Got Wonder Slayer 2 up a couple of days later than I said I would but I feel I've hit my stride now and am already working on #3 which will be some mythological, spooky scary, big overarching plot happenings "the end of the world" indeed - if any of you other myth peeps want to let me sprinkle in some of what you're dealing with please let me know so Giles can make his big exposition prophecy phooey.
I'm also overdue dropping my heaps of praise on some of the arcs going so far so please look forward to that as well~!
Mythological, spooky, scary and overarching are basically the buzzwords I have for Strange Academy. Happy to send some notes but the crux of it is the Dark Dimension and Earth magical forces are both becoming increasingly aggressive as Strange is wielding more and more extreme magic behind the scenes.
_________________________________________________________ Age: 21 _________________________________________________________ Allegiance: Nominally loyal to King Daeron II Targaryen
Rella Sand is unmistakably Dornish in her looks — olive-skinned and dark-haired, with the kind of easy, sun-warmed beauty that draws eyes in any court. She is buxom and carries herself with the relaxed confidence of someone who has never been made to feel small, a quality that reads as charm in some rooms and as arrogance in others. The single feature that betrays her father's blood is her eyes, a clear and startling purple around an inner halo of turquoise and yellow. She dresses well and with some extravagance, favouring the flowing Dornish styles she grew up with over the more structured fashions of King's Landing, and shows little interest in adjusting this to suit her audience. She has the hands of someone who has sailed and ridden and handled herself in foreign ports, though she would not describe herself as rough.
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Notable Skills: An easy facility with languages, having picked up snatches of Valyrian, the Summer tongue and several Essosi dialects through her travels. A natural social intelligence that she consistently overestimates in politically complex situations. Comfortable at sea and in foreign courts in a way that most highborn women of Westeros are not. _________________________________________________________ ◼ Valuables: A collection of curiosities and gifts accumulated across her travels — jewellery, silks and small luxuries from the Summer Isles and the Free Cities. Combined incomes from two courts who would rather pay her than upset her. _________________________________________________________ ◼ Retinue: A Dornish serving woman who has accompanied her since childhood and has spent years quietly managing the consequences of Rella's decisions.
Rella Sand was born at King's Landing to a Dornish noblewoman who had come north as part of the attending party of Princess Myriah Martell, brought to court for the marriage of Myriah to the then-Prince Daeron. Her mother, Tamara Sand, was a natural daughter of the Prince of Dorne by a noble paramour, a woman of good blood but uncertain standing in a less accepting foreign court. This made her an entirely suitable conquest for Aegon, who had never been known to let political disaster trouble him. Rella was the result, and both babe and mother were quietly shipped back to Dorne before she had begun to show too obviously. They remained awhile at Sunspear, before Tamara returned as one of her sister's favoured ladies, with a young girl the court politely deciding to ignore had vibrant purple eyes.
She grew up between the two courts depending on the waxing and waning whims of the Unworthy towards the Dornish delegation. Knowing precisely what she was and finding it, on the whole, more interesting than troubling. Through her mother she carries the blood of the Prince of Dorne, making Maron and Myriah Martell her half-uncle and half-aunt by her mother's line, and through her father she is of the blood of the dragon. It is a curious doubling of connections, she has Dornish blood that the Martells do not quite claim and Targaryen blood that the court does not quite acknowledge. The Martells regard her with the an amount of warmth reserved for relatives whose existence is mildly inconvenient. The court of Daeron II tolerates her the way it tolerates a number of inconvenient consequences of Aegon's reign.
She has filled the gaps this distance creates with travel. By the time she was sixteen she had been to Tyrosh and Lys, had spent half a year at a merchant's court in the Summer Isles, and had accumulated enough stories to hold a dinner table for an evening and enough enemies to make a second visit inadvisable in at least two of the cities. She claims to have been fast friends with the Sealord but no one really knows enough to contest this. She returned to King's Landing because it remained the most comfortable place to be comfortable in, and because she has not yet found anywhere she would rather be permanently.
Rella Sand is nominally at court in support of Daeron II's cause, insofar as the court feeds and houses her and she has no particular wish to see it fall. Her loyalty is less a conviction than a default — she has never been given sufficient reason to choose otherwise, and the Blackfyre cause has not yet offered her anything interesting enough to change that calculation. She is aware that the rebellion makes her position somewhat delicate, given that her Targaryen blood, however bastard, makes her a figure of at least theoretical interest to both sides. She finds this more flattering than alarming, which is characteristic of her.
