Night, the sky above dominated by the shade-wreathed enormity of the planet Mithra.

“I am his Son, Uncle, she is-”

“A daughter as much as Isabis, and a child as much as you, I understand your pain, nephew, but do not let it poison you. We must be unified or we will break. Go now, your mother will need your aid if we are to ride this night.” The man’s tone grew sterner as Kvasi’s protest bordered on spiteful, the almost alabaster grey of his long braids catching the light of the Night even as the dark coal of his skin did not. Even in advancing age, Iroah was still of athletic bearing, and the force of his gentle steering was enough to have Kvasi moving, even if it was willingly. Then the older man passed on, heading towards the far rim of the oval balcony.

Sitting upon the cusp itself was the individual he sought. Legs dangling into the plummeting drop to the streets below, even at her lowered position the unnatural scope of her was evident. Almost a decade had passed since the bondsmen of House Khafre had found a unique child in the wilderness of their hunting-domes, surviving where any other infant would have been swift prey to the horrors kept for sport among the biomes. Already she towered over any other adult, let alone a normal human of her own age, a woman grown and more in mind and body. She was terrifying, not in the way of cheap stories but in the epics of old, a being forged for nothing but greatness.

“Sekhmetara, what mysteries do you see out there?” Iroah spoke as he moved to stand beside her, one hand resting on her bare shoulder as they both took in the view, the nightscape of the small settlement gathered around the Khafre estate, and then, beyond its walls, the arid grasslands maintained by the ancient technology which brought life to the moon. The misunderstood gifts of ancient gods, much like the girl studying them.

“Many, uncle. The sand and dirt, the stars.” A year previously she had explained her theories at to the workings of the domes to him on a night both much alike and utterly different to this one. He had not understood, and the idea of her simply being able to unwork such an ancient mystery should have been laughable, but for whatever reason he had believed her immediately. If only the High Priests of the Empire could see pass their own hubris as House Khafre had, recent events need not have played out.

“I wish you had more time to ponder them, Child, but your father has asked for you.” His fingers squeezed once more at her shoulder before releasing, the subtly darker note of his own fingers barely able to dent the musculature of the impossible being. Only the elders, such as he, of the household could ever call her something so familiar these days. He was aware she allowed it out of familiar respect and little more. To call her a child would suggest she had anything to learn from her elders any longer. He believed it a kindness she allowed them, and little more. The thought of her unbridled by such, in a future when he and all who had raised her were no more, filled him with hope and dread and equal measure. Mithra would thrive or die at her whim. Perhaps both.

“Not Kvasi? There is not much time, surely he wishes to speak to his heir, I can-”

“Do not play stupid, Child, it is an act none can believe of you anymore. Tonight is the start of your destiny, allow an old man his right to set you upon it.” Iroah would not have raised the girl as his elder brother had, that was their one great argument, and he disagreed further still with what was to come, but his brother was the next Enkosi Kakhulu, not humble Iroah, and what was the duty of such a title if not to shape destiny? There was a glower of golden eyes, finally turned his way from the landscape, but they softened, as if remembering who and what he was, a sparkling kindness that he hoped would never dim, no matter his brother’s plans. With a rustle of the silks which clad the supernatural woman, she stood, crouching to allow Iroah to put his arms around her in an even and warm embrace.

“No matter what he says, child, remember, your fate is your own, you do not owe us anything.”

“I owe you all my life, Home-of-my-love, all that I am.”

“You were a gift, Sekhmetara, never a duty.” With the soft words spoken between them, Iroah released his adoptive niece, smiling to her as he stepped backwards, even as his heart broke at the look in her eyes. His words had been unheeded, and so his brother’s would be. The gods save them all. “Go, hurry, our enemies will not wait to give us all moments of peace.”

The false-winds which she had unravelled the year before swept around Sekhmetara as she left her uncle to the view she had been contemplating, although not for long, she knew he would shortly head to the Hall of Ukuqalisa as the steeds of the House were awoken from their sacred slumber. She had unravelled the complexity of that process years before, but had kept the knowledge to herself. She preferred the stories the Mithrans told themselves of their greatest weapons.

