MaeB

๑ ❝ 𝕮 𝔥 𝔞 𝔯 𝔪 𝔢 𝔡 , 𝕴‘𝔪 𝖘𝔲𝔯𝔢 ❞ ๑ { A Witch’s Tale - RP }

Alrighty then you lovely lot, let’s see this collab post!

̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅

𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎

“𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚕’𝚜 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝚊 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚙𝚒𝚗’𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚡𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛, 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚢.”

𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 “𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢” 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎

𝟹𝟻 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚍 (𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 “𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎, 𝟹𝟶?” 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝟻 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜)

𝙵𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎

☞ 𝙱𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜

<sub>Pearly first felt a wedge of dollar bills between her barely-there breasts when she was just 14 years old. Mother Dearest made sure her one and only child, her “Precious Pearly”, knew the value of the dollar sign as soon as she was old enough to grip a bill in her podgy, dimpled hands. Daddy didn’t stick around. So it was just Pearly and her Mama for as long as she could remember. Formative years were spent watching her Madam Mama run a tight ship whilst vacuuming white lines from both sides of her pocket mirror and roughing up the edges of her “Girls” from darkened doorways.

It was a “Family Business.” The Brothel operated out of the top 3 floors of 69 Greet Street, a collection of around 12 sparse bedrooms occupied by lost souls looking to bury themselves in the vacuous bodies of those desperate for an escape. An hour? 4 hours? 3 minutes? Patrons of the Brothel paid upfront for the pleasure of a lumpy mattress surrounded by nicotine-stained walls. The Basement got transformed into a “speakeasy bar” back in the 1920s. “Soirée” nowadays was a glorified dive bar cosplaying as something with more sophistication than it was able to claim - A breeding ground for debauchery, dodgy deals and Dolls secretly for sale. Soirée turns a blind eye to the deals under the table, signet ringed fists thrown in the alleyway and married men with their arms around anyone but their wife. The Bar is the only legit leg of the business; An outlet to “clean” the whore’s earnings and a perfect marketing opportunity for a Madam’s working girls. Burlesque shows, Jazz singers and a mean Manhattan lure in those Johns looking for a good time not a long time. There’s rarely been an empty seat in the house for the last 10 years. Despite its desperate attempt at glitz and glamour, Soirée was the definition of mutton dressed as lamb. The Bar just couldn’t shake its grimy reputation that both helped and hindered the activities that took place wrapped in peeling wallpaper and atop liquor-soaked carpets.

When 25 year old Pearly found her Mother face-down at her bureau desk, blood drying all crispy in her bleached blonde hair, she inherited it all. The Brothel, the Babydolls, the Bar, the Books, the debts… The good, the bad and the ugly. Pearly runs a tight ship and keeps the wolves at bay by plying them with intel extracted from the minds of her Girls: Confessionals from creepy Johns, the gloating of criminals, the whisper of every word on the street… Anything worth something to those useless pigs, Pearly hands over. Keeps them from sniffing at Madam’s back door. Let a select few run drugs through the gaff, let the mob bosses talk business over the best Old Fashioneds in the city… Dirty makes more money when it ain’t just in a martini.</sub>

☞ 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚟𝚢

<sub>A Madam ain’t for sale but if she were, Pearly’d still be a damned good ride. She may be on the bench, but that doesn’t mean she’s forgotten how to play. Manipulative, she’s a slippery spirit, always shimmying her way out of sticky situations with her smart mouth and fluttering eyelashes.

Not that Pearly would ever be naive enough to disclose her earnings, bragging is what gets you killed in this game, but she’s got goods stashed in mattresses, loose floorboards and the banks. Her businesses are booming and there’s nothing she wouldn’t do to keep it that way. A puppeteer of a bookkeeper, she’s smarter than anyone gives her credit for. Thanks to those lessons from Mama’s old snake of an accountant, she knows just where to fiddle the books and payday’s always sweet.

When you’re as deep in the game as she is, balancing the Brothel, the Bar and the Books, it’s a good job Pearly knows who’s worth their buck for brawn. She’s got guns-for-hire on speed dial, muscle ready to weigh in when she needs and a nose for the best powder in the city. There ain’t a gram of white that passes hands in Soirée she don’t know about. And if someone’s dumb enough to cross her? Well, she’s seen enough skeletons in closets to know just the spot to apply pressure. Pearly’s been around enough violence to know a thing or two about torture, bribery and a quick snuff. When you’ve got everything to lose, you sure learn quick how to make sure you stay winning.