As the conflict increases in intensity, Rella has taken it upon herself to travel to the Reach, taking with her a small but loyal band of crew and marines from her journeys. If she seeks to do anything more than explore more of the world is unclear, but most could surely worry she's is absoulutely intending to do something.
I'm sure the show writers will be thrilled to hear that.
Thanks!
Invincible is probably the comic line I've reread the most and to me he feels more show Cecil than comic Cecil and that's very much a good thing, the differences are subtle but almost all for the better and you nailed that.
If we do get second characters, very tempted to finally finish the Invincible idea I often toy with before deciding on something else for these games.
"We shared a home and we shared a father. Now, the only thing we share is the field on which one of us must die."
K I N G ' S L A N D I N G : A P R E L U D E
“Well, she never did run to anyone else's convenience.”
The chamber the two men found themselves within was hardly an ornate one, barely decorated, although the central table was scattered with a great deal of correspondence. This was a place for plots that weren’t meant to the bright light of day in grand courtrooms.
Quentyn drank from his goblet in a half toast, and almost flippant motion, as the other man regarded him.
“There isn’t much you hold in any regard, is there, Ball?” Aegor’s tone was severe but hardly judgemental, at least by the usually scathing tones of the man. Still, he drank from his own goblet, the brief pause in the continuous planning allowing a more sedate moment between them.
“What should I say? She was a fierce woman, took what she wanted and damn the rest of us when we often tried to stop her. Still, I doubt she’d take any pause if either of us were to slip off to the Stranger. I won’t grieve.” Quentyn downed the rest of his wine, setting it aside on the table between a redoubt of maps he’d been examining prior.
“Nor does anyone care what you thought of her, what matters is that Daemon grieves.” Aegor continued to sip his wine, studying the Master-Of-Arms as he set about his work.
“What boy doesn’t grieve his mother, Aegor. Not everyone’s is as mean spirited a bitch as your’s.” Quentyn didn’t even look up as he spoke, but he would do so shortly as a messenger entered the chambers. Unannounced, his chest heaving with the hurried breath of one who had been running and frantically at that.
“Speak.” Bittersteel commanded, although he held over what remained of the wine to the man, who took it immediately and downed the lot before replying.
“It’s the King, Ser, he’s dispatched the Kingsguard to arrest Prince Daemon.” His chest heaved a few further times before he continued. “I am on my way to warn him, but Bloodraven has agents across the city, I thought to warn you on my way.”
“A prudent plan.” Fireball hummed in quiet agreement as he stepped around the table. “Go, we’ll follow you shortly.”
The man nodded before he did indeed turn to leave. He never noticed the arc of Fireball’s blade as it swung from behind, beheading him before he had even taken a further step. Aegor was not a squeamish man, he had fought in many a skirmish in his years and seen men die in far more brutal ways, but still he recoiled from the sudden rush of blood that came so swiftly.
“What in the gods name are you doing, Ball?”
“Making sure our future King doesn’t have a sudden and sorry change of heart when confronted at his mother’s funeral.” Quentyn paused to wipe his blade on the cloak of the deceased. “If Daemon is warned in advance he may seek a diplomatic resolution. Better he is surprised while Daena still cools on her slab.” The Knight stood, sheathing his blade, before gesturing back to the table. “See about your plans, Bittersteel, I will see to the King.”
Aegor watched him leave, before finally whipping the arterial spray from his face.
“I presume you believe yourselves to have evidence, to arrive here while last rites are being performed.” The fury burned in Daemon’s quiet voice as he regarded the three knights who now stood in the atrium of his city manse. Since his half-brother had granted him some land of his own he did not spend much time here. Now it would always be writ with sorrows, as the place he had said his final goodbye to Daena the Defiant.
“The King has been thoroughly informed, Prince Daemon. Yet, in his good nature, he would have you come before him and explain yourself.” The tone may have been conciliatory, but the underlying accusation still burned.
“Good nature? To come to me on this day, of all days?” Daemon’s tone darkened still, some violence of volume tainting his measured tone. His hand fell to the hilt of Blackfyre, although for the moment the Kingsguard before him did not match his motion.
“It was the only day you were sure to remain in the city, traitor.” Another of them spoke, without any of the diplomacy of the first. Now they stepped forwards, beginning to cross the long hall.
