Story ⊰ A Collection of Character Vignettes ⊱

[ashwynne]

| Character Vignettes |
This is just a little dumpsite for short works featuring my characters from various roleplays. Mostly
just a fun exercise to explore them in different scenarios or at different times in their lives that are not
mentioned explicitly in the roleplay. Will be updated periodically--mostly when I'm bored and feel like
writing but have no replies to work on!

Table of Contents
Avelina Valionne - Calm Before the Storm
Avelina Valionne - Siblings
Kobayashi Miyako - Wordless
Kobayashi Miyako - The Meadow
Kobayashi Katsuhide - Ties of Fate
Talfryn - (Un)Reasonable
Talfryn - The Lady's Slipper​

 

[ashwynne]

Calm Before the Storm
Avelina Valionne
art by peritwinkle
​

Moisture hung heavy in the air thanks to a rare summer rain, giving the warmth a suffocating aspect that had most of the royal family tucking themselves away in Heartwood Castle. The only people braving the oppressive weather were those that needed to… and Avelina.

She stood beneath the old, gnarled, oak tree, her hands on her hips as she looked out over the pasture. Agnes had said very specifically; “Do not, under any circumstances, go out in this weather. A courier from the White Mountains is expected and if you look like a ragamuffin I will—” there had been more, a proper lecture, but the princess had tuned it out. Who cared if the courier saw her curled mane attempting to fly from her head in a hundred different directions? Making a good impression seemed a bit pointless considering this was a long-standing arranged marriage. It wasn’t like King Alistair had another option anyways. And, more importantly than anything else, it was foaling season.
“Princess! I’m a bit s’prised t’ see ya out here in this awful ‘eat…”

“Rory!” she said, eyes lighting up as she whirled with a beaming smile towards the stablemaster who had managed to sneak up behind her. “I couldn’t very well stay locked away in my tower when it’s foaling season!”

The man chuckled, turning his head for a moment to try hiding his grin before giving up on that endeavour and turning to fix her with a broad smile of his own. “I ‘spose not, though I’m sure Miss Agnes won’t be happy.”

Avelina rolled her eyes, “Agnes isn’t happy no matter what I do… so I might as well enjoy myself. Do you think Swift will have her foal today?”

“Hard t’ say, princess. She could very well, though some o’ the mares like t’ take their sweet time.” Rory was her father’s age, a deeply tanned man with smile lines that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Avelina had always liked him, the two forging a tight bond ever since she was a little girl and had picked a destrier colt to raise for herself. The princess’s inappropriate choice had tickled the fancy of the stablemaster almost as much as it had her father—both men indulging her in it in the end.

“Philip pretends he isn’t tied up in knots about it, but he interrogates me every time I come in from the fields. He loves that mare more than he loves me, I think,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

“Well, I don’t know ‘bout that, but why don’t the two o’ us go check on her?” the man said, offering her his arm with a dramatic flourish. Avelina laughed and offered him a playful curtsy in turn before acquiescing.

“This is so much better than sitting like a vacant doll while the White Mountain courier drones on about the marriage agreement.”

Rory frowned slightly, “That soun’s important, princess… are ya sure that—”

“They don’t need me there,” she interrupted with a wave of her hand, “It’s the same every time. The courier says that father needs to stop dragging his heels and hand me over, father brings up some new complaint for why he won’t hand me over yet—usually because Philip hasn’t received his Trimboli wife or something of that ilk—and then the courier leaves to report the same tired information to McCullum.” She sighed softly and kicked at a rock in her path with the borrowed galoshes she had taken from the maid quarters in the castle.

“Not eager t’ leave us b’hind for yer new kingdom?”

Avelina glanced at him from the side of her eyes. “No, of course not… though I really can’t see papa letting me go any time soon, leastways not until Trimboli hands over his sister,” and that did not seem to be something that the young king was in much of a hurry to do. “It will be torture, leaving you all behind…” her stomach flip-flopped at the thought and she hurriedly pushed it away.

“I’ll race you to the barn!” she unhooked her arm from his and took off running down the gently sloping hill before he could answer.

“Oy! Princess! Wait! Ya shouldn’t—” but Rory’s call of warning was lost to the wind as she sped away.

Avelina found that it was impossible to think of anything unpleasant when your boots were squelching through wet earth. The field was more a marsh than anything, the bone-dry earth unaccustomed to the influx of water so it was not properly absorbing it. Her face was split with a blindingly bright smile as she splashed on through, mud and water soiling the hem of her dress. Agnes would have a foal herself when she saw the princess, but Avelina did not care. There was a joy here to be found in the simple act of living, and in this moment, she was merely a girl revelling in the rain—not a royal with responsibilities and an impending marriage to a stranger that terrified her.

The horses that had braved the summer rain to graze in the pastures bordering the barns looked up as she approached them at a run, their ears pricking forward as they recognized her scent. Avelina would never dare to presume what the wonderful beasts thought, but she had an inkling that to them she was ‘apple girl.’ This suited her just fine.