A Madam bears the responsibility of her Babydoll’s wellbeing. She must protect, exploit, control, nurture and stifle simultaneously. That level of duplicitousness mixed with unlimited liquor and a silver spoon piled with a powder that catalyses uncapped confidence? Pearly is a ticking time bomb. Inherently paranoid, she sees the ghosts of problems that may or may not be there. Betrayal is a compulsive fear the Madam continually checks over her shoulder for. Late nights, substance abuse and a childhood ripped from her starfish hands make for a woman riddled with insecurities.

“What you looking at, girl? Does my blush need a top up?”

“She’s overcharging and keeping the spare change. I know it.”

“Pull up the CCTV, Biggie. I wanna watch every fucking frame, yeah? I know I saw her stuffing that wrap down her bra.”

“She’s been my biggest earner for the past 6 months! And she wants to turn her back on me? ME? After all I’ve done for that ungrateful lil hussy? I’m her goddamn mother!”

“Pour me another, Daria. I’m sharper when I’ve thrown back some good bourbon. Don’t look at me like that, alright? I’ll be over that bar before you take ya next breath.”

A powerhouse like Pearly has many downfalls: That “last” line, “just another” drink, trusting a whore who flattered her way into Pearly’s good books… But her achilles heel? Her blinkered view of herself. It’s always everyone else’s problem. Always someone else’s fault. When everyone’s too scared to fracture Pearly’s selective memories, no one to challenge her paranoid ramblings, she’s left with no one to ground her when she’s flying high. Which is always, if you were wondering.

More trivially, Pearly can tell a decent Burgundian Chardonnay with a good vintage by the bouquet alone. Ever more impressive considering her nose has been worn away from her love of good powder. Plus, she got an ear for the next big voice. The artists that grace the Soirée stage occasionally go on to become the next big thing… And promptly delete their stint at the underground bar from their history books.</sub>

☞ 𝚁𝚞𝚒𝚗

<sub>“You seen this? Cuba’s finest. These taste like Italian leather, a damn good coffee and… What is that flavour catching the back of my throat, there?… Oh. Cedar. Come closer. Smell it. Beautiful, huh? God, I love ‘em but I sure wish they smoked as easy as cigarettes. Damn thing just goes on for too long, don’t it?

Anyways. I suppose a formal introduction ain’t really necessary. You’re from round here. You’re in my house. You know your way around, don’t cha? Ain’t many asscheeks in the city that haven’t found their way into one of Madam Pearly’s chairs. And I love that. You know why? Boy, do I love a party. And you know what makes a good party? People. But it’s not just the music, the martini glasses, the magic… I love it all. Think that’s my favourite part of this life, though, the people. Growing up just me and Mama started out real lonely. No other kids. No family. No Daddy. Could’ve been real lonely if this house weren’t always full of visitors. Always coming and going. Might as well have had a revolving door installed, the rate those hinges were squeakin’. All kindsa people come round here. We had em all. Daddies, Doctors, Lawyers, Dealers, Gunrunners… You name it! We got it. And I learned quick how to chat with anyone and everyone. Helped me turn this tongue silver, it really did. Girls say I’ve got the gift of the gab.

But, well, I didn’t get the education most of these Johns got, that’s for certain sure. Could’ve wound out dumb as a post if I hadn’t begged some of the old Dolls to teach me to read and write. And well, I never did enjoy my own company too much. Never really had to learn how to, neither. Mama’s Dolls was always around, braiding my hair and painting my toes. Guess they felt sorry for me, in a way. I always heard them whisperin’ bout how Mama shouldn’t be making me trick so young. But look at me now! Wouldn’t think it, would ya? Folks livin’ straight would probably drop dead if they knew what little Pearly had to do to get through! But here I am in a silk gown, Chanel red on my lips and 9 carats in my lobes. Got my friends Smith & Wesson in my garter and a duster in my drawer so I don’t need your sympathy, okay? That shit tastes cheap as Carignan. I want respect on my name and Washington’s in my pretty lil hands. You got that?

