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Fantasy 𝕯𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝕷𝖆𝖒𝖇'𝖘 𝕮𝖑𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 - IC

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Historical, Horror, LGTBQ Friendly, Mystery, Supernatural
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s e v e n

goth bitch ♡ art: peritwinkle





I
II
III
IV
  • In the beginning. . .


    "There is a generation, whose teeth are as swords, and their jaw teeth as knives, to devour the poor from off the earth, and the needy from among men."
    - Proverbs 30:14


    There was light. Then the heavens. Earth. Sea. He filled it all with life through His touch. And in the Lord's eyes, it was good. It was perfect. It was all in accordance to His design.

    On the sixth day, from dust, the LORD had shaped mankind with His breath, His intended stewards for the world He had created, in His image. And He deemed it very good.

    Oh, how dearly He had loved them. They were His children, and He, their father. Mankind, however, trampled on His love when they fell to the sinful susurrations of a snake.

    "Ye shall be as gods", it had said.

    And with a simple bite of a fruit, they had fallen. Arrogance and avarice perverted them and led them away from the Lord. Sin begets punishment. And for their sin, they were to leave the Garden of Eden.

    Despite the stain on their souls, the Lord still loved them. With a heavy heart, He could only watch His beloved children leave the safety of His presence, stepping out the holy gates, as He had known: for as long as the kingdom of light prevailed, darkness, too would linger.

    And linger it did, for the forbidden fruit had already grown its seeds into their very beings. 'Twas a rot that festered and feasted at every corner, an insatiable hunger to consume more and more.

    The devil's whisper is as sweet as the morning dew, just as lovely and as it was poisonous as a belladonna. It speaks of glorious symphonies, sings in the tunes of hope and wonder. It sung and sung, until finally, someone listened. And thus, the tragedy began anew as the deal was struck; the same few words that had stained the first humans in temptation.

    And so a man, an-Namrūd was his name -or what humanity had chosen to remember- challenged the Lord, the creator of all, the beginning and the end. The apostate sought to be more than his feeble self, to mimic the Lord, to shape the world. He conducted an experiment, one that insults the glory of the heavens, one that, unsurprisingly, failed. an-Namrūd's blasphemous experiment tore at the world's seams and ruined the formulas that shaped the world.

    Tears between realms disrupted, what once was there was no more, and what was never there existed. That day was forever marked as The Tragedy of Bāb-ilim, where a foolish, arrogant soul stood up against the impossible, and his name had perished within the lines of a myth.

    This incident spawned outlandish flowers and minerals, things that shouldn't have been. Among those things was uleandite, a mineral that emerged out of thin air. It laid abundant within caves as new source of fuel and energy. Through its use, cities grew at an unholy rate. Civilizations thrived. But deals with devils are never without a cost. Shrouded underneath all that glamor and gold was the the snake, who spread its sickness upon the world.

    Blood-sucking demons. Vampires, as they now came to be called. They are ruthless, cruel, merciless. An abomination on its own and a direct disobedience to the heavens. Once upon a time, perhaps, these vampires were humans. But no longer, for its formulas have been rewritten. The Lord taught us to be kind, but know this, they are no longer humans. Vampires are demons that simply walk in the guise of human flesh. It knows nothing of compassion nor morality, only seeking to fulfill its instinctual cruelty, like a beast. 'Tis a cheater of death, a plague on humanity. And like all plagues, it must be eradicated.

    1866, London. A group has arisen to take a stand. Thirteen knights, thirteen sacred weapons, serving under the Queen as the vanguards against evil. They might be humanity's last hope to salvation. In the head of the seat, Arthur himself, Excalibur in his hand, to lead the charge. And you will fight with him.

    The fate of humanity rests in the hands of the Lord now.

    Pray that He has not forsaken us.



coded by weldherwings.
 
Last edited:

s e v e n

goth bitch ♡ art: peritwinkle




P r o l o g u e

"The Princess and The Pauper"


Red nosed and wide eyed, golden blonde hair that curled, brushing over the tops of her narrow shoulders. Beneath her chest her heart pounds forth, the flames of excitement vibrant and glowing. All the same, young Teresa could not deny her agitation, visible in the way her heels shifted her body back and forth, small feet wrapped in equally small shoes. Perturbation led to guilt, guilt to second thoughts. Mum would not have liked this at all, the young girl grimaced at the thought of the whipping belt.

Ya know,” the boy in front of her started. Wild freckles marked his face, and as he smiled, his eyes glinted, like that of a mischievous street cat. When he spoke, a missing tooth was visible at the corner of his mouth, he adjusted the straps of his shirt that had gone much worn it was to be mistaken a wash cloth. “Ya bein’ so darn cowardly and all that. Ya can stay back home, aight? Cry to mummy.

Red flushed in her cheeks, blossoming rose over pale snow. Stubbornly, she stomped her foot upon the ground, though fingers remained tucked in the frills of her dress. “Am not!

Are too!” the boy replied, and his sneer only grew larger as the young girl submitted to her shame, puffing out her cheeks. In all the young boy’s defense, he felt as though he was threatened by a cupcake. But this only sparked more of her will, and all doubts she had possessed before flew in the words of her friend.

Well, that is fine by me!” Teresa snapped, clenched fists. “Just so you know, you are not very nice! I’ll show you…” her eyes darted towards a row of box crates, emptied out of whatever they may have contained. Perhaps it was foolish of her to be so taken in the heat of the moment, perhaps she really should have nodded her head, went on her merry way home and mother would spare her. But alas, who can hold down a child but another child? Her soft pink lips curled into a grin, and before the rat reaches its cheese, off she went.

Race you to the top!

Hey!

The boy, whose name was Eric, had not time to prepare himself, as the moment he blinked, the young girl had lifted herself up the wooden panels, balancing herself over ledges and window sills. Positioning his hat, he followed suit, grabbing by the corners, swinging by poles. And so the two merry kids ran down the busy streets of London, skipping past road stops, the soles of their shoes sinking in dirty puddles, splashing their very own reflection against the morning sun. Maneuvering through coaches and cars, their brows furrowed in focus though little could they hold their lips from smiling.

Golden shined over two silhouettes, a young boy and a young girl, their fingers intertwined. Her skirt floating in the air, soft hand against calloused palms. The Princess and the Pauper. And as their hands locked, hearts beat in between. A gentle symphony of fate of the red strings. Bright, yet naïve, oh poor unfortunate souls. How many years would pass, months perhaps, until the light from their eyes be snatched from them, too? For dreams are made to perish, stories written just so long the ink scratches the parchment. Each step they make, one foot over the other, another step closer to their endings. Do happy endings exist? The scent of Atropos draws near.

A snip.

Her steps failed her, and before she knew it air replaced brick stones. She felt her stomach sink, and then herself. What had felt so close now so far, her fingers grasping against the wind, to no avail. She wanted to shout, yet she could not. All happened in the quarter of a second, birds flew over her head.

Then she felt a hand reach for hers.

I win!” the boy announces triumphantly. His friend, now short in breath, pulled herself up the rooftops. Her dress now marked in ashes, locks of blonde stuck by the sides of her face. Her cheeks were redder than ever before. What had happened before, she could not comprehend, but before any emotion could overcome, her childish temper had overcome.

No!” she fumed. “No fair! Y-You cheated!

Cheat’d?” Now it was little Eric who had pressed his lips together, his hazel eyes blinking in disbelief. “Oy, speak for yerself! Ya wouldda fallen over if it wern’t for-

Then he paused. She did to, for whatever she would have said drowned in the noise of trumpets. Distant, yet constant. It grew louder as they paced over the opposite edge of the roof, and as the wind brushed over her face, Teresa beamed.

Symphonies of angels sung as she took a breath, cold air surging through her lungs. She closed her eyes for a second or two, then she opened it and blessed was the sight that greeted her. From the top of it all, the cities run, life of millions in the palm of her hand. Outstretching her fingers, the young girl observed as carriages marched to and fro. Zeppelins and air balloons hung in the sky, still much higher than where they were. As one flew right above them, she let out a small squeal, bringing her hands to her ears to shield herself from the noise of turning gears. The sun peeked over the shoulders of clouds, spreading her hands to her sides, she felt like a bird, soaring through the skies, vast and limitless, free and unbothered. No cage would bound her. Warmth of the sun basked her skin, she wondered if only one could live forever.

Tessa! Tessa!

Her attention was snapped aside when Eric had tapped her shoulder. His finger pointed down towards the streets, where people could hardly be seen, heads over shadows, a flurry of ants in a much too extravagant bowl. Her heart skipped a beat- this was what she was here for. The reason she risked her life, the wrath of mother- all was for this single moment. Eyes as round as marbles, she blinked, sucking in a tight breath that hitched in her lungs as she crawled. There it was, in front of the palace. Many had rushed through, people flooding every inch of the street. Something had separated them- guards, it may seem, circling over a very small space. The space that lies almost directly below them.

A pedestal was placed right over a circle of velvet red mattress. A sword, golden hilt, silver blade, glinting in the light as it was raised. Two figures knelt right before one, whom she assumed was the queen herself. Queen Victoria! And two of the round table knights, one of them a woman. Her hands rushed over to her chest, and she felt warmth. Maybe, one day, she could too be like them. A valiant knight, protecting her loved ones from all sources of evil. When the boy’s hand reached over hers, she did not even flinch, instead she exhaled a breath. If heaven exists, it must feel like this- sweeter, perhaps, a little bit more.

One day.

She turned to face him, and perhaps there were tears in her eyes. She blinked them off, sniffing slightly before wiping her face in her sleeves. “Yes,” she replied, her fingers tightening around his, and the young girl felt her cheeks heat up once more, this time for an entirely different reason. Her blues met his browns, and for a moment, the world belongs to only them, crystalline globe of purity and wishful thinking. “One day.

Why, why. Is that not the most adorable thing?

Theresa jerked back, nearly toppling off her seat. A wave of applause rushed underneath, though she did not quite get to see exactly what had caused such a triumph. An unfamiliar voice, soft like the rustle of autumn wind, yet at the same time unsettling. She felt the blood drain off her face, the entirety of her body tensed. The air felt almost colder, her fingers went to tighten her coat. One hand reaches for her friend, she placed him behind her.

Tessa-

Sh!

A figure, shrouded underneath a pitch black cloak. A single hood concealed their face, leaving none but a hole of void to fill in. If only she was a knight, if only she was stronger. If only she was not just a kid. Her fists balled at her sides, her throat felt dry. When she spoke, her voice felt hoarse.

Who are you?” she asked. “What do you want?