She stopped at the entrance to the stable where the pregnant mares were kept, to allow for easy observation, and glanced behind her. Rory was hurrying down the hill but with a great deal more caution than there had been in Avelina’s energetic run. For a moment she debated waiting for him but quickly dismissed the notion. Every moment she spent out here was a moment for Agnes to notice she was missing and go hunting for her. The princess didn’t want to be caught and dragged back to Heartwood until she had gotten a chance to check on Swift at the bare minimum. So, she slipped through the barn doors.

The scent of wet horses, manure and hay mixed itself into a heady perfume that she breathed in deeply. Philip liked to joke that she ought to have been born a stablehand instead of a princess, and Avelina couldn’t really disagree. She felt much more at home here than she did surrounded by self-important dignitaries.

“Morning, Derry!” she called cheerfully to the stablehand who worked closest with Rory. He had been mucking out one of the stalls and looked up with a jerk of his head, a blush instantly spreading across his cheeks.

“I—ah, g-good morning, Princess Avelina,” he looked her over and his expression shifted into something warm and amused. “Does Miss Agnes know you’ve run off here again?”

Avelina threw her hands in the air and scowled, grabbing a pitchfork and joining him in the stall. “No, of course she doesn’t know. Why does everyone ask me that? Do you think I’d be here if the old ball and chain knew what my intentions were?”

Derry made room for her in the stall, careful to maintain an appropriate distance between them even if Avelina was blissfully unaware of any impropriety, and chuckled. “Well, I suppose not. Though she can’t be too opposed, else you wouldn’t make it down here at all. Like with the—”

“With the wine, yes, don’t remind me,” she scowled. It had been determined quite a while ago that a drunk Avelina was a hazardous Avelina. She had made a few… choice comments the last time her tongue had been fully loosened by drink that had ended in an agreement amongst her caretakers that no alcohol should be permitted to pass her lips. To that end Agnes had been relentless, methodically determining every avenue the princess might have had to imbibe alcohol purely in order to cut them off. She had been successful, too. No matter how hard Avelina tried on occasion to get herself a drink she could never actually manage to find a drop of the stuff. “You know, I’m still upset that you wouldn’t share your wine with me, Derry.”

“Sorry, princess, but I value my head and this job. I’m sure you can understand my reluctance to direct the wrath of Miss Agnes onto myself.”

Avelina sighed, she did understand. Quite well, in fact. Though dragons were, as far as she knew, a myth… Agnes sometimes made her question that.

The pair worked in companionable silence from that moment, moving from stall to stall with the pitchforks and wheelbarrow in tow. To the horses in every stall they entered, Avelina was sure to offer an apple slice and before long all the four-legged residents of the barn had their heads over the stall doors, looking expectantly towards the princess bearing their snacks.

Avelina remained entirely focused on her task and so she missed the frequent glances Derry shot her way. It was hard not to like the kind, free-spirited woman, even if she was a little odd… and more than a little too naïve for her own good. And a princess, though the one who seemed least concerned with that aspect was the girl herself. It made Derry chuckle, a goofy grin crossing his face.

“An’ jus’ what do ya think yer laughin’ at?” Rory demanded from outside the stall, causing the stablehand to jerk guiltily and offer his boss a sheepish look. Rory was not blind to the looks Derry shot the princess, and if he could save the pair from heartbreak he would do so. The last thing that Avelina, already apprehensive about her marriage to the King of the White Mountains, needed was to fall in love with some fool stablehand. He had said as much to Derry before, but love could not be toggled off and on like a switch. The only true blessing here was that the princess was blissfully unaware. And Rory intended to keep it that way.

“Nothin’, Rory, just… ah, a funny joke one of the knights told me.”

“A funny joke?” Avelina turned from her work, wiping a hand across her sweaty brow and looking at him brightly, “I like jokes.”

“O-oh, well, ah… it’s not the sort of joke that a, um, princess should hear.”

The woman set her jaw stubbornly, carefully leaning the pitchfork against the wall of the stall and crossing her arms combatively. “Well, perhaps you should have thought of that before you told Rory about it. Now you have to tell me.”

“No, I don’t,” he glanced at Rory a little helplessly, “Right, Rory?”

“Oh, I don’t know… she is our princess, after all,” the older man said, earning a look of desperate disbelief from Derry. “You probably shouldn’t have brought it up.”

This isn’t fair was what Derry’s expression practically screamed, as he shuffled his feet awkwardly and looked down, blushing to the roots of his hair. Avelina didn’t care, Derry was a blusher, that didn’t give him a free pass to deny her a bit of humour.

“Come on now, Derry. I’m sure I’ve heard worse from Philip.”

That wasn’t the problem, the problem was that he had been thinking about her and not a joke at all. Now he was caught in the lie, unsupported by Rory, with the princess staring expectantly at him.