A good Madam is kinda like a headmistress, an overbearing mother and a husband. In my position, you gotta know how to stroke an ego like a lil’ kitty. Make em purr. It’s real easy. The hard part is keeping these Dolls in line. Some of em know the score good and proper… Others? Like herding sheep, I tell ya. And I don’t like marking my prized mules. You wouldn’t buy a bruised peach, would ya? So you gotta get real creative with them. Packets of good white, jewellery, designer clothes… Some of these Girls ain’t got two brain cells to rub together so I just dangle a pretty carat for em and they soon do as they’re told. Couple of them though? Tough as old boots. And they take a lil longer to break in… They all break in the end, though. Shit’s inevitable. And Pearly’s Girls are the John’s favourites for reason. It’s cos I’ve trained em good, honey. They know how to do just about anything, for anyone. One stop shop. Then those Johns go crawlin’ back to their boring lives and their boring wives for some missionary and apple pies. I know where I’d rather be fuckin’ sittin’.

Some Madams? They just ain’t got the balls, you know? Too busy squeezin’ em for shit scratch. No, I’ve got a big ol’ set of my own right here in my lacies. So yeah, I handle myself pretty good… And I let the Boys do the rest. Don’t like getting dirt under my fingernails unless I fancy it, see. But sometimes I do fancy it. Depends on which side of the bed I’m waking up on.”</sub>

☞ 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚍

<sub>• “You better not be keepin’ nothin’ back for yourself, baby. Madam finds out and she’ll take a toe. Know why she takes toes? So we still got ten fingers to grab dicks with.”

• “She’s got those Dogs wrapped round her pinky finger. God knows how much she’s paying em! Or maybe she’s blowin’ em good.”

• “Madam in a good mood today? Or are we staying out of her way until she’s had a couple of lines to loosen up?”

• “Count it again. It can’t be short. We’ll be wrapped in tarpaulin if there’s a dime missin’”

• “No, not her. Can’t be her. She’s one of Pearly’s girls.”

• “I’m not going nowhere but Siorée. Everytime I try somewhere else the liquor and the pussy just don’t taste the same. I know, I know. Place is a shit heap. But it’s our shit heap, right? Just keep your head on a swivel and don’t make direct eye contact with the Madam. Medusa bitch’ll turn ya to stone.”

• “There’s gotta be a break in this investigation. Get Pearly Sackville on the phone. Now.”

• “I heard every girl who’s flown P’s nest winds up dead or disappeared. We’re here for life, baby. Guess it’s better than a cell, right? Least there’s good blow here.”

• “How much do you reckon it’ll take to get Pearly off the bench? I know her titties are saggin but I bet she’s a goer.” “Doubt you could afford her, pal.”

• “You know when Madams got a meeting with a snitch. She puts her ash trays away. Says a snitches skin puts out her cigars just fine.”</sub>

☞ 𝙸𝚕𝚔

𝙸 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎

𝙸 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙸 𝚆𝚊𝚜 𝙾𝚞𝚝

+

Austin Is Dead

It was overcast. The clouds a dust sheet laid over the sky like a table cloth. Hazed sunlight hidden behind a curtain, shards of yellowed light pierced through the air, casting shadows across the cemetery. Summer was sat in her beloved Mini, asscheeks fastened to the leather seats, hands gripping the wheel as if she were still trailing the roads. Her eyes, fixed ahead, felt dehydrated as her eyelids scraped across the surface in a dry blink. A breeze ruffled the branches of weeping willows scattered across the graveyard, those unmoving headstones the only part of the landscape unaffected by hearty winds. The Mini’s engine still rumbled softly beneath Summer’s seat, music still seeping absentmindedly from the dash speakers. Summer swallowed, struggling to manage the large lump that had formed in her throat, nestled stubbornly in her jugular. The cemetery car park was reasonably busy, gravel crunching as cars snailed into their chosen spaces. Still, she remained in the drivers seat, focusing on the laboured breaths that heaved at her chest.

“Sometimes people can love one another more than anything, Summer… But they just can’t reach eachother anymore… I don’t think my love can reach you anymore…”

The words, committed to memory, echoed within the chambers of Summer’s mind. It had been a conversation played and replayed over and over when she was younger. If it were a tape recording, the reels would’ve worn away from overuse long ago, the image grainy with age.