Me?” the stranger spoke, and she felt shivers run down her spine. Her body begun to tremble, and then she decided. A spark of courage lit within her, adrenaline rushing through her veins. Just as her lips parted, words of gospel played at the back of her mind like such a record tuning in repeat, her voice faded when the figure- a man- loosened down his hood. And he smiled at her.

Did I scare you?” the man spoke. A pair of dark eyes contrasting his pale, nearly white, hair. His voice had not changed, yet somehow she felt…much more at ease. Such a handsome man! Must he be a prince? Teresa reached for the top of her heads, brushing down her hair properly, then her skirts. “I do apologize, young lady. I did not know that this was your spot to begin with-

No! It’s alright, really!” replied the girl, though before she could stop anyone, Eric made his way past her, his back straight as he pointed an accusatory finger at the new man.

No, no! It’s not alright. Now, answer the question, stranger! I swear if you’ve been following us, I’ll- I’ll-

You’ll what?

Just two words, and it silenced Eric. Suddenly the atmosphere darkened once more. An eerie emotion tugged at the back of her, and she suddenly remembered: A good warrior chooses her fight. Could this be...could this man- no, this thing, really be-

The man erupted into a laugh. At this point, she found herself unsure how to react. At lost for words, and action. She could only share a look with her dearest friend, the boy whom had cocked up an eyebrow.

Worry not, my dearest, for I mean to bring no harm. Instead, I believe you will find this especially of interest.” This time his eyes locked directly into Theresa’s, she fiddled with her fingers nervously. The man unbuttoned his coat, revealing a more formal wear. Upon his left chest was a sigil, once she recognized immediately.

You’re a knight!” she gasped, her hands to her mouth. Then she coughed out a laugh, disbelief crossing her expression. Even Eric had caught silent by this action, suspicious, yet otherwise unable to justify himself. The boy simply tilted his head to the side, narrowing his eyes in observation.

Precisely,” he grinned, then went down to his knees. He took her small gloved hand, bringing it to his lips and gave a small peck. Color rises to her face immediately, she turned away bashfully. “Sir Lancelot, at your service, my lady.

Lancelot!” she gasped, turning to Eric enthusiastically. The boy was seen sticking out his lower lip, his hands crossed over his chest. A stubborn puff of breath, a reluctance to gaze despite his obvious curiosity. A child is a child after all.

Indeed I am,” stated the knight. Shifting his hood back up, he let his feet dangle at the edges of the roof panels, his hands positioned right at his back as his eyes scanned the view. “This is the best spot to watch, smart kids, aren’t you?

Well,” Eric cleared his throat, boastingly pounded his chest with his fist. “Technically this was my idea. Tessa here was even too much of a chicken-

Hey!” she protested, pouting. “You know I’d still get here with or without you!

Lancelot simply laughed, an amused grin resting by his lips. “That I believe, young lady. That I believe.

You- you do?

Trust me.” The man reached for his badge again, and this time he had unpinned it. He took her hand, resting the small metallic symbol within it before he clasped her fingers shut. When she had stared back up, her eyes were as round as saucers. Her lips moved, yet no words came out. Eric was perhaps eyeing her, this time out of jealousy as his jaw has fallen open.

Well, I must rush now. You two take care, alright? Oh, also,” he stopped, turning to her. “One day. I’ll be waiting.

Wait!” Teresa rushed after him, but without warning, the man had leapt off the roof. Three stories off the ground! Panickedly, she pressed her hand at the edge, peering down the ledge. But just like that, he was gone, not a single trace left behind. The only proof that she was, in fact, not dreaming, was the little badge resting comfortably in her clasps. Somewhere, out there, a new tale just began- she could feel it. She smiled to herself, bringing it tightly to her chest. And she promised.


Red nosed and wide eyed, golden blonde hair that curled, brushing over the tops of her narrow shoulders. Beneath her chest her heart pounds forth, the flames of excitement vibrant and glowing. All the same, young Teresa could not deny her agitation, visible in the way her heels shifted her body back and forth, small feet wrapped in equally small shoes. Perturbation led to guilt, guilt to second thoughts. Mum would not have liked this at all, the young girl grimaced at the thought of the whipping belt.

Ya know,” the boy in front of her started. Wild freckles marked his face, and as he smiled, his eyes glinted, like that of a mischievous street cat. When he spoke, a missing tooth was visible at the corner of his mouth, he adjusted the straps of his shirt that had gone much worn it was to be mistaken a wash cloth. “Ya bein’ so darn cowardly and all that. Ya can stay back home, aight? Cry to mummy.

Red flushed in her cheeks, blossoming rose over pale snow. Stubbornly, she stomped her foot upon the ground, though fingers remained tucked in the frills of her dress. “Am not!

Are too!” the boy replied, and his sneer only grew larger as the young girl submitted to her shame, puffing out her cheeks. In all the young boy’s defense, he felt as though he was threatened by a cupcake. But this only sparked more of her will, and all doubts she had possessed before flew in the words of her friend.

Well, that is fine by me!” Teresa snapped, clenched fists. “Just so you know, you are not very nice! I’ll show you…” her eyes darted towards a row of box crates, emptied out of whatever they may have contained. Perhaps it was foolish of her to be so taken in the heat of the moment, perhaps she really should have nodded her head, went on her merry way home and mother would spare her. But alas, who can hold down a child but another child? Her soft pink lips curled into a grin, and before the rat reaches its cheese, off she went.

Race you to the top!

Hey!

The boy, whose name was Eric, had not time to prepare himself, as the moment he blinked, the young girl had lifted herself up the wooden panels, balancing herself over ledges and window sills. Positioning his hat, he followed suit, grabbing by the corners, swinging by poles. And so the two merry kids ran down the busy streets of London, skipping past road stops, the soles of their shoes sinking in dirty puddles, splashing their very own reflection against the morning sun. Maneuvering through coaches and cars, their brows furrowed in focus though little could they hold their lips from smiling.

Golden shined over two silhouettes, a young boy and a young girl, their fingers intertwined. Her skirt floating in the air, soft hand against calloused palms. The Princess and the Pauper. And as their hands locked, hearts beat in between. A gentle symphony of fate of the red strings. Bright, yet naïve, oh poor unfortunate souls. How many years would pass, months perhaps, until the light from their eyes be snatched from them, too? For dreams are made to perish, stories written just so long the ink scratches the parchment. Each step they make, one foot over the other, another step closer to their endings. Do happy endings exist? The scent of Atropos draws near.

A snip.

Her steps failed her, and before she knew it air replaced brick stones. She felt her stomach sink, and then herself. What had felt so close now so far, her fingers grasping against the wind, to no avail. She wanted to shout, yet she could not. All happened in the quarter of a second, birds flew over her head.

Then she felt a hand reach for hers.

I win!” the boy announces triumphantly. His friend, now short in breath, pulled herself up the rooftops. Her dress now marked in ashes, locks of blonde stuck by the sides of her face. Her cheeks were redder than ever before. What had happened before, she could not comprehend, but before any emotion could overcome, her childish temper had overcome.

No!” she fumed. “No fair! Y-You cheated!

Cheat’d?” Now it was little Eric who had pressed his lips together, his hazel eyes blinking in disbelief. “Oy, speak for yerself! Ya wouldda fallen over if it wern’t for-

Then he paused. She did to, for whatever she would have said drowned in the noise of trumpets. Distant, yet constant. It grew louder as they paced over the opposite edge of the roof, and as the wind brushed over her face, Teresa beamed.

Symphonies of angels sung as she took a breath, cold air surging through her lungs. She closed her eyes for a second or two, then she opened it and blessed was the sight that greeted her. From the top of it all, the cities run, life of millions in the palm of her hand. Outstretching her fingers, the young girl observed as carriages marched to and fro. Zeppelins and air balloons hung in the sky, still much higher than where they were. As one flew right above them, she let out a small squeal, bringing her hands to her ears to shield herself from the noise of turning gears. The sun peeked over the shoulders of clouds, spreading her hands to her sides, she felt like a bird, soaring through the skies, vast and limitless, free and unbothered. No cage would bound her. Warmth of the sun basked her skin, she wondered if only one could live forever.

Tessa! Tessa!

Her attention was snapped aside when Eric had tapped her shoulder. His finger pointed down towards the streets, where people could hardly be seen, heads over shadows, a flurry of ants in a much too extravagant bowl. Her heart skipped a beat- this was what she was here for. The reason she risked her life, the wrath of mother- all was for this single moment. Eyes as round as marbles, she blinked, sucking in a tight breath that hitched in her lungs as she crawled. There it was, in front of the palace. Many had rushed through, people flooding every inch of the street. Something had separated them- guards, it may seem, circling over a very small space. The space that lies almost directly below them.

A pedestal was placed right over a circle of velvet red mattress. A sword, golden hilt, silver blade, glinting in the light as it was raised. Two figures knelt right before one, whom she assumed was the queen herself. Queen Victoria! And two of the round table knights, one of them a woman. Her hands rushed over to her chest, and she felt warmth. Maybe, one day, she could too be like them. A valiant knight, protecting her loved ones from all sources of evil. When the boy’s hand reached over hers, she did not even flinch, instead she exhaled a breath. If heaven exists, it must feel like this- sweeter, perhaps, a little bit more.

One day.

She turned to face him, and perhaps there were tears in her eyes. She blinked them off, sniffing slightly before wiping her face in her sleeves. “Yes,” she replied, her fingers tightening around his, and the young girl felt her cheeks heat up once more, this time for an entirely different reason. Her blues met his browns, and for a moment, the world belongs to only them, crystalline globe of purity and wishful thinking. “One day.

Why, why. Is that not the most adorable thing?

Theresa jerked back, nearly toppling off her seat. A wave of applause rushed underneath, though she did not quite get to see exactly what had caused such a triumph. An unfamiliar voice, soft like the rustle of autumn wind, yet at the same time unsettling. She felt the blood drain off her face, the entirety of her body tensed. The air felt almost colder, her fingers went to tighten her coat. One hand reaches for her friend, she placed him behind her.

Tessa-

Sh!

A figure, shrouded underneath a pitch black cloak. A single hood concealed their face, leaving none but a hole of void to fill in. If only she was a knight, if only she was stronger. If only she was not just a kid. Her fists balled at her sides, her throat felt dry. When she spoke, her voice felt hoarse.

Who are you?” she asked. “What do you want?

Me?” the stranger spoke, and she felt shivers run down her spine. Her body begun to tremble, and then she decided. A spark of courage lit within her, adrenaline rushing through her veins. Just as her lips parted, words of gospel played at the back of her mind like such a record tuning in repeat, her voice faded when the figure- a man- loosened down his hood. And he smiled at her.