“Agh, fine! Fine! But I’m not good at making—no, telling jokes, so don’t blame me if you don’t laugh,” neither one of his audience members took the bait to let him out of it gracefully so his shoulders slumped and Derry dug the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“Ah… there once was—no, um, three men walked into a bar. A stablehand, a farmer and a prince. The stablehand goes to order and says: ‘I’d like a beer.’ The farmer scoffs and says: ‘Well, I’d like a stout beer.’ Then the prince laughs and says: ‘And I wish to buy this bar!’ Haha, funny joke, right?” Derry removed the heels of his palms from his eyes so he could cover his face entirely instead.

“I don’ think ‘umour is yer forte, son,” Rory said, though he looked dangerously close to breaking out into a hysterical laughing fit.

“Yeah… that wasn’t inappropriate or funny. Which knight was it that told such an awful joke?” Avelina said, staring perplexed at the red stablehand.

“Nobody you know, just some wandering knight or something, I don’t know,” Derry mumbled through his hands, his voice strained.

“Well… it’s okay, Derry, don’t look so mortified. I won’t ask you to repeat a joke again, if it’s such a strain for you,” she said, trying to be helpful. But that was the final straw.

At once, both Derry and Rory broke out into laughter. Derry’s was a mixture of mortification and hysteria while Rory’s was just straight out sadistic laughter at the stablehand’s expense.

“C’mon princess, lets go see Swift, ‘fore Miss Agnes comes down ‘ere t’ drag ya away without ya ‘aving seen the mare,” Rory said at last when he’d gotten himself back under control.

“O-okay,” she said, a puzzled smile on her face. She couldn’t understand what exactly had set the two men off into a laughing fit, but Derry at least seemed to have calmed down and was no longer blushing, so she decided to simply let it go.

“Bye, Derry!” she called as she slipped out of the stall to follow after Rory.

“Goodbye, princess!” he called back with a smile, beginning to whistle a tuneless song as he carried on the mucking out.

Avelina scurried after Rory, clasping her hands behind her back as she walked. They presented an odd image; dainty princess with her wet curls and an old man in dirty work clothes. But the companionable way they walked together spoke volumes and the other stablehands hid small smiles as she walked past with Rory—a familiar sight but one that never failed to warm their hearts.

“An’ ‘ere we are!” he said, stopping in front of a particularly large stall reserved for Swift—Philip’s destrier mare. She poked her head quickly over the door, pitch black save for a white blaze that looked vaguely like lightning.

“Good morning, Swift!” Avelina crooned, catching the mare’s head in her hands and giving her nose a kiss. “Will you put Philip out of his misery today and have your foal?” the mare nibbled an errant lock of her hair and didn’t answer.

“In truth I don’ think she will, princess. P’rhaps she’s waitin’ fer Prince Philip to come see her himself.”

The thought made Avelina cackle wickedly and she turned away from the horse to shoot Rory a grin. “I’ll make sure to tell him that’s your expert opinion, perhaps he’ll finally admit he really cares and drag himself to the barn.”

The stablemaster smiled slightly, “Ye really shouldn’—”

“Princess Avelina!!”

Both of them turned their heads to look down the corridor they had walked up. A maid was bustling towards them, having hiked her dress up to her knees to keep it from getting dirty as she approached them.

“Lila! Your stockings are filthy!” Avelina said in horror, taking in the maid’s feet which wore her usual shoes and were subsequently soaked.

“I don’t think that’s something you can sound horrified about!” the maid said, glaring at her mistress, “Your dress is positively ruined… though I see you at least stole some galoshes before gallivanting off.”

“Borrowed, not stole.”

“Semantics.”

Both women broke out into broad smiles. “Why exactly are you here?”

“To fetch you, of course. You’re welcome, by the way. Agnes was going to come herself, but I convinced her to let me go. I regret it a little now, she’s going to blame me when she sees the state you’re in.”

Avelina shrugged, “Oh well, I’m sure she’ll get over it.”

“Maybe you are, me? Not so much. You missed the White Mountain courier; the queen and Agnes are livid.”

“Please, as though my presence there would have changed anything.”

“Well, you don’t need to argue that with me,” Lila said cheerfully, as she hooked her arm through Avelina’s, shot Rory a smile and a nod, and began to steer the princess back the way they’d come. “The courier was quite handsome though. If the king ever actually concedes to give you to them I can at least console myself with the fact that there should be plenty of handsome knights for me to flirt with.”

“Unless they intentionally only send the handsome ones as couriers to trick us into feeling better about going.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. Well, thank you princess, now I have something fresh to worry about.”

Peals of laughter followed them as they exited the barn and headed back up towards Castle Heartwood, arm in arm.

 

[ashwynne]

Siblings
Avelina Valionne
(art by clover-teapot (DA))
* * *​

“Give it back!” pudgy little hands flailed uselessly, the little girl pushing herself up as high as she could on her tiptoes—but it wasn’t enough. “Phiwip!” she choked out, hot tears beginning to roll down her cheeks as she glared with helpless anger at her big brother.