“I meant what I said when we promised forever… But you’re so far away, Summer… I can’t do it anymore. It’s too hard. I didn’t think “long distance” would feel like this…”

But what if they’d tried harder? Given it more energy? More effort? Would their relationship have withstood the test of time if they’d protected it more? And then Summer would be grieving the person she really had committed her life to, not the person she thought she would. What was worse? Grieving all that was… Or grieving all that could have been? She pinched the locket that sat on a gold chain around her neck, moving it back and forth across her clavicles, biting down on her bottom lip. The death of a powered person had truly shocked Elysian Heights - but it was the death of Austin that had left Summer feeling truly wrought with disbelief. He’d been so… Alive; His spirit so vibrant and so unwaveringly bright. She could still picture his dimpled laugh, his small smile, light refracted in his eyes… The way he’d brush her hand away dismissively, brandishing his own bank card to buy their morning coffees. Summer could still remember the scent of his neck as he’d lift her into a giant bear hug, chuckling at how her feet dangled comically. How had they got here? Separated by life and death, like a vast expanse of water, there was more distance between the two of them than ever before. Summer gripped her car keys, still in the ignition, and listened to them clatter as she finally killed the engine. The music was abruptly cut off, a silence flooding the car. She took a shaky breath and turned her head slowly to see if anyone else was yet to arrive.

Austin had been very much here, leaving an impression on everyone he came across. The funeral, entirely different to the show of a parade the day before, would be exclusively for those who really knew Austin. School friends, camp friends, college friends, family… Summer wondered who she’d be reunited with today. She had to muster the energy to flick her inner switch, the one that would allow her to partake in small talk with people she hadn’t seen for years. Those memories of Austin that plagued her, weighing on her every move, had to be shelved. She craved the ease of conversation without the knowledge that Austin was no longer here. How would she feel being faced with the tears of others who shared her pain? Could she withstand the stark reality of this Funeral? There was no denying Austin’s death as they collectively watched his coffin being lowered into the ground. She couldn’t kid herself he’d suddenly reappear, the punchline to a sick joke, as that first fistful of dirt was tossed over where he slept eternally. Summer pulled down the sun visor overhead, revealing a small mirror that reflected back a woman with bloodshot eyes and dark circles hidden beneath concealer. She barely recognised that woman staring back. It had finally caught up with her - Reality. And she was wearing her grief, it hung around her, written into the attempts at a smile that would fail to fool anyone.

Cold sweaty hands fumbled with the door handle, popping it open with a huff of effort. Summer swung her legs out of the Mini, her black leather loafers crunching down on gravel. The breeze instantly ruffled her chiffon dress, playing with the ruffles and folds of material like a wind chime. Her twists, half pulled up into a bun on top of her head, were tousled by the wind. It clawed at her cheeks, pinched at her lobes, stung her eyes. Instantly, they watered.

Rising unsteadily to her feet, Summer bumped the car door shut with her hip, wrestling with the keys cupped in uncertain hands to click the lock button. Legs laden with the efforts to move normally and naturally, she began the slow walk to where Austin was being laid to rest. Her inner monologue scolded the visible struggles, a stern voice told her to get it together. Arms folding across her chest, Summer cradled herself as another breeze kicked up around her. Shaking her head as if to rid her of the negative aura surrounding her, Summer focused her gaze straight ahead, scanning the scene for where Austin’s mourners would be gathering.

๑ ❝ 𝕮 𝔥 𝔞 𝔯 𝔪 𝔢 𝔡 , 𝕴‘𝔪 𝖘𝔲𝔯𝔢 ❞ ๑ { A Witch’s Tale - RP }

@blackdragon

If you like, why don’t we come up with a plausible way that Hazel can be more involved freely moving forward?

Saves you having to collab on most of your posts. Of course the goal is eventually we resurrect her. But once this first collab post is up, PM me!

We’ll work out some ideas together <3

〖 𝚁 𝙾 𝙶 𝚄 𝙴 𝚁 𝙾 𝚆 〗⌠ The Fall from Disgrace ⌡⌠ British Espionage / Crime RP⌡

@PatientBean@Byte

Hello you two!

This is my attempt to resuscitate this plot.

Bean, are you willing to continue here? I think a post from Avalon would be great. I posted the Case Summary in the IC so you don’t have to check the GoogleDoc.

Then, we can move into investigating this case together, along with these new characters Byte and I have introduced.

Hoping that with a little resurgence, we can get our teeth into this story and enjoy a plot we were all intrigued by ^^

£ 𝕚𝕟𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖 £ - A Murder Mystery RP

@Jimbo

How you doing, Jimbo?

It’s your turn to follow-up on the Will Reading entrance scene!

๑ ❝ 𝕮 𝔥 𝔞 𝔯 𝔪 𝔢 𝔡 , 𝕴‘𝔪 𝖘𝔲𝔯𝔢 ❞ ๑ { A Witch’s Tale - RP }

@Fabricant451 @IAmTheIsland

Still waiting on you in the collab.