Did I scare you?” the man spoke. A pair of dark eyes contrasting his pale, nearly white, hair. His voice had not changed, yet somehow she felt…much more at ease. Such a handsome man! Must he be a prince? Teresa reached for the top of her heads, brushing down her hair properly, then her skirts. “I do apologize, young lady. I did not know that this was your spot to begin with-

No! It’s alright, really!” replied the girl, though before she could stop anyone, Eric made his way past her, his back straight as he pointed an accusatory finger at the new man.

No, no! It’s not alright. Now, answer the question, stranger! I swear if you’ve been following us, I’ll- I’ll-

You’ll what?

Just two words, and it silenced Eric. Suddenly the atmosphere darkened once more. An eerie emotion tugged at the back of her, and she suddenly remembered: A good warrior chooses her fight. Could this be...could this man- no, this thing, really be-

The man erupted into a laugh. At this point, she found herself unsure how to react. At lost for words, and action. She could only share a look with her dearest friend, the boy whom had cocked up an eyebrow.

Worry not, my dearest, for I mean to bring no harm. Instead, I believe you will find this especially of interest.” This time his eyes locked directly into Theresa’s, she fiddled with her fingers nervously. The man unbuttoned his coat, revealing a more formal wear. Upon his left chest was a sigil, once she recognized immediately.

You’re a knight!” she gasped, her hands to her mouth. Then she coughed out a laugh, disbelief crossing her expression. Even Eric had caught silent by this action, suspicious, yet otherwise unable to justify himself. The boy simply tilted his head to the side, narrowing his eyes in observation.

Precisely,” he grinned, then went down to his knees. He took her small gloved hand, bringing it to his lips and gave a small peck. Color rises to her face immediately, she turned away bashfully. “Sir Lancelot, at your service, my lady.

Lancelot!” she gasped, turning to Eric enthusiastically. The boy was seen sticking out his lower lip, his hands crossed over his chest. A stubborn puff of breath, a reluctance to gaze despite his obvious curiosity. A child is a child after all.

Indeed I am,” stated the knight. Shifting his hood back up, he let his feet dangle at the edges of the roof panels, his hands positioned right at his back as his eyes scanned the view. “This is the best spot to watch, smart kids, aren’t you?

Well,” Eric cleared his throat, boastingly pounded his chest with his fist. “Technically this was my idea. Tessa here was even too much of a chicken-

Hey!” she protested, pouting. “You know I’d still get here with or without you!

Lancelot simply laughed, an amused grin resting by his lips. “That I believe, young lady. That I believe.

You- you do?

Trust me.” The man reached for his badge again, and this time he had unpinned it. He took her hand, resting the small metallic symbol within it before he clasped her fingers shut. When she had stared back up, her eyes were as round as saucers. Her lips moved, yet no words came out. Eric was perhaps eyeing her, this time out of jealousy as his jaw has fallen open.

Well, I must rush now. You two take care, alright? Oh, also,” he stopped, turning to her. “One day. I’ll be waiting.

Wait!” Teresa rushed after him, but without warning, the man had leapt off the roof. Three stories off the ground! Panickedly, she pressed her hand at the edge, peering down the ledge. But just like that, he was gone, not a single trace left behind. The only proof that she was, in fact, not dreaming, was the little badge resting comfortably in her clasps. Somewhere, out there, a new tale just began- she could feel it. She smiled to herself, bringing it tightly to her chest. And she promised.
 

s e v e n

goth bitch ♡ art: peritwinkle








Chapter 1:

The Knights of the Round Table








October 15th, 1866.

Rejoice, all of London! Rejoice, the whole world! For tonight, two new knights have joined our family. Hand-in-hand, to rid our world of evil. Protecting the innocents, standing for GOD. May we grow prosper, as we are doing the work of the good. Brother and sisters, may I have your attention, even for a brief moment, for tonight we gather to celebrate! Raise your glasses, sheathe your swords. A bright future awaits you all, my dearest lambs. God speed!







X
X
X



code: s e v e n s e v e n
October 15th, 1866.

Rejoice, all of London! Rejoice, the whole world! For tonight, two new knights have joined our family. Hand-in-hand, to rid our world of evil. Protecting the innocents, standing for GOD. May we grow prosper, as we are doing the work of the good. Brother and sisters, may I have your attention, even for a brief moment, for tonight we gather to celebrate! Raise your glasses, sheathe your swords. A bright future awaits you all, my dearest lambs. God speed!
 
Last edited by a moderator:

s e v e n

goth bitch ♡ art: peritwinkle
Othello Rosconval

The table was ready.

Sheet as white as snow veiled the wooden table, extravagant mahogany imported from the far lands of the East. Candles lit in golden holsters, every single utensil has been polished clean as an untouched mirror, not an inch of it stained should they not be run back to the sculleries. A household that prides itself of its utmost elegance, a sense of luxury only few could possibly dream to afford, royal jewels encrusted almost every corner of the room. Finest of china, finest of dining, only bestowed upon the finest of guests.

The heroes of our land. Ones who risk their lives, fought courageously within the front-lines of justice. The modern times angels, wielding weapons in one hand, prayers in the other. When all cowered behind closed doors, they destroyed barricades that no man had touched before. When all had preached, yet stayed silent, for they all had strayed so far they have forgotten: ’For as the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without works is dead also.

Madam Magrath scrunched up her already crooked nose, her hands hastily reached over to her tiny metallic rimmed round spectacles. She huffed, then puffed, tapping the sides of her cane with her finely gloved hands. Truly, she would have been very old if it were not her behavior that appeared to spell out otherwise. Her back was straight, eye still very much clear, thank you (it was her left eye that had problems, not her right, though the lady refused with all her might to wear a monocle, as it would make her look much older than she was supposed to).

She bears the posture any good lady in the United Kingdom should, mannerism that lacks in not a single place- and she believes everyone should! Perfectionism would have been her middle name if only her birth certificate has not dictated it for her already, as she demands it in everyone and everything. As she scowled, her wrinkles only enhanced. Despite this fact, and her hair that has whitened significantly that not a single lock of brown remains- even in a house of knights, no one dares speak up to her. The head housemaid of their family, and she adores her work.

Bernadette!” she snapped, clapping her hands together. Another maid, much younger and pretty in look, flinched, plates nearly slipping off her thin fingers.

Yes Madam Magrath!

What is this?” The older woman narrowed her eyes, sliding her index finger over the surface of the table. She squinted real hard, so much that young Bernetta feared that the latter had already fallen asleep. Then she snapped her eyes back open, glaring in the young girl's direction. "Who was in charge of plates?"

"That would be Little Piper, Madam," said Bernadette, to which it triggers the yelp of another young girl, hiding herself behind her friend. The lady had simply locked her gaze at her, and soon enough a small sigh was heard, followed by reluctant steps. She bent over.

Spank!

Murmurs flooded the room, slight of giggles and averted eye contact. Poor Little Piper could only hold her head down, tears welling the sides of her eye not from pain, but shame. Her short hair did not help at all to hide her tattered expression. Madam Magrath let the other girl go, tapping her cane in her hands.

"Go back to the pantry and fetch us a new set, will you?"

"Yes, Madam Magrath."

She bowed, scurrying herself out the doorways almost immediately as it opened. A pair of men made their way in, followed by a mass behind them. Arthur and Merlin. Then the knights followed. Immediately the rest of the maids fell into a scurry of panic, their heads snapping back and forth to eye that everything must be perfect. Everything must be aligned: the plate, the bread plate, the butter knife, large knife, salad fork, regular fork, soup spoon, desert spoon. The napkins, doved peach in colour, were folded neatly at the sides, in the shape of an opened fan.

Did we come to early, Madam?” asked the redheaded male, to which she shook her head upon.

Not at all, Anselm. My girls are all simply much too slow.

In that exact moment, all the maids had flinched at the same time. Their movements only quickened, the clinking of china became frantic before they all stood up, marching out one by one after a solemn bow. Passing them was Little Piper, who returned with a single plate. She then ran out once more, forgetting the bow in the heat of the moment. Madam Magrath nodded her head, giving Arthur’s shoulder a slight pat, then excused herself out, too.

Are we all here?” asked Anselm, though it sounded more a whisper than anything, as he pulled a seat at the head of the table. Mr. Wainwright, or rather, Merlin, seemed content enough to occupy the seat right next to him, instead of the foot of the table. He watched as everyone had begun to take their seats, including the two new-comers. The man gave them a subtle nod and a smile of greeting.

Clinking of the glass.

Everyone’s attention shifted to the man, who had stood up with a glass in hand. It was not a common etiquette, though it was much better than to shout. Merlin set it down, then among the rest, he stood up. A smile, a professional one as any could tell, as he slowly glazed his sight to the rest of the group.

First things, before we start our fine evening, I would like to address our two guests of honour,” he extended his arm towards them, then bowed his head. “Lady Galahad and Sir Gareth.

Briefly the room filled with joyful applause, cheering perhaps. It was until Mr. Wainwright had raised his hand when they stopped. The door has reopened again, to start off their ten-course meal with amuse-bouche (as hors d'oeuvres are often served prior to entering the main dining hall). Another few made their way between their shoulders, popping fresh bottles of champagne before pouring them in each guests’ respective glasses.

A quick toast. To our new knights. And to our new beginning.
Filled glasses were raised towards everyone. Anselm did the same, though the empty chair that has rested two spots from him could not have been more starking. After a while, he turned back to Merlin, lowering his voice. “Othello. Where is he?

─── ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* :☆゚. ───​

Darkness has shrouded London, a blanket for the weary souls. It was not uncalm, it was simply quiet, as the twilight fell to welcome the silence. The glare of daylight has passed, we allow ourselves to soften in the night. The stage has emptied, the curtain falls. All the actors have made their way home, clothes pressing against painted faces. It shall reopen in a matter of hours, but for now they will rest.

The porch laid cleanly swept, the slightest dust would not dare to venture. A thin line laid upon the comfort of their premises, an entrance to autumn paradise. Leaves that browned, snapping off the branches, crunching underneath the soles of shoes. The air has chilled, cold as the blight of dew as it opens its gates to greet the rush of winter. Gardens laid bare once more, as the seasons changed so shall they. As the final petals brush against the firm cobblestones, he could not help but admire the beauty of it. The beauty of the ephemeral.

It was a Monday, he had recalled, a day despised by all besides the insane. Except that today, as the final spark of light perished in the consumption of shadows, every man laid on their beds, knowing they were two steps safer than the day before. Truly a fine time to rejoice after all- the noise of celebration rang loudly in his ears. As though the church bells had not tolled enough through the day, the merry of trumpets and the drumming of march.