The boy was waving a wood-carved doll above his head his face split with a mischievous grin that made his eyes twinkle. “Dolls are dumb, Avelina, you should play with some good toys.”

“But… mama made it for me,” she blubbered, having sank back down on her feet as she realized the futility of trying to grab it from her taller brother. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, snot running from her nose and mingling with her angry tears as she sniffled. Red faced.

“Mama wants to turn you into a princess, but that’s stupid. I don’t like princesses,” he said, wrinkling his nose up as though he could smell the offensive connotations of what the title meant.

“But I am a pwincess, mama said so. And Phiwip is a pwince…” she said, squaring up to him until her legs were shoulder-width apart—ready to fight him on this.

“No,” Philip shook his head back and forth aggressively, “You might be born a princess, but that doesn’t mean you have to be dumb like them.” He took a step towards her, bending at the waist so that their faces were at one level and his hands were on his hips, the doll poking out from where it was clenched in his right hand. “Would you rather sit inside the castle sewing with mama? Or running around the stables with me.”

The stubborn confidence she had felt in her first statement faded slightly with this argument. She would not prefer sitting inside and sewing. Actually, Avelina really liked chasing her brother through the hay-strewn barns and muddy fields. “But mama said—”

“Mama isn’t right about everything, father said so!”

The little girl stared up at him, uncertainty filling her eyes. “Papa says mama is a’ways wight…”

“Well, that’s not what he said while they were arguing.”

“Mama and papa awguing?” Avelina whispered, eyes widening with horror. Philip could see the beginnings of a fresh set of tears starting on her face at this revelation and he quickly straightened, pushing a hand through his blond hair in the way he’d seen father do a hundred times.

“Yeah, but it’s fine Avelina. Everyone fights, like we were fighting with your doll,” he waved the little wooden toy for emphasis and was rewarded with her expression shifting into uncertainty tinged with anger, much preferable to tears. “Come on… lets go find Rory and then you can ride one of the ponies!”

“Ponies…” she whispered, glancing between Philip and the doll he was still holding in his hand. It was not a fair fight: Philip knew all her favourite things. “Okay…” she said at last and he gave a whoop, punching the air with his little fists and tossing the doll away into the grass.

For a moment, Avelina leaned towards where it had landed, but Philip took her little hand in his and began to tug her towards the barn. “C’mon! Maybe Rory will let me sit on Stormy.”

“Stowmy is too big,” the little girl said distractedly, her head still turned towards where her doll had been thrown.

“Well, then I guess I’ll ride Vesper.”

Avelina gasped and whipped her head around to look at him. “No! Wespew is mine!” The little mare wasn’t, technically, hers but she was the one that Avelina was being taught to ride on and Philip knew this quite well. He also knew how attached his sister was to the mare… and she had a tendency to be jealous of the things she saw as hers.

“Then I guess you’d better hurry and try to beat me to the barn!” he yelled, running a few steps ahead and hiding a grin when she squeaked indignantly and chased after him. Philip let her overtake him and trotted just behind her, no longer hiding his smile since she couldn’t see it.

He had won this little battle, just as he tended to win all of them. It suited him just fine, loathe though the boy was to admit it… he loved spending time with his little sister.

 

[ashwynne]

Wordless
Kobayashi Miyako
[ I consider this a prologue to her part in the roleplay she belongs to ]


[art by peritwinkle ofc]
​

Miyako sat elegantly on the tatami mat, back straight and hands folded demurely in her lap. Painted sliding screens surrounded her on all sides. On her left they boasted golden orioles nestled among the branches of a cherry blossom tree. On her right, craggy peaks adorned with snow. It was a room that was gilded and beautiful, but to her it felt like a prison cell.

Her lord had returned, for once. It was only the seventh time he had been home since their wedding. Her fingers clasped tighter together. It wasn’t that she disliked sharing his bed, it was more… well, Miyako was not quite sure how to put it.

She’d been married for her beauty and good breeding; she was not ignorant of that fact. Her talent at singing and reciting poetry hadn’t even factored in—he’d never had an occasion to hear either. Their union had been negotiated behind screens such as this, precipitated by a single brief meeting where he had looked her over once, nodded, and left.

Their marriage was not much different.

He returned home, he bedded her, and he was gone by the time she woke in the morning. Miyako had not anticipated any warm affection or any such nonsense, but she hadn’t expected to be married to a ghost.

He’d hardly spoken a word to her in all this time. She was not even sure if he even knew her name. Supposedly, there was some turmoil going on with the emperor, but the good wife of a daimyo did not stick her nose into men’s affairs, so she closed her ears to such talk. Better not to know what he did while he was away. But maybe that explained his lack of anything remotely resembling affection. Perhaps his mind was too busy with the chaos of the world. That was what she liked to believe, it was better than the alternative; that she had some defect which kept him closed off from her.