@blackdragon

@blackdragon How’s it going guys? So excited to read what you’ve come up with!

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

_______________

◊ ᗩEᖇᗯYᑎ ᑕᗩᒪᒪIOᑭE ◊
_______________

_{__________________
• ȶɦɛ ʍօʊռȶǟɨռɛֆ - Kυɳʅυɳ
• ʀօʏǟʟ ʍǟɢɛ’ֆ զʊǟʀȶɛʀֆ
• ϝҽαƚ. lน¢คຖ งērຖiēr @SilverPaw
• 2:00pm
__________________}

The afternoon sun, high in the Kunlun skies, speared javelins of orange light through the multicoloured mosaics of the Royal Mage Quarter’s windows. It cast cloaks of gold over the Library walls, setting the leather-bound book spines ablaze. The Library smelt of old parchment and the medicinal aroma of quill ink that sat in open pots atop the bureau desks. Aerwyn had shown Lucan the Summons, watching her Mentor with that signature curious, piercing gaze. He’d been underwhelmed in his response, sparing a mere raised brow and hum of acknowledgement.

“I see Aethelgard enjoys its demands as much as ever,” Lucan’s usually neutral tone was ringing a touch caustic from where Aerwyn was sat in her chair, as she looked up at him searchingly.

She raked her eyes over the Elder Mage, his silver hair framing an angular but weathered visage. His was a face she’d looked to so often for guidance, forever trying to read the detailed microexpressions. But Lucan was a notoriously elusive soul, ever professional, ever guarded. Though there was a gentleness and fondness reserved entirely for her, Aerwyn had never been able to read him as she could with so many others. No matter which lens she viewed him through, no matter the angle, Aerwyn could never be certain exactly what was going through Lucan’s wonderful mind. He was a Mage of many secrets, the only indication of their existence harboured within the late nights spent in his Sanctum. But that mattered little to the Royal Mage. To her? He was a teacher, a father figure, a protector… Lucan’s remaining presence in the Mage Quarters anchored Aerwyn. Despite being fiercely committed to her role, and entirely capable, she still sought council with the Elder Mage. As did the Royal Family. There was no element of competition nor was his involvement undermining to her. She valued him too much to complicate his presence.

“Nonetheless, I have no doubt that the matter is of some urgency. You will have to get prepared.” After a beat, Lucan added, “I suppose so might I.”

Instructional, the Elder Mage’s words hung in the air as he retired, presumably, to his own rooms. Aerwyn’s eyes had returned to the parchment gripped between her fingertips, rereading the Summons with the fire of curiosity ablaze within her. What could possibly be of such urgency that every Royal Mage, from every Continent, was being summoned to Aethelguard that same night? Suspicious, the Kunlun Mage contemplated a ruse. Was this some kind of ploy? A strategy of some kind? To what end, she couldn’t be sure. But the letter held in her hands, staring back at her with devilish intrigue, was the first of its kind since she’d assumed her position as Royal Mage. Never had she stepped foot in Aethelguard under these circumstances. Sure, she’d travelled to the port town for trades and sea air. But never had she entered the Royal Grounds. The Planes had somewhat of an elitist reputation; Riches, glamour, abundance… All qualities the Mountaines denied, instead assuming strength and hardiness as its preferred state. But tonight? The Mountaines, The Dezert, The Planes and The Antartik would all be under one roof. United by the ominous Summons they’d each received.

Rising from her seat and smoothing down the material of her layered dress, Aerwyn began to pace the Library, eyes scanning the vast collection of Tomes that sat upon the shelves around her. If she were to be ordered to attend a gathering of rival albeit peaceful Continents, she’d ensure she was appropriately protected. Light Magic, woven intricately, could be infinitely protective. No enchantment gains invincibility. No shield is utterly impenetrable. But over the years, Aerwyn had learned to craft wards that had masterful ability to withstand. With that, the Royal Mage plucked a Tome from the shelves and cradled it open in her palm, with the other hand she flicked through the pages. Eyes sliding across the symbols and scrawlings that filled the Tome, Aerwyn quickly found the spell she’d been searching for.