Haymitch Donnelly. Replaced in just a matter of days, after all, to them they were just names. Code names, even, one that belonged to fairy tale heroes, legends of an old wife's tale. An empty seat to the table, a small pawn to a grand game of chess. This was what they have signed up for, for blinded faith and baseless loyalty. A coin has simply been tossed. One soul, in exchange of many. Would that be fair?

A cold surge of wind had suddenly blown through, carrying leaves that dance and dreams that passed. As the clock strikes twelve, the ghosts of London come alive- the dead and the undead. It would be unwise to be alone at night in such an era. Vaguely he recalled when things were different- where vampires could live alongside humans. How long ago has it been? It was only a year, though never had something felt so far. The world has changed as so, and he was part of it.

Light poured out from the doorway, where it had been laid ajar. A small face peeked through, a young girl no more the age of fifteen. Her fingers fumbled nervously upon her frilled skirts, gaze distracted and unfocused. A new one, he had thought, so young at that. He paid her no more regards than a subtle nod, his back leaning against the railings.

"Sir Lancelot?"

"Hm."

"The dinner is ready."

"That," he tilted his head back, allowing his sight to wander. Then he closed his eyes, indulging himself in the grace of witching-hour. The stars would dance above him, twinkling and blinking. How he had loved the stars. And he would remember the scene of a ballroom, crystal chandeliers and towering champagnes. Golden dressed, amber hair. "I am aware of."

A silence break, and somehow he could tell the young maiden's thumps of anxiety. She spun her fingers against the rims of her apron as she searched for words. "Master Cavendish expects you. Also, he thinks you are cold."

"Hm."

"It means he wants you there."

At this he reopened his eyes, letting his brow furrow as he narrowed his eyes towards her. "I am educated, young lady. I have heard you loud and clear, there is no need to reiterate what you say. Now, is that all or will you continue to bother me?"

The poor young maid yelped, her hands clutched to her chest tightly. Her body trembled, eyes glued to the floor. It had almost made him pity her. Before he could speak, the girl had made her way towards him. In her hands, she shoved something, before bowing awkwardly. "From the Master," she said. "Excuse me."

With that he saw her rush back in, in small steps the heels of her shoes clicking swiftly over the panelled floor. The male gazed down at the stack of folded cloth- a thick fluffy blanket, he observed. An amused smirk curled up his lips, then a mild scoff. He wrapped the cloth around him regardless.

"Idiot," he sighed, resting his elbows against the banisters, once again gazing upon the sky. And as always, the sky gazes back.

coded by: s e v e n s e v e n

The table was ready.

Sheet as white as snow veiled the wooden table, extravagant mahogany imported from the far lands of the East. Candles lit in golden holsters, every single utensil has been polished clean as an untouched mirror, not an inch of it stained should they not be run back to the sculleries. A household that prides itself of its utmost elegance, a sense of luxury only few could possibly dream to afford, royal jewels encrusted almost every corner of the room. Finest of china, finest of dining, only bestowed upon the finest of guests.

The heroes of our land. Ones who risk their lives, fought courageously within the front-lines of justice. The modern times angels, wielding weapons in one hand, prayers in the other. When all cowered behind closed doors, they destroyed barricades that no man had touched before. When all had preached, yet stayed silent, for they all had strayed so far they have forgotten: ’For as the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without works is dead also.

Madam Magrath scrunched up her already crooked nose, her hands hastily reached over to her tiny metallic rimmed round spectacles. She huffed, then puffed, tapping the sides of her cane with her finely gloved hands. Truly, she would have been very old if it were not her behavior that appeared to spell out otherwise. Her back was straight, eye still very much clear, thank you (it was her left eye that had problems, not her right, though the lady refused with all her might to wear a monocle, as it would make her look much older than she was supposed to).

She bears the posture any good lady in the United Kingdom should, mannerism that lacks in not a single place- and she believes everyone should! Perfectionism would have been her middle name if only her birth certificate has not dictated it for her already, as she demands it in everyone and everything. As she scowled, her wrinkles only enhanced. Despite this fact, and her hair that has whitened significantly that not a single lock of brown remains- even in a house of knights, no one dares speak up to her. The head housemaid of their family, and she adores her work.

Bernadette!” she snapped, clapping her hands together. Another maid, much younger and pretty in look, flinched, plates nearly slipping off her thin fingers.

Yes Madam Magrath!

What is this?” The older woman narrowed her eyes, sliding her index finger over the surface of the table. She squinted real hard, so much that young Bernetta feared that the latter had already fallen asleep. Then she snapped her eyes back open, glaring in the young girl's direction. "Who was in charge of plates?"

"That would be Little Piper, Madam," said Bernadette, to which it triggers the yelp of another young girl, hiding herself behind her friend. The lady had simply locked her gaze at her, and soon enough a small sigh was heard, followed by reluctant steps. She bent over.

Spank!

Murmurs flooded the room, slight of giggles and averted eye contact. Poor Little Piper could only hold her head down, tears welling the sides of her eye not from pain, but shame. Her short hair did not help at all to hide her tattered expression. Madam Magrath let the other girl go, tapping her cane in her hands.

"Go back to the pantry and fetch us a new set, will you?"

"Yes, Madam Magrath."

She bowed, scurrying herself out the doorways almost immediately as it opened. A pair of men made their way in, followed by a mass behind them. Arthur and Merlin. Then the knights followed. Immediately the rest of the maids fell into a scurry of panic, their heads snapping back and forth to eye that everything must be perfect. Everything must be aligned: the plate, the bread plate, the butter knife, large knife, salad fork, regular fork, soup spoon, desert spoon. The napkins, doved peach in colour, were folded neatly at the sides, in the shape of an opened fan.

Did we come to early, Madam?” asked the redheaded male, to which she shook her head upon.

Not at all, Anselm. My girls are all simply much too slow.

In that exact moment, all the maids had flinched at the same time. Their movements only quickened, the clinking of china became frantic before they all stood up, marching out one by one after a solemn bow. Passing them was Little Piper, who returned with a single plate. She then ran out once more, forgetting the bow in the heat of the moment. Madam Magrath nodded her head, giving Arthur’s shoulder a slight pat, then excused herself out, too.

Are we all here?” asked Anselm, though it sounded more a whisper than anything, as he pulled a seat at the head of the table. Mr. Wainwright, or rather, Merlin, seemed content enough to occupy the seat right next to him, instead of the foot of the table. He watched as everyone had begun to take their seats, including the two new-comers. The man gave them a subtle nod and a smile of greeting.

Clinking of the glass.

Everyone’s attention shifted to the man, who had stood up with a glass in hand. It was not a common etiquette, though it was much better than to shout. Merlin set it down, then among the rest, he stood up. A smile, a professional one as any could tell, as he slowly glazed his sight to the rest of the group.

First things, before we start our fine evening, I would like to address our two guests of honour,” he extended his arm towards them, then bowed his head. “Lady Galahad and Sir Gareth.

Briefly the room filled with joyful applause, cheering perhaps. It was until Mr. Wainwright had raised his hand when they stopped. The door has reopened again, to start off their ten-course meal with amuse-bouche (as hors d'oeuvres are often served prior to entering the main dining hall). Another few made their way between their shoulders, popping fresh bottles of champagne before pouring them in each guests’ respective glasses.

A quick toast. To our new knights. And to our new beginning.
Filled glasses were raised towards everyone. Anselm did the same, though the empty chair that has rested two spots from him could not have been more starking. After a while, he turned back to Merlin, lowering his voice. “Othello. Where is he?

─── ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* :☆゚. ───​

Darkness has shrouded London, a blanket for the weary souls. It was not uncalm, it was simply quiet, as the twilight fell to welcome the silence. The glare of daylight has passed, we allow ourselves to soften in the night. The stage has emptied, the curtain falls. All the actors have made their way home, clothes pressing against painted faces. It shall reopen in a matter of hours, but for now they will rest.

The porch laid cleanly swept, the slightest dust would not dare to venture. A thin line laid upon the comfort of their premises, an entrance to autumn paradise. Leaves that browned, snapping off the branches, crunching underneath the soles of shoes. The air has chilled, cold as the blight of dew as it opens its gates to greet the rush of winter. Gardens laid bare once more, as the seasons changed so shall they. As the final petals brush against the firm cobblestones, he could not help but admire the beauty of it. The beauty of the ephemeral.

It was a Monday, he had recalled, a day despised by all besides the insane. Except that today, as the final spark of light perished in the consumption of shadows, every man laid on their beds, knowing they were two steps safer than the day before. Truly a fine time to rejoice after all- the noise of celebration rang loudly in his ears. As though the church bells had not tolled enough through the day, the merry of trumpets and the drumming of march.

Haymitch Donnelly. Replaced in just a matter of days, after all, to them they were just names. Code names, even, one that belonged to fairy tale heroes, legends of an old wife's tale. An empty seat to the table, a small pawn to a grand game of chess. This was what they have signed up for, for blinded faith and baseless loyalty. A coin has simply been tossed. One soul, in exchange of many. Would that be fair?

A cold surge of wind had suddenly blown through, carrying leaves that dance and dreams that passed. As the clock strikes twelve, the ghosts of London come alive- the dead and the undead. It would be unwise to be alone at night in such an era. Vaguely he recalled when things were different- where vampires could live alongside humans. How long ago has it been? It was only a year, though never had something felt so far. The world has changed as so, and he was part of it.

Light poured out from the doorway, where it had been laid ajar. A small face peeked through, a young girl no more the age of fifteen. Her fingers fumbled nervously upon her frilled skirts, gaze distracted and unfocused. A new one, he had thought, so young at that. He paid her no more regards than a subtle nod, his back leaning against the railings.

"Sir Lancelot?"

"Hm."

"The dinner is ready."

"That," he tilted his head back, allowing his sight to wander. Then he closed his eyes, indulging himself in the grace of witching-hour. The stars would dance above him, twinkling and blinking. How he had loved the stars. And he would remember the scene of a ballroom, crystal chandeliers and towering champagnes. Golden dressed, amber hair. "I am aware of."

A silence break, and somehow he could tell the young maiden's thumps of anxiety. She spun her fingers against the rims of her apron as she searched for words. "Master Cavendish expects you. Also, he thinks you are cold."

"Hm."

"It means he wants you there."

At this he reopened his eyes, letting his brow furrow as he narrowed his eyes towards her. "I am educated, young lady. I have heard you loud and clear, there is no need to reiterate what you say. Now, is that all or will you continue to bother me?"

The poor young maid yelped, her hands clutched to her chest tightly. Her body trembled, eyes glued to the floor. It had almost made him pity her. Before he could speak, the girl had made her way towards him. In her hands, she shoved something, before bowing awkwardly. "From the Master," she said. "Excuse me."