Still, she could not help but wonder what it was that he thought about while their fingers were entwined, and their breath mingled and steamed their shared room while they were together. Was he envisioning some lovely peasant he could never have? Thinking of the battles he must fight? Did he even see her at all? She did not know.

Maybe… maybe if she conceived, maybe if she bore him a son then he would actually look at her. All her needs were met in excess in this castle, but what she wanted more than anything was some kind of companionship. Never had she imagined that she would experience greater loneliness than ever before after she was married.

The folding screen parted abruptly, and she twitched ever so slightly, the nerves of her fingers jumping and then settling after the briefest moment. “Welcome home,” she kept her voice soft and her head dipped respectfully, studying his feet as though she might read more of the man through them.

Only silence met her greeting, and after a moment of hesitation she lifted her head to look up at him with a puzzled expression. This was strange, even for him. Ordinarily she at least received some sort of murmured response.

Kobayashi Katsuhide looked down on her with an expression so distant and stormy that Miyako felt a quiver of fear. Had she done something wrong? Something to upset him?

He crouched suddenly, and she only barely managed to keep herself from flinching away, watching him with wide and wary eyes. This was new, and strange.

Her husband reached out to catch her chin, tilting it up so that she had no choice but to meet his eyes. She did not fight this, Miyako had never been one to back from a challenge and if he wished to be strange and stare into her eyes, she would oblige him. Let him look away first, if he was so bent on trying to frighten her. Maybe he would finally seem to see her.

In the end, he did look away first, but only after staring deeply into her own dark eyes for what felt like an eternity. Miyako fancied that something that might have been a smile curled his lips up as he turned away from her at last, but she could not be sure.

She continued to watch him, baffled and uncertain. A quiver of apprehension was beginning to churn snake-like in her belly, though Miyako could not have said why. He gave the softest of sighs and rose to his feet, still not looking directly at her, and then, without warning, brushed his fingers gently over her cheek and through her hair. There was no word of farewell after that, no words at all, he simply let his hand fall slowly back to his side and left as silently as he had entered. Katsuhide did not even stay the night; he was simply gone.

It was the first time he had shown her any overt affection, and it was the last time she would ever see him.

 

[ashwynne]

The Meadow
Kobayashi Miyako
[ Tagging elusivethought because I said I would. Also Koda cameo c; ]
[ art by AmberHarrisArt on DA ]​

The fire had burned down to mere embers. They pulsed with warmth and light, reflected in the depth’s of Miyako’s eyes as she watched them, mesmerized. The night was cool and silent, only the faintest breath of wind stirring the leaves of the trees around them. Truly, the only real sound beyond the crackle of the dying flames was the steady breathing of the man sleeping beside her.

Koda shared a blanket with her, though he kept a respectful foot of distance between them. Frankly, Miyako wondered why he bothered. One way or another, by the time morning came, she’d find herself curled against him. For warmth, yes, but she suspected it also stemmed from an innate need in herself to be reminded that she was not alone. There was also no doubt in her mind that she was the one bridging the distance, the monk was too pure a soul to dare such a breach of decorum… even in his sleep.

Sighing wearily to herself, she deliberated for a few seconds and then inched her way towards Koda until her back pressed against his. Why pretend it didn’t happen and let herself be cold needlessly? Besides, some small part of her hoped that his presence might soothe her racing thoughts and send her quicker to sleep. Normally she did not struggle to drift off, but tonight her mind whispered incessantly and would not let her go.

Fortunately, her instinct was right. Feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breathing through their touching backs, coupled with the increased warmth, soon her eyes grew heavy. The thoughts which plagued her trailed off into the ether as she toed the line of consciousness. Before long, she was asleep entirely.



Miyako dreamed of a memory. Of the meadow in Nakakoshi. It had been visible from the window of her childhood room, a distant open space among the sea of trees. Only once did she ever manage to reach it.

Her parents had been discussing her. Their beautiful child, daughter of a beautiful night. Womanhood was beginning to wreathe itself around her and so the conversation had turned, like the wheel of fate, towards her ultimate purpose in life: to be a broodmare for some noble lord. A pretty thing to haunt his castle, warm his bed and most importantly… provide him heirs.

She had been headstrong nearly from birth. She didn’t want to marry some old lecher, she wanted to learn how to swim in the lake. To run through the forest. But mother would never permit it. Already she rapped her knuckles with bamboo when she slouched ever so slightly, pinched her in the tender skin beneath her armpit where none would see when her legs were not folded demurely beneath her. There were other marks, in other places, all to remind her of some other thing she was not permitted to do.

This night, Miyako decided to become a doe.

When all speech had ceased, when their home stood still and silent like a mausoleum, Miyako slipped barefoot down the hall and out the door. She knew precisely where she wished to go, where her feet would take her; the meadow.

Never had she travelled there, but long had it loomed in her mind; the path she would take, the pitfalls she might encounter, the feel of the earth beneath her toes. And, truly, it was as wonderful as she had imagined.