Standing at the helm of the Library Lectern, she placed the opened Tome on display and began to whisper an incantation in a hushed, hurried tone. The key to a powerful Ward was repetition. Aerwyn built layer after layer, weaving them together with that internal thread she’d come to know as her Magic. Soon those layers came together to form a thick, protective blanket. She felt its presence begin to form, draped over her shoulders like a cape. Her fingertips aglow, Aerwyn began to intricately wave them through the air around her, strings of cool white light appearing in their wake. Again and again Aerwyn uttered the whispered spell, volume increasing slowly as she felt her power build within. The Ward crescendoed, a brief blast of light radiating from her form accompanied by a loud audible hum that shook the Library bookshelves. Aerwyn mentally cut the thread, tying one final knot to seal the spell, and she breathed a sigh of relief as the Ward’s warmth enveloped her in a comforting embrace.

”That’ll do…”she murmured to herself, nodding in approval at her handiwork. ”Can’t be walking into the Wyvern Den without armour, can we?”

Still, the Kunlun sun bathed Aerwyn in amber hues. Her eyes slid closed for a brief moment, the reassurance of the Ward and the afternoon rays warming her soul.

_______________________

_{__________________
• ȶɦɛ ʍօʊռȶǟɨռɛֆ - Kυɳʅυɳ
• ɬɧɛ ɛıʂɛŋʄɛƖƖ ƈąʂɬƖɛ
• ϝҽαƚ. ʏֆօʟɖɛ ɛʋǟռɢɛʟɨռɛ ʋօռ ɛɨֆɛռʄǟʟʟ, ʟɨɛֆɛʟօȶȶɛ ʄɛʟɨƈɨǟ ʋօռ ɛɨֆɛռʄǟʟʟ & CσɳʂƚαႦʅҽ Láιԃιɾ Cαԋιʅʅ
• 3:00pm
__________________}

Aerwyn stood before her Queen with shoulders broad, spine rigid but gaze lowered. Then, she bowed. Long and deep, back curved and arms extended like a ballet dancer.

“Rest, Aerwyn” Ysolde crooned, her voice tight with command yet warm with affection.

The Royal Mage straightened, running her palms along the length of the gown she’d chosen for the summons. It was midnight blue. Silk. Layered with a black netting littered with tiny turquoise gemstones glittering like raindrops. The Princess looked down at Aerwyn with approval, a small smile on her dainty face. The Throne Room, cavernous and regal, harboured grand statues chiselled expertly from Mountaine rock. Rich dark blue and purple gonfalons brandishing the golden royal crest hung from the rafters overhead, rippling gently from the Mountaine air that barrelled its way through the window panelling. A blood red carpet spanned the entire length of the throne’s approach like the aisle of a church, framing the pathway to where the Queen and the jewel of Kunlun were sat atop their thrones. Aerwyn bowed her head in acknowledgement of her Queen’s command, resuming a more relaxed stance. She tossed her bouncing, glossy dark hair over her shoulders, clasping her hands at the small of her back.

”Your Majesty,” Aerwyn purred, “I assume you wish to discuss the Summons?”

Queen Ysolde gave her Royal Mage a bemused smile, one that indicated she was about to disclose something amusing to her. A shuffling of footsteps came from behind the throne and Aerwyn angled her head in an attempt to see who would dare approach the throne from behind. The familiar thick torso and muscular form of Commander Cahill emerged from behind the Crown, his giant form occupying twice the space of an average man. Cahill’s ruggedly handsome face was twisted with the echo of hatred for the Royal Mage. His fists, pinned to his side, were clenched but hovering around the hilt of his sheathed weapons. For a moment, the two of them simply stared one another down like two predators crossing paths in the jungle, Aerwyn feeling the crackle of her power humming beneath her skin.

“I understand the two of you have already encountered one another today?” the Queen smirked, enjoying the tension between her Wyvern Commander and her Royal Mage. Láidir’s eye twitched. The amusement was not shared with the class. “But if my Lieselotte is to cross borders into Aethelguard for some ambiguous Summons, the Crown requires protection.”

Ysolde’s generously jewelled hand rested atop her daughter’s as if to embolden her point, the two of them shared an adoring look, and the Princess nodded in agreement.

Aerwyn swallowed down the ball of resentment that formed in her jugular. She pointedly refused to acknowledge Láidir with another look, directing her icy gaze at her Rulers.

”Your Majesty,” she began, a hint of plea in her tone. ”The Princess will absolutely be safe under my watchful eye. Lucan and I will handle this Summons with unwavering care…” Aerwyn’s hand raised to her chest, placed over her heart in an honest promise. “The Princesses safety is of the upmost importance to us, of course. I’ve already installed a Ward that would include her in its protection… Besides, I’m sure Láidir has important Rider business to tend to. There’s a mess at the Rider Camp I’m sure he’s desperate to deal with.”