“Step no further, none will threaten the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.” The voice pulled the attention of all back to the doorway. The light of the Sun flooded in from the entryhall, igniting the crop of flame red hair in a manner befitting his name.
FIREBALL.
Three knights of the Kingsguard, against any other man Daemon would have bet what fortune he had against them, even himself.
“See to your family’s safety, your grace, I will deal with them.” As much as Daemon was loathe to leave others to fight his battles, Quentyn was correct. The sooner he could leave King’s Landing with the limited number of his family present, the better. A shame the Royal Princesses had not yet arrived to pay respects to their departed sister.
Before the Kingsguard could intercept him, Daemon was gone.
Fireball's blade turned lazily, end over end as he took the few steps to stand between the Blackfyre and the Kings men.
“Oathbreaker.” One of the whitecloaks sneered at Quentyn, who simply shrugged.
“Perhaps, but what man alive can punish me?” The tone that rebounded within Ball's helmet wasn't even his usual scathing tone. He was simply bored.
“Was a place among us really worth forsaking the King?”
“You should have a greater reason to detest Daeron than I.” Quentyn's blade finally settled, held in one hand, a slightly downward angle.
“And why is that?” Another of the whitecloaks spoke.
“If I had taken my vows it would have been improper to fuck your mothers.” The ripple of his words struck the honorable knights and suddenly their swords were free. Any thought of a peaceful resolution lost. “With any good fortune, they shall each have a bastard of flamehair that might not prove so disappointing.”
“You were an honorable knight once, Ball, out of respect for our vows I will fight you myself.”
“I do suppose the three of you against me is hardly an even affair.” Quentyn seemed to nod, as if in agreement. In the next moment he relinquished his shield, and held his left arm behind his back.
The foes before him were honorable men, they did not rush as one, but nor did they entirely forsake the advantage of their numbers. At first they moved to encircle him, but only a more basic swordsman would allow such a thing. Instead Quentyn pushed immediately for a gap between the closing knights. His blade licked out in both directions as he did, two sweeps of his wrist to deflect on coming blows and a third to ring the helm of the Kingsguard as he passed. It was a blow with no real purpose other than as a taunt. Each of the men was well armed and armoured, every fight became a matter of delicate openings and gruelling endurance.
It was a balance that no knight alive knew so well as Quentyn Ball.
The White Cloaks recovered with the disciplined grace of their order, but their eyes betrayed a burgeoning, red-misted rage that Quentyn found utterly delightful. He danced back a step, his boots whispering against the stone, his left hand still tucked insolently behind the small of his back.
The first of them, a man of stout build and storied lineage, lunged with a roar. It was a textbook thrust, aimed at the gap beneath Quentyn’s arm. Quentyn didn’t parry; he pivoted. The steel whistled through empty air. As the knight’s momentum carried him past, Quentyn brought the heavy crossguard of his blade down like a hammer. Not to ring the helm, but the back of the man’s knee, precisely where the plate couldn't entirely shield the joint.
There was a sickening pop, followed by a howl. The knight collapsed, his leg buckling at an angle nature never intended.
“One,” Quentyn hummed, already spinning to meet the other two.
They came at him together now, their honor discarded in favor of necessity. Two blades wove a web of steel before him. Quentyn met them with a flurry of parries that sounded like a blacksmith’s shop at midday. He was a whirlwind of red hair and dark steel, retreating just enough to keep both men in his vision, his single-handed grip allowing him a flicking, serpentine speed they couldn't match with their two-handed stances.
The second knight, younger and faster than his fallen brother, overextended a high slash. Quentyn caught the blade near his own hilt, locked the steel for a heartbeat, and stepped into the man’s guard. Instead of the point, Quentyn used his mailed elbow, driving it with the weight of his entire body into the knight’s visor.
The metal groaned. The knight staggered back, blood spraying from the eye-slits as his nose shattered into a ruin of cartilage. Before the man could find his feet, Quentyn’s blade licked out—a shallow, cruel draw-cut across the back of the knight’s sword-hand. The tendons parted like silk ribbons. The man’s sword clattered to the atrium floor, his fingers curling uselessly into a claw.
The final Kingsguard stood alone, his breathing ragged, his white cloak stained with the blood of his brothers. He looked at the man on the floor clutching a ruined leg, then at the one blinded by his own gore, and finally at Quentyn.
“Kill me then,” the knight spat, his voice trembling with a mixture of disbelief and strain.