With that he saw her rush back in, in small steps the heels of her shoes clicking swiftly over the panelled floor. The male gazed down at the stack of folded cloth- a thick fluffy blanket, he observed. An amused smirk curled up his lips, then a mild scoff. He wrapped the cloth around him regardless.

"Idiot," he sighed, resting his elbows against the banisters, once again gazing upon the sky. And as always, the sky gazes back.
 
Last edited:

Zane Dawson


Rustling could be heard from the dim-lit room, heavy panting escaping the lips of a raven-haired male. Rough fingers clasping towards the satin red sheet which was covering his body partially. The cold air rubbing itself against his bare flesh, lips turning paler with the minutes ticking by awfully slow. And then, as if he could not muster the strength to stay asleep anymore, his eyes shot open revealing the aquamarine hues which were the only light feature of his entire being. His fragile heart reached a dangerously high pace, drops of sweat trickling down his fair skin onto the ground, legs shivering as his feet were placed on the cold wooden ground. If the temperature dropped even lower, his breath could have been visible to the naked eye, breathing out white – almost transparent – clouds. His fingertips trailed from the dark circles underneath his eyes down to the nearly blue purple lips, remembering the dream – or nightmare – he had just now. Oddly enough, the space he trailed felt warm in contrast to the freezing body temperature. He closed his eyes once more, letting the feeling reside just a little bit longer until it vanished into thin air, disappearing without a trace, just like it did in the past.

Slowly he regained his composure, his limbs which were trembling calmed down and he could focus on his surroundings once more. The lingering headache was one of the last of his worries now. The clock besides his bed ticked loud, indicating the hour it was today. Almost time to join the celebration of the two newcomers of the knights. If he had to be honest about his feelings, he hoped no one would have joined them anymore as he didn’t want to see even more people disappearing into the cries and blood of combat. Vanishing without a way to turn back, leaving those he held dear behind in this sadistic world, watching the humans crawl in pain underneath. The more they cried, the more those above would laugh. Some would say the thunder resembled that exact act, mocking everyone who fell into deep despair. He huffed as het muttered the words “if only I could disappear as well” which were his genuine feelings.

Eventually he mustered up the strength to walk towards the shower. The flowing water was hot, barely not burning the skin away from him flesh. It felt good, it made him feel alive. The sensation went back to his heart, his body, his limbs. Regaining what he had lost for a good couple of minutes. As if he was in automatic pilot, he washed every crave of his body, rubbing the filth away that stuck to him. Eyes void of any emotion as his mind just went blank. He didn’t want to see anything, remembering the face of the person that haunts him until this day. Making him remember what he didn’t want to, a stake that was stuck in his very soul which sprouted the blossoms of what he wanted to forget. A curse, one could call it. He laughed shortly as he slammed his fist onto the wall, clenching his teeth as a memory once again resurfaced without his approval. Upon hearing a voice echo inside, his fist slowly unclenched. ”Zane…” The simple calling of his name stirred up so many emotions he couldn’t handle at once. ”Leave me alone!” He uttered, the volume of his voice being louder than average. With anger he stormed out of the bathroom after having turned of the shower.

Dripping wet, he started to dress himself, not bothering that his clothes would be soaked if he did so. The white shirt sticking to his chest, revealing a smart part of himself. Then followed the black trousers, socks, polished shoes and coat. He was not one to wear a lot of color. The simple black choker around his neck was something he never took off. The exact source of the curse. Perhaps he turned in some kind of masochist who endured the pain on his own. He had thought about taking it off, but the past held him against doing so. As if he was chained to the afterlife which was patiently awaiting his arrival, smiling at the darkest corner wherever he went. Death was indeed everywhere, something no one could escape from unless losing part of their sanity.

Not even bothering to eat anything as a feast was awaiting him at the castle. With heavy steps he exited the building where he lived which was in a pretty good state for this time and day. The crowds were already flooding the streets like ants going back to their colony to serve their queen. The irritating shouting of the merchants didn’t help for his headache which only grew worse, the longer he was around these kinds of people. Wanting to escape from here as soon as possible. In the end, he decided to take the alleyways as they were calmer but the stench of death was more present in exchange. The poor were sitting against the rotting, broken walls. The faint lights shining from the barely standing windows. Glass shards were scattered underneath a shattered window, blood stains covering it like paint. Rats made their way past as if they owned these streets, knowing every hiding spot and sewer running underneath these damned streets.

Within a few minutes of walking in a quickened pace, he made his way to the castle where the event was taking place. His clothes had dried due to the cutting breezes that ran through the alleyways. Yet he felt warm now that he knew there was something more freezing besides the ominous presence lingering at his home, at his entire being. Being greeted by the guards who let Zane through the gates. Due to him having seen the building before, it wasn’t as mesmerizing anymore. The decoration was lavish, screaming they were well-off unlike most of the people living here. Maids scurrying throughout the halls, their heels clicking everywhere. The scent of food being made surrounded the space he was currently residing in. Gently caressing his nose which finally stirred up some hunger.

Sitting down at an empty chair which was neatly placed next to Alixa, he made himself comfortable enough as he was going to be here for a while. Nodding into her direction with a rather expressionless face as he was still recovering from not that long ago. “I hope this won’t take the whole day…” He thought to himself, dearly hoping that that was the case. He no longer held up the façade which he did for a month at the beginning. They knew he was pessimistic, cynical even about this unfair world. Once everyone was seated the great Merlin started his toast for the newcomers. The pitiful children who were thrown into this whole joke of a circus. Ah, how he pitied them… Nonetheless he raised his glass with the fancy wine in it - too expensive for its own good – instead of applauding them. His eyes filled with sorrow as he truly hoped for their survival while he was still a knight.

The food started coming in by now, placed neatly in front of every single person at the table. Refusing to raise his glass another time, he leaned back into his chair and watched the scenery unfold in front of him. However, he then got scolded by Alixa beside him. A sigh escaped his lips as he shrugged his shoulders in response. ”Why should I…” He truly didn’t get why he had to put on his mask again just so he would reassure those around him that everything was alright while it truly wasn’t. This whole world was just a fraction of what it could truly be. An illusion which everyone got fooled by, trying to live their lives with the mindset that there was a set path for them they could not stray away from. Delusions which ruined their very core if they were weak. Taking a bite from the food in front of him as he sunk into the darkness. Today was not a good day and it could be noticed if someone looked well at him.



coded by: s e v e n s e v e n



Happy birthday seven !
 

Laughing Lunatic

*Cue Crazy Laughter*
Alixa Occisor

Cavendish Manor was a large estate, is an understatement in all honesty. It was able to house the master rooms, the 14 large rooms, a large library, kitchens, dining room, an armory and training hall and more, spanning 3 whole floors including the bottom, as well as an attic. It was amazing that they didn’t have a basement to go with it!

In one of the 14 rooms, if you paid any attention to the sounds of the Manor, you could hear the quick pacing in one of the rooms. And if you wanted to disturbed and listen further in what is, very obviously, a woman's room, you would hear the muttering of Alixa Occisor. She was never very good at parties, despite the fact that her upper middle status allowed her to go to many. She was particular in her dislike for formal ones especially, because she was always forced to wear a specific dress, act a specific way, be chaperoned like a child, and throughout this time she couldn’t even read!

Luckily, this was a private formal party, and at this point she was pretty sure that no one would bat an eye if she came with a book and read, which was the norm. The only ones who would be confused would be the new Knights, but she was sure with the… more eccentric characters in the Manor, they’ll learn to get used to everything fairly quickly.
She chuckled to herself, feeling slightly bad for the new recruits, knowing how overwhelming being new could be. She inhaled and exhaled slowly, focusing back on her predicament at hand. She was currently deciding on a dress to wear, because while she went against a lot of the social etiquette most hold firmly, She still had to play some sort of part and make a bit of effort. The choice was fairly simple but the problem was that she had already worn the dress she wanted to wear already.

Her father, before she left, gave her two dresses. One was a dark navy blue dress that had minimal frills and complimented her figure well. The other was a bright emerald green that was quite busy which was not only not her colour, it was also her least favourite colour. You can guess which one she had already worn.

‘In case you need to go to Formal party, take them.’ He had insisted, and she eventually did cave, taking them both when she moved into the Cavendish Manor. While grateful she didn’t have to find a tailor at the last minute, she was worried about her Father's Memory. She was sure that she had clearly stated multiple times that green wasn’t her colour, either favourite or complimentary to her, and yet she was given the bright emerald green anyway. In the end, she chose to wear the navy Blue dress, if only because this was a private party and she last wore it publicly. So no one else was really going to see it.

Getting the dress on was always a nightmare however. The green one was fairly simple to slip into, but the Navy blue one needed to have a surprising amount of finesse to get in. Once on, she brushed her hair and left it down, letting it frame her face and curl at the ends, and touched up her blush and lipstick. No need for foundation as she was pale enough already.

With everything set she recounted if she needed anything and debated whether or not she should take her book on the Science of Physics, or read something fictional from the Drawing room. On one hand, taking the physics book would mean that she would finish it by tonight, but she would lose out on picking up social cues and miss out on important details. On the other, she could gently distract herself with a fictitious book which she could put down at a moment's notice, but she would have to stay up later to finish her book.

Since there wasn’t anything too big happening tomorrow, an hour later to bed was surely to be okay. And so, she left for the drawing room early, picked up a book to read. Once everyone had Gathered and they were led by Arthur and Merlin themselves to the Dining room, She took a seat by Zane as normal, clapped appropriately, not too loud, not too quiet, and took note of who was there. Arthur and Merlin, obviously, two new faces, a male and female. She felt bad for the female, no doubt will Othello try and flirt with her. Speaking of Othello, he wasn’t there. She looked around and she noticed the open chair.

Not sure if it was her place to say anything, as it was still a formal party, she didn’t say anything. instead she turned to Zane and gave him a leveled look.

"Zane, Please try to behave around the two new Knights. It might be hard for you, but you can at least try." She says quietly enough so only Zane could hear her. When he muttered back, she huffed slightly. "Because they'll have to deal with everything and everyone else. Don't make it more complicated by being a total asshole." She explained, eating the served food. she waited until she had finished her bite before continuing. "Now eat, I doubt you've eaten anything in a while." He says, eyeing him ciritically.​

Coded by: s e v e n s e v e n . Happy Birthday Seven!


Cavendish Manor was a large estate, is an understatement in all honesty. It was able to house the master rooms, the 14 large rooms, a large library, kitchens, dining room, an armory and training hall and more, spanning 3 whole floors including the bottom, as well as an attic. It was amazing that they didn’t have a basement to go with it!