The Commander’s eyes burnt into the side of Aerwyn’s face, her cheek turned in blatant disregard for Cahill’s presence. The Queen smiled, shaking her head affectionately. They encouraged Aerwyn’s wild side, the very passion that set her apart from the average Mage. Whereas some Royal Families stifled any sign of such fire, the Mountaines valued strength and resilience above all else. Aerwyn’s sharp tongue was something The Queen especially enjoyed. Lieselotte’s eyes flicked between the Commander and Aerwyn as if she were watching a lancing match, an eagerness dancing in her eyes. The Crown was enjoying this dynamic a little too much. Aerwyn gritted her teeth. At her expense, too. She’d no doubt be forced to share the saddle of a Wyvern with that brute. The idea sent a shiver down her spine.

“Aerwyn, Commander Cahill is the best Rider the Mountaines has ever seen!” Lieselotte exclaimed, shooting a dazzling smile at the man who positively shook with repressed anger beside the thrones. His eyes shot daggers across the room. If looks could kill, Aerwyn would surely be a crumpled heap at the feet of her Rulers. “There isn’t a warrior more worthy of this assignment. Of course, Mother and I know you and Lucan are more than capable. But this is an opportunity to assert ourselves in front of our fellow Continents. We must stand strong. So I thought you and the Commander could go ahead by Wyvern to Aethelguard, ensure it is safe for my arrival, then Lucan and I will teleport to join you. On your signal.”

Lieselotte shot Aerwyn a wink, revelling in the drama. The Royal Mage inclined her head in a nod of acknowledgement. There was no use protesting further. It had been decided. Aerwyn would be paired off with the hairy, stinking, mound of muscle that was Cahill. She’d have to endure the burning scent of his unwashed jockstrap and ale-crusted beard from far closer than she’d ever volunteer for. The idea filled her with a disdain that was hard to mask from her face. Both the Queen and the Princess waved their hands in dismissal, a mischievous and bemused smile shared between them.

Aerwyn didn’t wait for Cahill to join her. Bowing in leave, she spun on her heel and strode down the burgundy carpet, her silken dress billowing out behind her. Internally, she muttered her vehement protests, jaw set with the effort of withholding her rebuttals. With a flick of her wrist, a gust of wind bust the Throne Room doors open. They swung on their hinges, making way for the enraged Royal Mage. A saddled Wyvern was already in the courtyard, chained to a post. Its yellowed eyes watched her approach, hot air steaming from its flaring nostrils. Aerwyn crossed the Courtyard to the giant reptile, its two legs built like tree trunks fastened to the ground, barbed tail flicking from side to side. Golden green scales covered its body, shimmering as it shifted from one giant taloned claw to the other. Its forked tongue pierced the air once, twice, as it tasted her approach. Giant, reptilian wings snapped open to full extension. Cahill’s Wyvern was sizing her up as he had done himself cliffside this morning. It growled, low and rumbling.

“Wyverns are a great judge of character,” came the snark remark of a disapproving Commander from behind her. She didn’t turn to face him, instead Aerwyn eyed the two-seater saddle with a new level of dread. They were situated far too closely. Not to mention there was no handles for Aerwyn to hang on to. Cahill stepped in front, rolling his shoulders anticipatively. He clicked his neck one side, then the other. “I’ll mount first.”

For a man with such exaggerated muscular features, Láidir mounted the Wyvern with a practiced ease. His large hands took hold of the lead saddle, gripping the leather hook, and swung his leg over the breadth of the beast. He nestled into the saddle, the Wyvern tossing its head excitably, low grunts huffed from its jaws. Aerwyn watched with disguised hesitancy. She still couldn’t quite believe she was being forced to ride Wyvern with Cahill. Lucan would find this hilarious, undoubtedly.

“Come, Your Grace!” the Commander said gruffly, his Wyvern’s serpentine eyes fixed on her warily. He reached forward and unchained the dragon-like creature.

Aerwyn looked down at her billowing, layered skirts, wondering if they’d have enough give for the stance of a rider. She’d expected to be teleporting, as was standard for Mages. Not sat on the back of a Wyvern with her arms wrapped around the waist of her new biggest fan.