“Kill you?” Quentyn lowered his sword, the tip tracing a lazy line in the dust. “I think not, the false-King can replace his White Cloaks if they die, but not if I give you a few scrapes beyond your usefulness. He hasn't the heart for that.”
The knight lunged in a desperate charge. Quentyn met the steel with a casual deflection and, in a move of blinding speed, stepped on the trailing hem of the man’s own white cloak. As the knight stumbled, Quentyn’s punched his blade downwards with force, at the slight moment the parting of plate exposed the glimmer of a chance at a tendon.
A sharp cry rang out, muffled by the stone walls. The third knight fell forward, hitting the ground with a heavy, hollow thud.
Quentyn stood over the three ruined men, the light of the sun fading as clouds drifted over the city. He didn't offer a final blow. He simply retrieved his shield from the floor, slung it over his shoulder, and began to walk toward the exit.
M O N T H S L A T E R
T H E W E S T E R L A N D S
The golden lion of Lannister lay trampled in the mud of the valley, its pride broken beneath the hooves of the Black Dragon’s cavalry. From the crest of a low-slung hill, Quentyn Ball sat astride his destrier, watching the remnants of the Westermen flee toward the sunset. The air was thick with the copper tang of blood and the heavy, sweet scent of scorched earth, the familiar perfume of a victory.
The heavy rhythmic thud of a horse approaching from the rear didn't make him turn. He knew the gait of the animal and the weight of the rider.
“A fine day for the Red Lion, wouldn’t you say, Quentyn?”
Wyllis Reyne brought his mount to a halt alongside Fireball. The Reyne’s armor was splattered with the gore of his neighbors, and his face bore the exhilarated flush of a man who had finally seen the sun set on Casterly Rock’s dominance.
“The Lannisters always did have more gold than sense,” Quentyn replied, his voice a dry rasp. He gestured vaguely at the valley below, where his own outriders were currently riding down the stragglers. “They fought like merchants defending a ledger. No heart in it. They saw the fire and remembered they had soft beds to return to.”
Wyllis let out a short, jagged laugh, but the mirth didn't reach his eyes. He turned his gaze away from the rout, looking instead toward the south and east.
“The West is ours, or as good as,” Wyllis said, his tone shifting into something more somber. “But the ravens aren’t all bearing tidings of gold and glory, Ball. The Prince of Dragonstone is a different breed of man than Lord Damon.”
Quentyn finally turned his head, his flame-red hair wind-whipped and unruly. “Baelor. I taught the boy how to hold a lance. I suppose I shouldn't have taught him quite so well.”
“He’s doing more than holding a lance,” Wyllis countered, leaning forward over his saddle pommel. “He’s rallying the Crownland lords. While we’re here plucking lions, Breakspear is suturing the wounds we’ve made in the Reach. If he secures the south, our victory here is just a stay of execution.”
Fireball’s expression remained unreadable, though a flicker of something, perhaps pride, perhaps predatory hunger, danced in his eyes at the mention of his former pupil’s success.
“He was always the best of them,” Quentyn mused, turning his horse back toward the camp fires beginning to dot the plain.
“And if he breaks the back of our allies before we can reach the capital?” Wyllis pressed, his concern sharpening. “The men are toasted on Lannister wine tonight, but they won't be so merry if they find themselves caught between the Prince and the sea.”
“Your mistake, Ser Reyne, is overestimating my concern, both in the chance of that future or in my care for your council.” Quentyn had been known at court for scathing remarks to lords with far more pedigree than he for some time, but it still never got old to see the shock ripple across their features. “These Princes of the Realm; Daemon, Baelor, Maekar. The ones that matter that is, they fight because I taught them, they make a mockery of men who are supposed to be their senior because I made them so. Do you think their swollen forebears gave them these skills? I have no heirs Reyne, except the men who will make history, in all the ways that matter.” He could tell the nature of such an argument was so extreme as to keep the red cat's tongue even longer.
“Tell the men to rest,” Quentyn called back without looking. “And tell them to sharpen their blades. Lions are easy prey, Wyllis. We’ll be hunting a Dragon soon enough.
W A R R E P O R T
T I D I N G S
-
◼ THE RIVERLANDS ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ The rivers burn. House Tully is unable to restrain the ancient blood-feud between House Blackwood and House Bracken. As Fireball's army marches to reinforce the scattered guerillas of the Black Dragon in the region the lords of the rivers prepare for the worst fighting in generations.