In one of the 14 rooms, if you paid any attention to the sounds of the Manor, you could hear the quick pacing in one of the rooms. And if you wanted to disturbed and listen further in what is, very obviously, a woman's room, you would hear the muttering of Alixa Occisor. She was never very good at parties, despite the fact that her upper middle status allowed her to go to many. She was particular in her dislike for formal ones especially, because she was always forced to wear a specific dress, act a specific way, be chaperoned like a child, and throughout this time she couldn’t even read!

Luckily, this was a private formal party, and at this point she was pretty sure that no one would bat an eye if she came with a book and read, which was the norm. The only ones who would be confused would be the new Knights, but she was sure with the… more eccentric characters in the Manor, they’ll learn to get used to everything fairly quickly.
She chuckled to herself, feeling slightly bad for the new recruits, knowing how overwhelming being new could be. She inhaled and exhaled slowly, focusing back on her predicament at hand. She was currently deciding on a dress to wear, because while she went against a lot of the social etiquette most hold firmly, She still had to play some sort of part and make a bit of effort. The choice was fairly simple but the problem was that she had already worn the dress she wanted to wear already.

Her father, before she left, gave her two dresses. One was a dark navy blue dress that had minimal frills and complimented her figure well. The other was a bright emerald green that was quite busy which was not only not her colour, it was also her least favourite colour. You can guess which one she had already worn.

‘In case you need to go to Formal party, take them.’ He had insisted, and she eventually did cave, taking them both when she moved into the Cavendish Manor. While grateful she didn’t have to find a tailor at the last minute, she was worried about her Father's Memory. She was sure that she had clearly stated multiple times that green wasn’t her colour, either favourite or complimentary to her, and yet she was given the bright emerald green anyway. In the end, she chose to wear the navy Blue dress, if only because this was a private party and she last wore it publicly. So no one else was really going to see it.

Getting the dress on was always a nightmare however. The green one was fairly simple to slip into, but the Navy blue one needed to have a surprising amount of finesse to get in. Once on, she brushed her hair and left it down, letting it frame her face and curl at the ends, and touched up her blush and lipstick. No need for foundation as she was pale enough already.

With everything set she recounted if she needed anything and debated whether or not she should take her book on the Science of Physics, or read something fictional from the Drawing room. On one hand, taking the physics book would mean that she would finish it by tonight, but she would lose out on picking up social cues and miss out on important details. On the other, she could gently distract herself with a fictitious book which she could put down at a moment's notice, but she would have to stay up later to finish her book.

Since there wasn’t anything too big happening tomorrow, an hour later to bed was surely to be okay. And so, she left for the drawing room early, picked up a book to read. Once everyone had Gathered and they were led by Arthur and Merlin themselves to the Dining room, She took a seat by Zane as normal, clapped appropriately, not too loud, not too quiet, and took note of who was there. Arthur and Merlin, obviously, two new faces, a male and female. She felt bad for the female, no doubt will Othello try and flirt with her. Speaking of Othello, he wasn’t there. She looked around and she noticed the open chair.

Not sure if it was her place to say anything, as it was still a formal party, she didn’t say anything. instead she turned to Zane and gave him a leveled look.

"Zane, Please try to behave around the two new Knights. It might be hard for you, but you can at least try." She says quietly enough so only Zane could hear her. When he muttered back, she huffed slightly. "Because they'll have to deal with everything and everyone else. Don't make it more complicated by being a total asshole." She explained, eating the served food. she waited until she had finished her bite before continuing. "Now eat, I doubt you've eaten anything in a while." He says, eyeing him ciritically.
 
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Fortuna

at midnight, darkest hour

Sophia Caldwell

Sophia had never tasted a more exquisite beverage in her entire life. Only twice before had she drunk champagne – once, when she had stolen a sip from a discarded glass at Wakefield Hall, feeling giddy with daring, and another time when she and her sisters had ransacked a rich woman in Kensington. They had shared two bottles among the three of them, laughing all the while. Before, they had been strung tight with nerves, the mission one of the first thieving jobs they had taken on, the relief and victory they had felt after completing it making them feel drunk just as much as the alcohol had done. The champagne Sophia had been served now was finer than the two previous ones combined. She hated alcohol, but she would not deny herself even the smallest glimpse into what luxury tasted like.

Oh, and what luxury the whole evening was. The dining hall at Cavendish Manor had been decked with the finest porcelain, the table arrangements an extravagant sight. Sophia could hardly believe that this would be her home from here on out, this vast manor in the heart of London, living together with the most noble of knights. Already her new room outshined every accommodation she had lived in before. The Cavendish were of a noble lineage, one of London’s most renowned families. As one could expect from such a family, the dinner was a well-organised and dazzling affair.

Sophia inspected the first dish she had just been served and felt another wave of delight when she recognised the drops sprinkled on top as caviar. Carefully, she cut into the amuse-bouche. Her table manners were excellent, a skill her aunt had taught her, which Sophia now experienced a renewed sense of gratitude for. A knight was expected to know how to navigate a formal dinner.

The memory of the knighting ceremony she had undergone earlier today still made her feel breathless. To think she had been chosen by Queen Victoria herself and had been bestowed the highest form of honour in front of the Buckingham Palace with hundreds of people cheering for her. Never had she even dared dream of such grandeur. They had been watching her, the citizens of London, and Sophia hoped with a wild fervour that all the people who had ever looked down on her had been at the palace today, too.

A knight. This was what she had been destined for all along, not being a dirty girl in an even dirtier district, as forgettable as any common street thug. The Duchess of Whitechapel was dead. Sophia had killed her today and discarded the name like a snake shed its skin, never to be spoken again. Now, there was only Lady Galahad.

Her new weapon – a glaive, what a fancy, beautiful word – had been presented to her by Arthur in private after the ceremony. A sacred weapon, to kill creatures of the night. Bestowed to mankind by God himself if such a thing could be true. She had twirled the glaive around a few times when she had been alone in her room, testing the way it felt in her hands. It had reminded her of the first weapon she had ever wielded. Her older sister, Annaleigh, had gifted it to Sophia: a broomstick handle with a shard of glass attached to one of its ends. Thinking back, it had been a poor imitation of a glaive, though at the time Sophia had never even heard that word before.

A small part of her was worried about what being a knight of the round-table would entail. Sophia had earned her livelihood with fighting, but none of the foes she had faced before had been as deadly as the ones she was now expected to eliminate. Would she stand a chance against the undead? The splendour around her quickly drowned out all thoughts of doubt she had been harbouring. None of her fears felt as substantial as the champagne glass in her hand.

After Arthur’s speech, Sophia let her gaze travel over the eleven knights, taking in their features. There was Cenric, of course, whom she had to thank for her new position. Some of the others she also recognised. She knew the names and faces of most of London’s nobility, her position as governess having left her with an abundance of time at balls that she had spent watching and memorising the attending aristocrats. One of the seats remained vacant, the knight meant to occupy the place absent. Why wasn’t he present at the dinner? Ridiculous as it sounded, it almost felt like a personal offence to Sophia.

The missing knight seemed to be Lancelot, if she remembered his introduction correctly. Today had been a whirlwind of impressions and she had trouble keeping the code names and faces aligned. She would rectify that as soon as she was able to, not wanting to embarrass herself by not recalling someone’s name.

Sophia raised her glass to the gathered knights. “I am deeply honoured to be here today,” she said, trying her hardest to speak as precise and melodious as possible. During her time as governess she had nearly mastered imitating the way nobles talked, but being back in Whitechapel for four years had impaired her effort. “And to be given the chance to face this dire threat alongside you brave knights. May the Lord watch over us all.”

coded by: s e v e n s e v e n . Happy birthday seven!



Sophia had never tasted a more exquisite beverage in her entire life. Only twice before had she drunk champagne – once, when she had stolen a sip from a discarded glass at Wakefield Hall, feeling giddy with daring, and another time when she and her sisters had ransacked a rich woman in Kensington. They had shared two bottles among the three of them, laughing all the while. Before, they had been strung tight with nerves, the mission one of the first thieving jobs they had taken on, the relief and victory they had felt after completing it making them feel drunk just as much as the alcohol had done. The champagne Sophia had been served now was finer than the two previous ones combined. She hated alcohol, but she would not deny herself even the smallest glimpse into what luxury tasted like.

Oh, and what luxury the whole evening was. The dining hall at Cavendish Manor had been decked with the finest porcelain, the table arrangements an extravagant sight. Sophia could hardly believe that this would be her home from here on out, this vast manor in the heart of London, living together with the most noble of knights. Already her new room outshined every accommodation she had lived in before. The Cavendish were of a noble lineage, one of London’s most renowned families. As one could expect from such a family, the dinner was a well-organised and dazzling affair.

Sophia inspected the first dish she had just been served and felt another wave of delight when she recognised the drops sprinkled on top as caviar. Carefully, she cut into the amuse-bouche. Her table manners were excellent, a skill her aunt had taught her, which Sophia now experienced a renewed sense of gratitude for. A knight was expected to know how to navigate a formal dinner.

The memory of the knighting ceremony she had undergone earlier today still made her feel breathless. To think she had been chosen by Queen Victoria herself and had been bestowed the highest form of honour in front of the Buckingham Palace with hundreds of people cheering for her. Never had she even dared dream of such grandeur. They had been watching her, the citizens of London, and Sophia hoped with a wild fervour that all the people who had ever looked down on her had been at the palace today, too.

A knight. This was what she had been destined for all along, not being a dirty girl in an even dirtier district, as forgettable as any common street thug. The Duchess of Whitechapel was dead. Sophia had killed her today and discarded the name like a snake shed its skin, never to be spoken again. Now, there was only Lady Galahad.

Her new weapon – a glaive, what a fancy, beautiful word – had been presented to her by Arthur in private after the ceremony. A sacred weapon, to kill creatures of the night. Bestowed to mankind by God himself if such a thing could be true. She had twirled the glaive around a few times when she had been alone in her room, testing the way it felt in her hands. It had reminded her of the first weapon she had ever wielded. Her older sister, Annaleigh, had gifted it to Sophia: a broomstick handle with a shard of glass attached to one of its ends. Thinking back, it had been a poor imitation of a glaive, though at the time Sophia had never even heard that word before.

A small part of her was worried about what being a knight of the round-table would entail. Sophia had earned her livelihood with fighting, but none of the foes she had faced before had been as deadly as the ones she was now expected to eliminate. Would she stand a chance against the undead? The splendour around her quickly drowned out all thoughts of doubt she had been harbouring. None of her fears felt as substantial as the champagne glass in her hand.