A sense of finality about her, the Mage approached the secondary saddle and mounted. It lacked the finesse of Cahill but wasn’t entirely uncoordinated. The cool leather crumpled her dress material and it rustled in protest, legs feeling awkwardly spread wide around the girth of the Wyvern’s lower back. She clenched her thighs, remembering the riders stance from her earlier years as a Kunlun child desperate to be included in her brothers escapades. Those giant Wyvern wings sprung forth again, flapping in preparation. Aerwyn could feel the beasts power beneath her, thrumming with an eagerness to take flight.

“We’ll be teleporting the majority of the way. So hold your horses until I’ve opened the gateway,” she said

Aerwyn felt Cahill tense at her commanding tone, his back holding firm in resistance. She summoned her power, pulling it up from within, feeling it pulsate through her veins as she twirled a pointed index finger. Tracing a circle in the air ahead of her, Aerwyn visualised the Planes in her mind, manifesting a clear image of her desired destination in her minds eye. The plentiful fields of corn, the luscious meadows, the clear blue skies… The portal cracked open, a slit in the air before them. Like a rip in a tapestry, the portal slowly pried open, the seams parting to reveal a watery landscape ahead. The Wyvern snarled and backed up a couple of steps, the saddle dipping and rocking as the creature shied away, Láidir clicked his tongue encouragingly. Awerwyn’s arms instinctively wrapped around the Commander’s waist, struggling to keep her balance.

“We’ll fly from the Planes border. It’ll take a couple of hours at most,” Aerwyn said, her arms screaming in protest at the physical contact with Láidir.

He snorted dismissively, patting the neck of his Wyvern.

“Onyx can do that journey in an hour. Max.” The Commander spoke confidently, Wyvern huffing as its barbed tail swung side to side, pincer coming dangerously close to Aerwyn’s head.

Before she had a chance to reply, Láidir kicked his ankles, jabbing the dragon-like beast in its sides. Onyx leapt forward, throwing the two of them back with velocity, diving head first into the portal.

_{__________________
• ȶɦɛ քʟǟռɛֆ - ǟɛȶɦɛʟɢʊǟʀɖ
• ǟɛȶɦɛʟɢʊǟʀɖ ʀօʏǟʟ ɢʀօʊռɖֆ
• 5:45pm
__________________}

Aethelguard’s ports were alive with boating families and sailors stationing their vessels for the night. Crates being carried from sea to land, shouts from across the water, gulls cawing overhead. Racing against the fast-fading daylight, the Aethelguard common folk were too busy to notice the Wyvern that soared overhead. Heads only began to angle upward as Aerwyn and Láidir flew more inland, looking down at the bustling town below, cobbled streets dotted with curious townspeople. Pointed fingers, infectious exclamations of surprise and some cheers at the unusual sight of a Wyvern rider followed them as they traversed the sky towards the castle. It was an undeniably grand kingdom, nestled in a grassy meadow. The air tasted salty here… But crisp. Clean. Aerwyn narrowed her eyes as Onyx crossed over the moat surrounding the Aethelguard Royal Grounds. As soon as they passed into Royal Territory, Aerwyn suddenly felt an energy wash over her. It was as if she’d walked through a powerful waterfall, the water drenching her in a suffocating, repressing chokehold. She gasped. Her Ward. It had slipped from her like sand through her fingers, the protective cloak slipping from her shoulders as they flew closer and closer to the castle. Aerwyn inwardly cursed the Aethelguard Mage. Crafty bastard must’ve put together a suppressant spell to prevent Warding. Or perhaps all magic in general? Her lip quivered. She should’ve known. Onyx’s lengthy wings beat down with loud, rhythmic cracks as they circled the castle like a bird of prey, Aerwyn wondering whether she had time to attempt another Ward. One that could slip past the suppressant spell…

Láidir and Aerwyn had travelled in complete silence, wordlessly sat in their saddles, squinting their eyes against the harsh winds that whipped around them. Now, Láidir turned his head to shout,

“Happy for me to land her wherever, Your Grace?”

The Mage sighed and pointed at a clearing bookended by some obnoxiously vibrant Royal Gardens.

“Just there will suffice, Láidir. I sense the Aethelguard Mage is already aware of our arrival. They’ll be here to greet us shortly, no doubt.”

𝑅𝑒𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑆𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 (1970s Crime Drama)

@Ducksworth

Omg, Duckie!

• The Unruly • ( themaybreeze x badfool )

@badfool

One final attempt to resuscitate this one…

Then, I will let this little story die of natural causes.

Either way, I hope you’re okay!

And thanks for the great beginning <3