◼ THE REACH & STORMLANDS ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Divided. Marcher lords drive full-heartedly to the Black Dragon. Tensions build as forces are spotted gathering in Dorne to strike at the underbelly of Westeros. Soon the war will burn hot here as well, but not for now.
◼ THE NORTH ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ A summit has been called at the Twins. House Stark and the Northern lords attend to meet a royal entourage, but rumors suggest the Rebels are en route to secure the North for the Black Dragon.
Almost set... Might want to talk a bit with @Ezekiel before I get too in the weeds with one corner of my stuff though, more to just get a handle on things and avoid concerns that I might tread on toes.
But I'm pretty confident there'd be room if I know where certain lines are.
Because I have made the Strange Academy so large in scope across magic users I'm working under the understanding if anyone has any ideas for magic stuff I am very happy to play around what they want to do rather than try and dictate ALL MAGIC so I'm fairly sure it will be fine.
Z A T A N N A Z A T A R A Z A T A N N A Z A T A R A
"Strange Southern Happenings"
|| Nowhere Important — Rural Louisiana
"What about Dennis? He is nice."
"Dennis is also a creature of a Nightmare realm with twelve eyes."
"So judgemental, how is that being his fault?"
"I'd like to keep us to options that are generally humanoid, if you wouldn't mind."
"That is your problem, you would really be having less of an issue if you would just —"
"LADIES." Khalid's cry of alarm and frustration, turned both metallic and several tones deeper by the helm across his features, cut through the bickering conversation between Zatanna and Ilyana. Both women were standing atop the relatively ramshackle roof of what had once been a gas station. Rural Louisiana, even no great distance from the sprawl of the city, was dotted with the detritus of abandoned human habitation. Feelings of loss and shattered dreams were often a draw to some of the more nefarious magical denizens the Academy deemed itself the authority on, and so they often found themselves out these sort of ways.
Ilyana was a more recent addition to the team of mature students the Academy often wielded as enforcement and retrieval team, although despite her bellicose nature when it came to most of the Academy and other students, she got on well with Zatanna. Probably a little too well in this situation.
"Are you having trouble, Domehead?" The blonde woman called down from her perch. She was leant forwards on the crossguard of her oversized weapon. Her soulsword was a physical manifestation of her abilities, a mighty and feared tool of destruction — it was currently relegated to a prop of convenience.
"I can manage, but this would be done a lot faster if you two would actually help." Khalid was on ground level and was rather far from bickering about the rest of the student body. He weaved to and fro as haunted spirits began to leech out of the physical surroundings and sped towards him. It was certainly not one of their most exciting deployments, but it was also meant to be more than a one man job.
Ilyana let out a sharp, dry bark of a laugh, the kind that didn't reach her eyes. "He is practising his 'measured response.' Strange would be so proud. He's becoming a very shiny, very obedient battery." Despite her continued efforts to aggravate the man actually doing the work, Magik vaulted over the side of the rooftop, soulsword in hand. "Come along, Thighs." She called back over her shoulder.
"Wha — Hey!" Zatanna took but a moment to catch the term, her own descent to the ground a little more elegant as she muttered "Rehtaf e sa thgil." While Magik landed in a heavy crunch of force which went some way to dissipate a materialising spirit, Zatanna touched down with barely a noise.
"It is a compliment, how much are you training?" Ilyana smirked as the soulsword lashed out, banishing what remained of the spirit she had partially landed on. Traditional violence wasn't usually an effective approach with incorporeal magical threats, but the Academy's more recent hire had an almost unique ability to do so thanks to the gifts of both her upbringing and her mutation.
"She doesn't, it's carbs and genes to survive a Medici siege." Unfortunately for Zatanna it seemed her companions, previously diametrically opposed foes, had unified over ribbing her.
She definitely didn't want to be in the room where this happened.
"Ah, like that meme. Everything you see, I am owing to Spaghetti."
"Near enough."
"Can we focus?" Zatanna couldn't quite keep the huff out of her voice as she intoned her next enchantment. "Sreyarp dna sthguoht." A burst of soothing magic erupted from the casting focus in her hand, the energy engulfing one of the spirits in a wave that, while pleasant for most, was the bane of Spirits of Loss, banishing its hold on the mortal realm.
"My point exactly, before you started bullying poor Dennis." Khalid continued, even as with a flash of golden energy he collapsed the form of another spirit. On deployments like this it seemed like more and more of the vibrant person she had grown up with returned. It was one of her main reasons for always volunteering for such duties.