After Arthur’s speech, Sophia let her gaze travel over the eleven knights, taking in their features. There was Cenric, of course, whom she had to thank for her new position. Some of the others she also recognised. She knew the names and faces of most of London’s nobility, her position as governess having left her with an abundance of time at balls that she had spent watching and memorising the attending aristocrats. One of the seats remained vacant, the knight meant to occupy the place absent. Why wasn’t he present at the dinner? Ridiculous as it sounded, it almost felt like a personal offence to Sophia.

The missing knight seemed to be Lancelot, if she remembered his introduction correctly. Today had been a whirlwind of impressions and she had trouble keeping the code names and faces aligned. She would rectify that as soon as she was able to, not wanting to embarrass herself by not recalling someone’s name.

Sophia raised her glass to the gathered knights. “I am deeply honoured to be here today,” she said, trying her hardest to speak as precise and melodious as possible. During her time as governess she had nearly mastered imitating the way nobles talked, but being back in Whitechapel for four years had impaired her effort. “And to be given the chance to face this dire threat alongside you brave knights. May the Lord watch over us all.”
 
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Paltajayd

Cat lover

Jesse Kenward

"Forgive the hasty retreat, but duty calls for my presence at this moment." Jesse told the whole squad of young, naïve men around the dim lighted table with a smug smile on his face. All eyes on him, fake smiles and farewells wishing good omens tinted by their hungry fangs and lackey vibes, some who had recently lost thousands of pounds and others winning tiny percentages at the stock exchange where they discussed strategies and shared information on the activity of companies they'd cling on like the leeches they were. He added to his last words before leaving the poor bastards "Do not forget gentlemen. In times of crisis, some cry and others sell handkerchiefs"

And so with hatred gazes and praises to his wise words, Jesse left the cold, heartless rooms of the stock exchange to get in his personal carriage and set the course to his next stop. The celebration for the two souls who'd join the knight's ranks.

Dirt and stone at the other side of the window, brick buildings, lamps, stores and residences impossible to count with the naked eye, only approximate to a number that hopefully gets close enough to reality. The women on the streets wearing their best garments, showing off both their natural beauty and eloquence with simple yet concise message brought to him by their silent stares. Men too on their outfits, some well fit and others more loose-fitting, but a reigning decency could be perceived that gave him a sense of harmony. The crowds performance and overall behavior had always been worth some hours of studies to him.

His beige colored trousers and suit contrasting with a burgundy red vest illuminated the path as he descended from his carriage at the entrance of the castle. Apparent calm weather and only a couple of guards present to welcome guests and show . Clearly he was late having being told to arrive at the ceremony, but not that it mattered to him. Indeed he understood the importance of the ocasion, but becoming one of the main shareholders of important entreprises and being part of conglomerates where the nation's fate along with the royal's decision led Great Britain's destiny was more than enough of an excuse to arrive a bit off the schedule. As he walked through the corridors filled with ornaments of gold and silver, carpets and distinguished paintings, Jesse ended up joining the group from behind following together Arthur and Merlin's trail.

"I wonder..." He murmured before entering the dining hall

During the first days of his unexpected knighthood people said the Kenward boy bought a spot on the round table, a long chat with the queen in order to make sure everything was set for his knighthood ceremony. Some others said he slept with one of the older figures and that way spreading the word of his prowess as a spearman from inside. Latest rumours on the acquisition of the title spoke about old agreements, an ambassador of the high conglomerates to control and guide the group. Where did all this came from? The same mediocre humans who lead the competition against him at the industry and kept hidden under their filthy claws a whole web of slave trading. And children were the main commodity. Jesse's contacts along with himself tracked down every single one of the big dogs, blackmailed them and almost killed one of them to make sure they all understood with the first and last warning.

But this wasn't about the rumours and the children, that couldn't be further from his true intentions.He enjoyed investigating and knowing who they really were, the men and women behind their facades of elegance and exquisite palates. But he mostly wanted to know about humans, the limits of their sanity and how far does one need to go in order to stop their acts.

They didn't stop.

And so the witch hunt began. His first weeks as a knight were marked with blood and screams from his victims. Of course, nobody needed to know about this.

The celebration, clinking of glasses and taste of high cuisine appetizers charmed him. A well staged dinner by Madam Magrath, a true masterpiece for the most unaccustomed to this kind of receptions.

Familiar faces were met along the way as he looked at the table set for the knights. Odonata, Simon, Godfrey, the rest of the old lads and lassies and, the two newbies. One of them a grown, powerful man who's essence could feel chivalrous and trustworthy for a outsider, and his asperous hands communicated mastery and experience, proficiency to the queen's eyes without a doubt. The second face to which he decided to sit next to belonged to an attractive female, a deceiving youth betrayed by her eyes who spoke of tales. Her careful cutting of the mouthful portions clouded his first thought on her, a lady with a not so elegant background. Her hands weren't so delicate as a common mistress of high standards and care would accustom. Conflicting, he thought, but he kept enjoying the enveloping flavors of the cocktail snacks before the soup came to him.


"May the Lord hear your prayers. Welcome to the pack Sophia." He answered personally to the lady next to him, holding the glass on the Almighty's name and hers. Not being a religious follower of the Lord's words, Jesse had grown used to attending the masses and religious events in the city, not for conventional purposes but at least grasping on the concepts of a devote sheep of God and how to be one.

His tone and face shifted towards her with a rather sympathetic style "Though, may I ask-" getting now closer to her left ear as if whispering words of enchantment, a breathy voice suave enough to not let anyone else hear except for both of them and remarking slowly all syllables in the sentence "Who was your last victim Lady Galahad of Whitechapel?"


coded by: s e v e n s e v e n

Happy birthday Seven!
"Forgive the hasty retreat, but duty calls for my presence at this moment." Jesse told the whole squad of young, naïve men around the dim lighted table with a smug smile on his face. All eyes on him, fake smiles and farewells wishing good omens tinted by their hungry fangs and lackey vibes, some who had recently lost thousands of pounds and others winning tiny percentages at the stock exchange where they discussed strategies and shared information on the activity of companies they'd cling on like the leeches they were. He added to his last words before leaving the poor bastards "Do not forget gentlemen. In times of crisis, some cry and others sell handkerchiefs"

And so with hatred gazes and praises to his wise words, Jesse left the cold, heartless rooms of the stock exchange to get in his personal carriage and set the course to his next stop. The celebration for the two souls who'd join the knight's ranks.

Dirt and stone at the other side of the window, brick buildings, lamps, stores and residences impossible to count with the naked eye, only approximate to a number that hopefully gets close enough to reality. The women on the streets wearing their best garments, showing off both their natural beauty and eloquence with simple yet concise message brought to him by their silent stares. Men too on their outfits, some well fit and others more loose-fitting, but a reigning decency could be perceived that gave him a sense of harmony. The crowds performance and overall behavior had always been worth some hours of studies to him.

His beige colored trousers and suit contrasting with a burgundy red vest illuminated the path as he descended from his carriage at the entrance of the castle. Apparent calm weather and only a couple of guards present to welcome guests and show . Clearly he was late having being told to arrive at the ceremony, but not that it mattered to him. Indeed he understood the importance of the ocasion, but becoming one of the main shareholders of important entreprises and being part of conglomerates where the nation's fate along with the royal's decision led Great Britain's destiny was more than enough of an excuse to arrive a bit off the schedule. As he walked through the corridors filled with ornaments of gold and silver, carpets and distinguished paintings, Jesse ended up joining the group from behind following together Arthur and Merlin's trail.

"I wonder..." He murmured before entering the dining hall

During the first days of his unexpected knighthood people said the Kenward boy bought a spot on the round table, a long chat with the queen in order to make sure everything was set for his knighthood ceremony. Some others said he slept with one of the older figures and that way spreading the word of his prowess as a spearman from inside. Latest rumours on the acquisition of the title spoke about old agreements, an ambassador of the high conglomerates to control and guide the group. Where did all this came from? The same mediocre humans who lead the competition against him at the industry and kept hidden under their filthy claws a whole web of slave trading. And children were the main commodity. Jesse's contacts along with himself tracked down every single one of the big dogs, blackmailed them and almost killed one of them to make sure they all understood with the first and last warning.

But this wasn't about the rumours and the children, that couldn't be further from his true intentions.He enjoyed investigating and knowing who they really were, the men and women behind their facades of elegance and exquisite palates. But he mostly wanted to know about humans, the limits of their sanity and how far does one need to go in order to stop their acts.

They didn't stop.

And so the witch hunt began. His first weeks as a knight were marked with blood and screams from his victims. Of course, nobody needed to know about this.

The celebration, clinking of glasses and taste of high cuisine appetizers charmed him. A well staged dinner by Madam Magrath, a true masterpiece for the most unaccustomed to this kind of receptions.

Familiar faces were met along the way as he looked at the table set for the knights. Odonata, Simon, Godfrey, the rest of the old lads and lassies and, the two newbies. One of them a grown, powerful man who's essence could feel chivalrous and trustworthy for a outsider, and his asperous hands communicated mastery and experience, proficiency to the queen's eyes without a doubt. The second face to which he decided to sit next to belonged to an attractive female, a deceiving youth betrayed by her eyes who spoke of tales. Her careful cutting of the mouthful portions clouded his first thought on her, a lady with a not so elegant background. Her hands weren't so delicate as a common mistress of high standards and care would accustom. Conflicting, he thought, but he kept enjoying the enveloping flavors of the cocktail snacks before the soup came to him.

"May the Lord hear your prayers. Welcome to the pack Sophia." He answered personally to the lady next to him, holding the glass on the Almighty's name and hers. Not being a religious follower of the Lord's words, Jesse had grown used to attending the masses and religious events in the city, not for conventional purposes but at least grasping on the concepts of a devote sheep of God and how to be one.

His tone and face shifted towards her with a rather sympathetic style "Though, may I ask-" getting now closer to her left ear as if whispering words of enchantment, a breathy voice suave enough to not let anyone else hear except for both of them and remarking slowly all syllables in the sentence "Who was your last victim Lady Galahad of Whitechapel?"​
 
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Melpomene

Destroyer of Worlds|Art by NataliaDrepina|

Leonard Lincoln



Solitude could only last for so long.

The sun had long since set, the orange orb having fallen below the infinite horizon, obscured by the city's buildings and landmarks before giving way to the soft velvet backdrop of night. No slumber would follow after it, the chill seeping its way into the bones of any man or beast that chose to stand out in the frigid air, inviting themselves to the clumsy aches and pains that came alongside it. It could have been mistaken for deadly if the noises of the night life of the city was not loud and distinguished, to the point that it seemed the city never would sleep.

Leon shivered once, he did not like the cold. Still swaddled in his underclothes he lit the candle on his desk. For a moment, his eyes lingered on the paper covered in shakily drawn out letters, barely illuminated by the orange light of the fire. His fingers were still spotted with dark ink, but that was the least of his concern now as the time came for the dinner party to welcome the two new knights to the round table.