She had hardly begun to disappear into the forest, silky black tresses streaming like a banner behind her, before a grin occupied the entirety of her face. It stretched, wider and wider, until she felt like it might swallow the whole world. So. This was how freedom tasted. It was sweet and full of promise.

As she ran, Miyako imagined herself on four legs instead of two. Cloven hooves instead of feet. Spindly legs that could bear her away with magnificent speed. A graceful neck. A tapered muzzle. Large ears to hear any pursuers. Large dark eyes to see them. She entered the woods a human girl, but she raced through them as a doe.

Onwards she went, never faltering, never questioning. Her hooves thumped against the ground with every stride, the creatures of the night lifting their heads to see who disrupted their peace. They watched her pass them with wary eyes and dismissed her from their minds. A doe would cause no harm.

Sure enough, the trees thinned before long and the meadow loomed. The doe was breathless but elated. Free. She stepped out from tree-trunks dressed silver by the moon, into a meadow that was similarly clothed. Careful, reverent, she picked her way through long tall grasses. Through tiger lilies and iris, their blooms closed in sleep. She moved until she stood in what she best believed to be the centre of the meadow and there she settled herself on the ground, curled in a ball, and slept more deeply than she had for several months.

When the doe woke, the flowers had opened their faces to stare cheerfully into the sun and she rose with equal joy to greet the morning. Crickets sang to each other, their drone filling her ears. There was a redolent scent of damp dirt and warming grass on the air that she breathed in deeply, letting the earthy scent fill her lungs to their very bottom. Had she still possessed toes; they would have curled deep into the soft ground.

The doe danced in the meadow. Bounding from spot to spot she followed the trails made by animals larger than she who had walked these paths for many years. Revelling in life she twirled and whirled, first to this edge of the meadow and then to the other. When she grew thirsty, she knelt beside the brook, clear and flowing from the mountains, and drank deeply. When tired, she drowsed beneath the late spring sun. In between? She paced every inch of the meadow, committing it to memory that she might carry it with her no matter where she wandered. Hunger alone troubled her, but the long blades of sweet field grass soothed that need as well.

The bliss of the doe was not to last, for there were hunters on her trail.

The sun sat high above her head now, and the little doe was resting in a small furrow she had scraped for herself among the gently swaying stalks of grass. The wolves descended so fast that she did not even know her death was nigh until their teeth were clamped around her neck. And there, the doe would die.

She was lifted, face streaked with mud, ornaments of the field lovingly woven through her hair. Her coat was ruined beyond repair, but her eyes were bright and lovely, full of life that had not been there before. It was her father who found her, and for a moment… the wolf nearly considered releasing her. Letting the girl live as the doe. But he had a mate at home with teeth sharper than his, and the moment of madness passed. The jaws crunched down, the doe died without a sound, and Miyako was left bereft.

Never again did the girl escape. She had been promised that the next time it would be the girl who died, not just the doe, and so she stayed within her cage. Stayed until they found a buyer to take her. But she never forgot the meadow.

And the meadow never forgot Miyako. The doe had died, but her memories had not. That golden, beautiful, place lived in the cracks of the girl’s soul. In the hidden parts that could never bring themselves to yield her entirely to her fate. To the parts that had the wildness of the doe’s spirit, if nothing else. It was these, perhaps, that gave her the strength to race the woods once more, on the night when she had lost her life again; this time as Kobayashi Miyako. Had it been feet that she had run with? Or the memory of cloven hooves that bore her faster from her doom?

In her sleep, Miyako snuggled ever closer against Koda. No matter what it had been; whether the spirit of the deer, a guardian spirit of some other kind, or mere chance… it had led her to a stag. To the start of a herd. For deer should never be alone and the girl was no different.

 

[ashwynne]

Ties of Fate
Kobayashi Katsuhide
[ Apparently I'm writing for dead background characters now. I regret nothing. Shy cinnamon roll gets his story too lol. ]​

“Any news from the emissaries sent to Chiang Sai?” Katsuhide asked the slender man beside him.

“Not yet, my lord, though we expect word any day now,” came the reply, spoken by Ito, a trusted and long-time vassal of the Kobayashi family.

The daimyo hummed thoughtfully to himself at this, frowning as he tried not to worry himself unnecessarily over what might be delaying them. Whispers of an insurrection being plotted had been circulating with greater regularity over the past few months. It was troubling. They had increased the guard around the emperor but thus far every lead they followed led to nothing. It felt eerily as though they were chasing ghosts; Katsuhide did not like it.

A chorus of giggles had him lifting his head from where he’d been frowning at the ground, discovering a trio of women staring at him. All three were quite lovely and their eyes sparkled with obvious interest as they looked at him. Immediately, the daimyo felt his tongue grow thick and choking in his mouth, quickly shifting his gaze back more firmly to the ground and increasing the speed at which he walked.