"Have you both stopped to consider that, to him, I also have the incorrect number of eyes!?" While she continued to take the bait, Zatanna couldn't quite hide the good humour from her tone. Even if she was the required focus, it was a good feeling that her two best friends were actually getting along. Secondly, the good mood helped with dissipating the haunting.
"Psht, like he is looking at your ey —" Magik was truly interrupted this time, a burst of negative energy rocking her backwards as the spirits finally responded in appropriate vigour to the assault of three powerful wielders of magic.
They began to coalesce together, a mass of grey flickering static that looked less like ghosts and more like a wound in the world. The true source of the magical disturbance they had detected, and thus their target.
"Khalid, now." Zatanna instructed with the easy authority she wielded among her fellow students. Khalid and his helm began to emit a golden light so total in its brilliance it seemed to leech colour from its surroundings, the uncompromising splendour of its power making short work of any limitations on its radiance. The effect on the swirling mass of negative energy, no matter its threat to the stability of magic and the mortal world, was immediate — temporarily holding it in place.
Magik's blade arced outwards, not at the target but behind it, the soulsword splitting reality itself. The wound it left was a clean thing, easy to seal, but that didn't entirely hide the horror from beyond the skein of the world. Where these things had come from, the foulness of it. The power of Khalid's binding was not just to keep the disturbance in place, but also to prevent yet more horror following through. As her allies did their job, Zatanna prepared her own.
She gathered both her power and her wits, long years of magical study and the great gifts her parents had bestowed on her pulling together into a spell that would rectify the situation. In the end, it was simple enough.
"Rednes ot nrutes!"
For a moment there was no response, then her power unleashed in a gale. A torrent of airborne current that seemed to ignore the three magic users entirely, focused wholly on the ghostly mass they fought against. It struggled to anchor itself in the mortal plane, but in the next moment was cast back into the Nightmare. With another flick of Magik's wrist, the way was sealed once more.
Silence held for a few moments before Ilyana spoke up.
"Hooray, another victory. The rodents of this abandoned town will be troubled by nefarious spirits no longer." Her cheer, obviously sardonic, was matched by a slight woo from Zatanna.
"You know that these things build up, and can threaten reality itself." Khalid mused with little of the good humour he had shown a moment prior.
"Do I know this? Or have I been told it?"
"We are dealing with more and more of these disturbances, getting closer and closer to the academy, and you don't think that's cause for concern?."
"Enough, you two. There's a good crawfish place a little way over, let's stop by before we need to return home."
"Ok there, Honky Tonk." That was enough to have both of them laughing at her once again.
_________________________________________________________ Age: 19 _________________________________________________________ Allegiance: Nominally loyal to King Daeron II Targaryen
Rella Sand is unmistakably Dornish in her looks — olive-skinned and dark-haired, with the kind of easy, sun-warmed beauty that draws eyes in any court. She is buxom and carries herself with the relaxed confidence of someone who has never been made to feel small, a quality that reads as charm in some rooms and as arrogance in others. The single feature that betrays her father's blood is her eyes, a clear and startling purple around an inner halo of turquoise and yellow. She dresses well and with some extravagance, favouring the flowing Dornish styles she grew up with over the more structured fashions of King's Landing, and shows little interest in adjusting this to suit her audience. She has the hands of someone who has sailed and ridden and handled herself in foreign ports, though she would not describe herself as rough.
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Notable Skills: An easy facility with languages, having picked up snatches of Valyrian, the Summer tongue and several Essosi dialects through her travels. A natural social intelligence that she consistently overestimates in politically complex situations. Comfortable at sea and in foreign courts in a way that most highborn women of Westeros are not. _________________________________________________________ ◼ Valuables: A collection of curiosities and gifts accumulated across her travels — jewellery, silks and small luxuries from the Summer Isles and the Free Cities. Combined incomes from two courts who would rather pay her than upset her. _________________________________________________________ ◼ Retinue: A Dornish serving woman who has accompanied her since childhood and has spent years quietly managing the consequences of Rella's decisions.