Even though her strides were greater than any other human she had met, she still hurried to reach her adoptive father’s study, knowing well that any spent moment was a waste. The enemies of House Khafre, the loyal sycophants of the High Priests were closing in, the window of action was narrowing if House Khafre was to decide the terms of engagement.

She had never spent much time in her father’s study, none of them were truely barred from the room, it was simply a sanctuary few intruded upon. Unlike the Great Hall where most decisions were formerly made, it was sparsely decorated, albeit exquisitely so. A carven desk of true wood upon a raised dais of marble steps, the four corners of the chamber framed by burning braziers of white gold. When she entered, she came to a halt at the bottom of the small series of steps, as her father rose from his chair to pace around his desk. He was not particularly tall for a Mithran noble, but the dias was raised enough that with her at it’s foot his head still cleared her own.

“Good, you have arrived expeditiously.” There was always a fire to Inkosi Khafre’s words, the Heir Presumptive to the house as a whole with the advanced age of the current patriarch, even in the quiet of his own company, but when speaking with her, or her siblings, there was a kinder warmth of that flame. “We do not have long, Sekhmetara, our enemy will seek you more than they even seek to crush our household.”

“Then they shall fall. The Priests are wrong, and those who follow them are weak.” The golden sparks of her eyes lit with determination as she spoke, but flickered lower as her adoptive father shook his head with something approaching a sad smile.

“Perhaps, I am sure we would reap a great number of them, but more is at stake here than simply the ambitions of our house over those who would bring us low. I cannot risk my children out of love, and I cannot risk you out of fate.” Even with feet of distance between them, he could feel the form of his daughter tense, impossibly powerful muscles screaming rage at the anticipated order.

“You cannot keep me from fighting with you.”

“I can, and I will. Any father would be proud to ride with you to war, and out of love, any father would wish to keep his daughter from harm. But I am not any father, and you are certainly not any daughter.” Despite the evident sadness in his tone, there was steel to Inkosi’s words, more than prepared for the temper of his divine daughter as her tensed form rose to its full height, growing closer to rivalling him despite the advantage of high ground. “Had Kvasi or Isabis earned the ire of the Priests, I would have them fight, we would ride together and perhaps we might even win, a full scale war may trap us upon this moon, but unifying the Great Houses would be a noble undertaking of their lives, they would be known as some of the greatest heroes of our history. The Khafre name would be secure for a thousand years, perhaps more, perhaps less.” When he continued, his words had lost some of their warmth, but none of their fire. “To risk such for you? I cannot abide such a waste.”

“Father…I..”

“When I found you, Sekhmetara, it was the most auspicious day of all my days, but it was also one of pain. I knew then that the great destiny I had planned for the children of my blood was no more. I had a higher purpose, a greater fate to forge.” Sekhmetara searched his features for any sense of exaggeration, of a hint that he spoke with hindsight, and found only the raw emotion of truth, a crushing cocktail of hope and regret. “I knew my Son would be nothing, my daughter, nothing, to what you would be, what you must be.”

She had, of course, known for as long as she was aware of other humans, that she was marked for more, but to hear the man who had raised her dismiss her siblings so still blazed through her like scalding steam, made worse by the truth of it.

“Take them with you, leave them here to fight and die with me in glory, it is a fate worthy of them, but either way, my bondsmen will take you to the planet, that you might bring all Mithra to heel. And when you are done, you will find a way to the return to the stars that brought you to us, make the gods themselves weep at your feet. Do you understand, Sekhmetara? Anything else is not worthy of you, not worthy of the name we have given you.” FInally he descended the stairs, placing both his hands upon her shoulders, leaning to do so, in a motion which inclined Sekhmetara to kneel in respect, but as the motion began, his voice returned.

“No, Sekhmetara. Never again will you kneel, to gods, or kings.”

One Universe: Unlimited - A Marvel/DC Comics Roleplay

Haha yeah, those troublesome breakaway states, am I right guys.

*shifty eyes*

Anyway, been thinking up a potential second character and I've been toying mentally with the idea of Carol Danvers who I don't think currently has any clashes with other peoples character arcs and such. Early stages so no problem if there is an issue.