Ito sighed loudly behind him and nearly had to jog to keep up with his lord, flicking a glance back towards the women who were looking decidedly disappointed. “You know, my lord—”

“Later. After this trouble with the emperor is resolved,” Katsuhide said, cutting him off.

“Later, later, always later. Wait too long and you’ll be an old man without the ability to produce heirs.”

He made no answer, focusing on soothing the bubble of panic that had begun to rise in his chest at the mere thought. Heirs. He’d need to be able to hold a conversation with a woman before that. Or look at one for longer than a fleeting second. The affliction that came upon him in the presence of the fairer sex was a poorly kept secret among the daimyo who served the emperor. He was still young and so it was treated with fond amusement, but Katsuhide knew that this would not last. Give it a few more years and the laughs would turn derisive instead of warm, jokes vicious rather than playful.

A problem for another day, he told himself for the thousandth time. And then he heard it. As though his ancestors themselves had grown weary of his dallying. A heavenly note that rang on the air.

“Do you hear that?!” he said, a little breathless, whipping around to look at Ito.

“The singing?” his vassal asked, baffled, “The Arai family parade their daughter to the square every second day to sing. Bit distasteful if you ask me, they couldn’t be more obvious in their intentions—”

Katsuhide’s hand shot out to cover the vassal’s mouth, eyes closing as he strained to hear the notes that rose sweetly to fill the air. Before Ito could even process what was happening, the daimyo was moving towards the sound, treading lightly so he would not pollute the song with his footsteps.

Around corners and through tasteful archways he let his feet carry him ever closer to that haunting voice. Katsuhide had heard many talented singers before—some whose technique far outstripped the bearer of this song—but he had never heard such sweet, true, sorrow in a voice before. Such heartfelt emotion. It pierced him to his core and when at last he rounded the corner that put her in his view it was as though he had known her all his life. Not fully, perhaps, but as though a shade of her had been tucked away inside of him from the moment of his birth. A sliver of the angel who was perched demurely on the edge of a murmuring fountain.

His feet would not take him any closer, so Katsuhide tucked himself against the nearest stone pillar supporting the building to his left, fingers curling into the rough surface. He did not desire for her to see him, but for once he could not tear his eyes away from looking at her.

He was completely enraptured; the angel’s beauty matched her voice. Like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place he knew he would marry her. There was no sense of possessiveness behind the feeling, no violent lust, it was just something he knew with full certainty. Right to his marrow. The same way one knows the sun will rise in the morning. Call it destiny, call it fate, call it sheer foolishness; he would marry her.

Katsuhide remained there, stock still, for the full hour that she continued her song. When at last she was done and ushered away by her parents, he blinked, becoming aware of his surroundings again like one from a deep sleep. Ito had found an old man to play Go with and looked up only when his lord approached him looking dazed and strangely disheveled.

“I suppose you’ll want me to make inquiries?” he asked, returning his gaze to the board as he chose his next move.

“Mmhm,” Katsuhide murmured distractedly, eyes drawing themselves to the place on the fountain where she had been sitting only moments ago.

“I suppose a wife is better than none,” the vassal mused, sighing in vexation when the old man captured one of his stones and waving a hand to indicate he would surrender the victory ahead of time. The old man smiled, and Ito stood, rubbing the back of his neck as the daimyo asked his next question.

“Do you know her name?”

“I told you, Arai.”

“No, no, her name. Not her family name.”

Ito frowned and studied Katsuhide more closely for a moment before shaking his head. “Arai Miyako, I believe. As I said, I’ll make inquiries… though it may take some time. Her family are jackals, they will fight for a high bride price.”

“Pay it then, whatever they wish, I’m sure they will be well satisfied with a daimyo for their daughter’s husband. They cannot make much complaint.” His eyes glowed as he said it and Ito couldn’t quite hide his own smile, though he tried to make it small and unobtrusive.

“Oh yes, I’m sure they will be most pleased. I must say, at least you’ve not lost your head so much as to forget that you’re a daimyo,” a small chuckle accompanied the teasing. “From incapable of meeting a girl’s eyes to deciding to marry one… all within the same few hours. If it were anyone else, I’d think them mad.”

Katsuhide was able to smile a little at that, “Perhaps I am mad, but all the same, I will marry her.”

“As you wish. You certainly chose a beauty for yourself—I give you that.”

The daimyo did not correct him, but it was not her beauty or even her singing itself that had drawn him. It was the sorrow behind it all, the unhappiness that he was certain he could hear—as though it bled from her heart and spilled into her song. It was not kindred to his own struggles, but it called to him, begged to be eased all the same. He did not know how he might accomplish that; all he knew with full certainty was that he wanted to cure her of it. However that might be done. No matter how long it took for him to overcome his own ineptitude with women, he would free her somehow. Someday.