Rella Sand was born at King's Landing to a Dornish noblewoman who had come north as part of the attending party of Princess Myriah Martell, brought to court for the marriage of Myriah to the then-Prince Daeron. Her mother, Tamara Sand, was a natural daughter of the Prince of Dorne by a noble paramour, a woman of good blood but uncertain standing in a less accepting foreign court. This made her an entirely suitable conquest for Aegon, who had never been known to let political disaster trouble him. Rella was the result, and both babe and mother were quietly shipped back to Dorne before she had begun to show too obviously. They remained awhile at Sunspear, before Tamara returned as one of her sister's favoured ladies, with a young girl the court politely deciding to ignore had vibrant purple eyes.
She grew up between the two courts depending on the waxing and waning whims of the Unworthy towards the Dornish delegation. Knowing precisely what she was and finding it, on the whole, more interesting than troubling. Through her mother she carries the blood of the Prince of Dorne, making Maron and Myriah Martell her half-uncle and half-aunt by her mother's line, and through her father she is of the blood of the dragon. It is a curious doubling of connections, she has Dornish blood that the Martells do not quite claim and Targaryen blood that the court does not quite acknowledge. The Martells regard her with the an amount of warmth reserved for relatives whose existence is mildly inconvenient. The court of Daeron II tolerates her the way it tolerates a number of inconvenient consequences of Aegon's reign.
She has filled the gaps this distance creates with travel. By the time she was sixteen she had been to Tyrosh and Lys, had spent half a year at a merchant's court in the Summer Isles, and had accumulated enough stories to hold a dinner table for an evening and enough enemies to make a second visit inadvisable in at least two of the cities. She claims to have been fast friends with the Sealord but no one really knows enough to contest this. She returned to King's Landing because it remained the most comfortable place to be comfortable in, and because she has not yet found anywhere she would rather be permanently.
Rella Sand is nominally at court in support of Daeron II's cause, insofar as the court feeds and houses her and she has no particular wish to see it fall. Her loyalty is less a conviction than a default — she has never been given sufficient reason to choose otherwise, and the Blackfyre cause has not yet offered her anything interesting enough to change that calculation. She is aware that the rebellion makes her position somewhat delicate, given that her Targaryen blood, however bastard, makes her a figure of at least theoretical interest to both sides. She finds this more flattering than alarming, which is characteristic of her.
As the conflict increases in intensity, Rella has taken it upon herself to travel to the Reach, taking with her a small but loyal band of crew and marines from her journeys. If she seeks to do anything more than explore more of the world is unclear, but most could surely worry she's is absoulutely intending to do something.
Aegor is tall and muscular, lean and lithe as a panther, with the purple eyes of his Targaryen blood set above a close-cropped beard, little more than a shadow on his jaw. His black hair marks him apart from the silver-gold of his father's line, a bastard's distinction worn without apology. His armour is well-made but deliberately plain — grey steel and black rings, practical and without ornament. His helm bears a horsehead crest with a flowing mane behind it. His shield displays his personal sigil, the red stallion of House Bracken combined with black dragon wings from House Blackfyre on a golden field, the horse snorting fire. He does not smile. He has not smiled in some time.
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Weaponry: A knight's warhammer and lance. He is a ferocious and capable warrior, having trained extensively in the martial arts expected of a knight of his standing. _________________________________________________________ ◼ Notable Skills: One of the foremost military commanders riding under the Blackfyre banner, considered alongside Ser Quentyn Ball to have had the largest hand in convincing Daemon to press his claim. A proven battlefield commander with a particular aptitude for cavalry engagements and a ferocious warrior capable of holding his own against the most dangerous opponents in the realm. _________________________________________________________ ◼ Retinue: Knights and men-at-arms sworn to the Blackfyre cause, many drawn from houses with Bracken connections in the Riverlands.
Aegor was born in 172 AC at King's Landing to Barba Bracken, the fifth of King Aegon IV's mistresses. He was born only a fortnight before Queen Naerys nearly died in childbirth, and with Naerys lingering near death, Barba's father began to speak openly of Barba marrying the king. When Naerys recovered, Prince Daeron and Aemon the Dragonknight forced Aegon to send Barba and her bastard son from court. Aegor was raised at Stone Hedge among his mother's kin, nurtured on her resentments and the ancient grievances of House Bracken, growing into the bitter and hard-edged man the court had made him before he was old enough to understand it.
The enmity between Bittersteel and Bloodraven runs deeper than politics. Many would blame the ancient enmity between their houses, their competition over their half-sister or even that Aegor's mother was set aside in favour of Bloodraven's. In truth the matter was more simple, Bryden was able to remain at court, becoming some distant part of the royal family in his own strange way. Aegor was cast out, permitted only temporary visits to the halls that should have been his childhood home.
When Aegon IV died, he legitimised all his bastards, but while his brothers have come to wield Valyrian steel, Bittersteel was left with nothing but the legitimisation itself. It was the final insult in a life full of them. It was Bittersteel and Ser Quentyn Ball who had the largest hand in convincing Daemon Blackfyre that he was the true heir and should press his claim.
Bittersteel rides in service to a king he helped create, prosecuting a rebellion he has longed to start. His loyalty to Daemon is genuine, the Black Dragon is the one man who has treated him as something more than a useful embarrassment, but it sits alongside a web of personal grievances that the rebellion gives him legitimate cause to pursue. He wants Daemon on the Iron Throne and his half-brother Brynden Rivers broken. He is a hard man who has little use for anything beyond war, and war, at last, is exactly what he has. He does not think beyond victory. He has never found it useful to.
As it stands the specific location of Bittersteel is unknown to the royalist forces, going to ground in the Riverlands. Unknown to even Bloodraven's spies, he heads North to the Twins.
Aegor is tall and muscular, lean and lithe as a panther, with the purple eyes of his Targaryen blood set above a close-cropped beard, little more than a shadow on his jaw. His black hair marks him apart from the silver-gold of his father's line, a bastard's distinction worn without apology. His armour is well-made but deliberately plain — grey steel and black rings, practical and without ornament. His helm bears a horsehead crest with a flowing mane behind it. His shield displays his personal sigil, the red stallion of House Bracken combined with black dragon wings from House Blackfyre on a golden field, the horse snorting fire. He does not smile. He has not smiled in some time.
▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Weaponry: A knight's warhammer and lance. He is a ferocious and capable warrior, having trained extensively in the martial arts expected of a knight of his standing. _________________________________________________________ ◼ Notable Skills: One of the foremost military commanders riding under the Blackfyre banner, considered alongside Ser Quentyn Ball to have had the largest hand in convincing Daemon to press his claim. A proven battlefield commander with a particular aptitude for cavalry engagements and a ferocious warrior capable of holding his own against the most dangerous opponents in the realm. _________________________________________________________ ◼ Retinue: Knights and men-at-arms sworn to the Blackfyre cause, many drawn from houses with Bracken connections in the Riverlands.
Aegor was born in 172 AC at King's Landing to Barba Bracken, the fifth of King Aegon IV's mistresses. He was born only a fortnight before Queen Naerys nearly died in childbirth, and with Naerys lingering near death, Barba's father began to speak openly of Barba marrying the king. When Naerys recovered, Prince Daeron and Aemon the Dragonknight forced Aegon to send Barba and her bastard son from court. Aegor was raised at Stone Hedge among his mother's kin, nurtured on her resentments and the ancient grievances of House Bracken, growing into the bitter and hard-edged man the court had made him before he was old enough to understand it.
The enmity between Bittersteel and Bloodraven runs deeper than politics. Many would blame the ancient enmity between their houses, their competition over their half-sister or even that Aegor's mother was set aside in favour of Bloodraven's. In truth the matter was more simple, Bryden was able to remain at court, becoming some distant part of the royal family in his own strange way. Aegor was cast out, permitted only temporary visits to the halls that should have been his childhood home.
When Aegon IV died, he legitimised all his bastards, but while his brothers have come to wield Valyrian steel, Bittersteel was left with nothing but the legitimisation itself. It was the final insult in a life full of them. It was Bittersteel and Ser Quentyn Ball who had the largest hand in convincing Daemon Blackfyre that he was the true heir and should press his claim.
Bittersteel rides in service to a king he helped create, prosecuting a rebellion he has longed to start. His loyalty to Daemon is genuine, the Black Dragon is the one man who has treated him as something more than a useful embarrassment, but it sits alongside a web of personal grievances that the rebellion gives him legitimate cause to pursue. He wants Daemon on the Iron Throne and his half-brother Brynden Rivers broken. He is a hard man who has little use for anything beyond war, and war, at last, is exactly what he has. He does not think beyond victory. He has never found it useful to.
As it stands the specific location of Bittersteel is unknown to the royalist forces, going to ground in the Riverlands. Unknown to even Bloodraven's spies, he heads North to the Twins.
ASDAValueMilk
Emma
FourtyTwo
xxjessicaxx
PrinceAlexus
Floofenstein
MarshalSolgriev
LadyRunic
Antlers