 

[ashwynne]

The Lady's Slipper
Talfryn
[Possibly a part 1 of 2. Just a quick writing exercise with Tal because he's fun to write with]
[ art by MrDark91 on DA ]​

Late afternoon sunlight illuminated the rich redwood floors of his bedchamber, turning it all to crimson until it looked remarkably like blood congealed across the cool, unfeeling, ground.

“Your father requests your presence, Lord Talfryn.”

He bristled at the title. “Does he? Well… request noted,” he tugged a warm sable cloak about his shoulders, “And denied.”

“Y-you can’t—”

“I most certainly can,” Tal said, his voice clipped, clapping a hand down hard on the messenger’s shoulder. “You can tell my father that I’m otherwise occupied,” he released the other man and twirled his flute deftly about his fingers, pulling it to his lips to play a flurry of sweet notes that summoned a shimmering portal.

“Lord Drystan won’t be—”

“Happy? Pleased? No, but he never is, so you get quite used to it,” Tal finished for him, even as he stepped into the mass of dancing air. “Do be sure to tell my beloved father that I’ll play a song or two in his honour.”

The messenger flushed red, hands closing into fists. He knew as well as Tal did that Lord Drystan would find no humour in the joke. And it would be him who had to deal with the high lord’s blisteringly cold anger, rather than the errant son who had caused it. “An unimpressive gift, considering you’re no more a bard than the croaking crows you sound like!” the man snapped, his face turning ashen the instant the angry words left his lips.

Talfryn whipped his head to look back at him, the initial flash of hurt slipping smoothly behind a malicious simper. He would have happily beaten the messenger black and blue but before he could so much as lift the flute to his lips, there was a muffled ‘pop’ and the bedchamber disappeared. Aromatic pines swayed in its place, a sapling hunched in the spot where the messenger had been only moments before, its crown bent as though in apology.

He stared for a long moment at the young tree, half tempted to rip it to shreds to make himself feel better. In the end, he decided against it. Talfryn had never much liked the thought of whipping boys serving as stand-ins and he wasn’t about to make some innocent sapling pay for the crimes of a faerie in an entirely different realm. He’d turn to another dear friend for comfort instead; mead.

Orthin was a bustling city. The ancient forest in which Talfryn had appeared stood sentinel along its northern border, backed against looming mountains that regularly shook the earth in winter with the sound of avalanches. Long treeless swathes extended on either side of this particular forest, but somehow both the pines and Orthin itself consistently remained untouched by the mischievous snow spirits.

Perhaps acknowledging their unlikely fortune and wishing to celebrate it, Orthin was the most tavern-rich city Talfryn had ever encountered. Mead and wine flowed like water, seemingly everywhere you turned, and the people themselves had an almost manic energy about them. It was the perfect place for a bard to ply his trade—singer or no—and he never lacked for admirers who would pay to fill his cup while he was there.

It was not winter yet, but the late autumn chill had Tal tugging the cloak a little tighter about himself, quickening his steps as he headed towards a well-traveled path into the city that he was quite familiar with. The first frost had already swept across the land and the ground crunched beneath every step as he went.

He had scarcely taken a dozen steps into the cobbled streets of Orthin’s main thoroughfare when there was a loud gasp and an excited voice turned eyes towards him. “It’s Master Talfryn! Master Talfryn is back!” Other voices quickly joined the chorus.

“Any new songs to play for us, Master Talfryn? I do hope so…”

“Looking fine as ever, handsome, I can play you tonight, if you’d like.”

“D’you remember the bar fight last time he came around? Mr. Hardin still—”

“First one t’ buy you a stein of mead gets to request a song, right?!”

Warmth bloomed in Talfryn’s chest and the knife-like hurt of the messenger’s words slipped from where it had wedged itself in his heart as the welcoming voices ushered him deeper into Orthin. Here, he was welcome. Here, he had purpose. Here… he was a bard.

“Ladies! Gentlemen!” he called, his deep baritone rushing over them with the projection abilities of all good performers, an expectant hush falling over the street save a few harsh whispers demanding silence of newcomers who had not seen the wandering bard before. “I am honoured to once more grace the fair cobblestones of Orthin!” he sketched a dramatic bow, his eyes landing on a steaming pile of manure, lips quirking upwards, “Shit and all!” Twitters of laughter greeted this, though they were short lived for fear of drowning out what he would say next. “I do indeed come bearing new songs and an eagerness to share them! Give me a few cups of mead and I may also take requests! As to you lovely ladies…” he shot a smirk towards the one who had lobbed him a particularly suggestive comment, “Who knows what the night will bring.”

Cheers followed this simple greeting and a merry throng that did not have business to occupy them swiftly surrounded him as Talfryn made his way to the nearest tavern. On average he liked to flit between three or four establishments in an evening, but only time would tell whether he’d manage it today. When the people were this parched for entertainment it was exceedingly difficult to slip away.

A well constructed wooden building, the scent of beer perfuming it before you even entered, loomed cheerfully before him. ‘The Lady’s Slipper’ it was called.