It sounded like a Fairytale, something that Emma would have shown him, unable to contain her excitement. Knight of the Round Table. They were supposed to be lost in legend, never to truly come to existence, because reality was often far too disappointing. He wondered if the public would feel at ease now, seeing their brave knight Percival, unable to read and shivering in his underclothes as a man rather than perfect and suave with every action he took as a legend would be. But they could not afford to let the public believe they were anything less. It was such a fine line to walk, between truth and fiction, needing to keep himself firmly placed in the realm of realism but never forgetting others must forever think he was larger than life.

It was quite a lot for an orphan boy having come from the mines. Everyone saw him now. In a way, his hands were bound more than they ever had been before. What did it mean to be a hero? Percival. It did not mean anything anymore. Another name put on him. It held as much significance as when he was called ‘Boy’ in the mines and prepared to risk life and limb to bring a manor much like this one anything they managed to find down there in the deep dark hills. Did they think of the little girl crawling alone in the dark tunnels for hours on her hands and knees only to feel the tunnel collapse around her. Crushing her. Suffocating her.

Leon pressed his hand to his throat, the fluttering pulse which danced beneath hardened fingers would not rest. A shallow fear swelled within him. The suffocation would never end.

Suffocation.

‘You ain’t done yet, boy.’

Was this what mother had wanted? A cold sweat dripped down his face, his brow, his throat. A tired rumbling came from his stomach. They had a feast here. They kept the knights fed with fine food. It had been too rich for Leon at first. Though now he was growing used to the taste. The new knights needed to be welcomed.

He had to dress. He was still new to this, somewhat. It was lucky Mrs. Taylor demanded he looked as well put together as money could allow. It was bothersome, to a point, he wanted to wear the same clothes he would to the tavern, it was not so imperative to ensure they stayed pristine. But he did not feel like being scolded today, and it seemed anyone who was from a class slightly higher than him would feel the need to comment on any mistake he made today.

‘Oh for God’s sake, just kill me now.’ For some reason ending up wrapped in satin, covered in black, violet, and white he had managed to make himself feel more naked than he was in his underclothes. He debated for a moment, then decided against a hat and instead just twisted his hair back into a bun.

He looked like a street rat in fancy clothes. He was still a street rat no matter what they put him in.

The ticking of the clock on the wall foretold the wrath awaiting him if he was so much as a few minutes late to the dinner. He wondered, briefly, if Madam Magrath would spank him like one of the servant girls if he showed any signs of being less than perfect this evening. It was nearly enough to make him snicker.

Where was he supposed to sit? Weren’t placement cards supposed to be laid out for formal parties such as this one? A woman was supposed to be on his right, no? His head spun, he had to get most of his knowledge from Mrs. Taylor and interrogating Othello, or Godfrey when he felt like having fun.

Hm. There were not enough women for every man to be able to have one to his right.

Godfrey would have to do. He was shapely enough, Leon decided, to be a fine lady that evening. Plus, he wanted to be able to have a bit of fun that night.

“G’evening m’lady.” he greeted him as he sat down, slipping his gloves off and put them to the side, as was proper. He knew some things.

For a moment, Leon leaned back and surveyed the presence, lifting his glass as expected into the air. It was nice, the bubbly liquid was airy and passed across his tongue elegantly. There was nothing quite like the consumables of the rich. They somehow managed to make everything taste better. Or perhaps it was just so expensive that Leon needed it to taste delicious to justify the price.

Such a bother.

He inclined his head and smiled towards the new pair, letting his eyes crinkle as he fought off the discomfort. His vest was a bit too tight. He looked upon the knights at the table, the lads and lassies who were all in this with him, but he soon saw one person, one quite important person missing. He sighed and pressed his finger to his temple.

“If Othello gets to skip this then I should be able to as well…”

coded by: s e v e n s e v e n Happy Birthday <3



Solitude could only last for so long.

The sun had long since set, the orange orb having fallen below the infinite horizon, obscured by the city's buildings and landmarks before giving way to the soft velvet backdrop of night. No slumber would follow after it, the chill seeping its way into the bones of any man or beast that chose to stand out in the frigid air, inviting themselves to the clumsy aches and pains that came alongside it. It could have been mistaken for deadly if the noises of the night life of the city was not loud and distinguished, to the point that it seemed the city never would sleep.

Leon shivered once, he did not like the cold. Still swaddled in his underclothes he lit the candle on his desk. For a moment, his eyes lingered on the paper covered in shakily drawn out letters, barely illuminated by the orange light of the fire. His fingers were still spotted with dark ink, but that was the least of his concern now as the time came for the dinner party to welcome the two new knights to the round table.

It sounded like a Fairytale, something that Emma would have shown him, unable to contain her excitement. Knight of the Round Table. They were supposed to be lost in legend, never to truly come to existence, because reality was often far too disappointing. He wondered if the public would feel at ease now, seeing their brave knight Percival, unable to read and shivering in his underclothes as a man rather than perfect and suave with every action he took as a legend would be. But they could not afford to let the public believe they were anything less. It was such a fine line to walk, between truth and fiction, needing to keep himself firmly placed in the realm of realism but never forgetting others must forever think he was larger than life.

It was quite a lot for an orphan boy having come from the mines. Everyone saw him now. In a way, his hands were bound more than they ever had been before. What did it mean to be a hero? Percival. It did not mean anything anymore. Another name put on him. It held as much significance as when he was called ‘Boy’ in the mines and prepared to risk life and limb to bring a manor much like this one anything they managed to find down there in the deep dark hills. Did they think of the little girl crawling alone in the dark tunnels for hours on her hands and knees only to feel the tunnel collapse around her. Crushing her. Suffocating her.

Leon pressed his hand to his throat, the fluttering pulse which danced beneath hardened fingers would not rest. A shallow fear swelled within him. The suffocation would never end.

Suffocation.

‘You ain’t done yet, boy.’

Was this what mother had wanted? A cold sweat dripped down his face, his brow, his throat. A tired rumbling came from his stomach. They had a feast here. They kept the knights fed with fine food. It had been too rich for Leon at first. Though now he was growing used to the taste. The new knights needed to be welcomed.

He had to dress. He was still new to this, somewhat. It was lucky Mrs. Taylor demanded he looked as well put together as money could allow. It was bothersome, to a point, he wanted to wear the same clothes he would to the tavern, it was not so imperative to ensure they stayed pristine. But he did not feel like being scolded today, and it seemed anyone who was from a class slightly higher than him would feel the need to comment on any mistake he made today.

‘Oh for God’s sake, just kill me now.’ For some reason ending up wrapped in satin, covered in black, violet, and white he had managed to make himself feel more naked than he was in his underclothes. He debated for a moment, then decided against a hat and instead just twisted his hair back into a bun.

He looked like a street rat in fancy clothes. He was still a street rat no matter what they put him in.

The ticking of the clock on the wall foretold the wrath awaiting him if he was so much as a few minutes late to the dinner. He wondered, briefly, if Madam Magrath would spank him like one of the servant girls if he showed any signs of being less than perfect this evening. It was nearly enough to make him snicker.

Where was he supposed to sit? Weren’t placement cards supposed to be laid out for formal parties such as this one? A woman was supposed to be on his right, no? His head spun, he had to get most of his knowledge from Mrs. Taylor and interrogating Othello, or Godfrey when he felt like having fun.

Hm. There were not enough women for every man to be able to have one to his right.

Godfrey would have to do. He was shapely enough, Leon decided, to be a fine lady that evening. Plus, he wanted to be able to have a bit of fun that night.

“G’evening m’lady.” he greeted him as he sat down, slipping his gloves off and put them to the side, as was proper. He knew some things.

For a moment, Leon leaned back and surveyed the presence, lifting his glass as expected into the air. It was nice, the bubbly liquid was airy and passed across his tongue elegantly. There was nothing quite like the consumables of the rich. They somehow managed to make everything taste better. Or perhaps it was just so expensive that Leon needed it to taste delicious to justify the price.

Such a bother.

He inclined his head and smiled towards the new pair, letting his eyes crinkle as he fought off the discomfort. His vest was a bit too tight. He looked upon the knights at the table, the lads and lassies who were all in this with him, but he soon saw one person, one quite important person missing. He sighed and pressed his finger to his temple.

“If Othello gets to skip this then I should be able to as well…”
 
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Elowyn

word weaver

Ezriel Mercia Eczber


It was the shoes that gave her the greatest difficulty. Why in God's good name did formal-wear have to be so constrictive? It was as if the tailors of her whalebone corset didn't know the dimensions of any live lady at all! The hoop skirt wasn't helping either. With some difficulty, she managed to slip her feet into the pale pink satin slippers. She'd taken too much time already. She approached the mirror and beheld a dazzling vision of pink satin and lace, voluminous skirts in the latest fashion. Her mother had insisted on having her bring one formal dress for occasions such as these. Unfortunately, the color was much too girlish for her taste. It tagged her as "conventional beauty" when she was anything but. Brainy and sporty, she didn't fit into the typical conventions of the era. Her attempts with her hair were mediocre at best and would have been laughed at had any of her peers been there. Luckily, the varied sorts the Knights attracted wouldn't likely be bothered by it. Adding a dash of color onto her lips and checking her hair one last time, Ezra exited the room and made her way to the large dining hall where the occupants were quickly filling the table.

She glanced around. Noted the absence of Othello, and sighed. Someone ought to go and fetch that fellow before the feast begins, she thought to herself. It seemed a detail that could hardly escape one's notice. It didn't seem like they were entering the hall in any particular order despite the formality of the occasion. Ezriel had little to say in regards to that. What formalities were followed were followed and the rest, it seemed, had little consequence. A part of her liked the relaxed nature of the Knights, which although were said to be a Holy Order, didn't insist on the finer points of etiquette. Nevertheless, the lady brought her customs from her upper class upbringing to the group as she was raised to do. Sometimes it seemed like she was the only one to insist on a measure of morality and order in this place. Some of the less savory tidbits she'd caught on to while staying at the Cavendish manor couldn't be spread outside lest they inspire the ridicule and upturned noses of the gentry.

The second most notable absence was Haymitch, whose longstanding position with the Knights of the Round Table ensured that he was to be missed despite his reclusive nature. She had no particularly strong friendship with the man herself, but his presence had been a steadying one. Despite the loss of a member, the Order would go on as Queen Victoria had intended. In spite of death, life continued.

Removing her gloves, Ezriel took her place which afforded her a liberal view of the goings on of the place. She spotted her good friend Alixa with a book in hand as usual and smiled privately to herself. The placement she'd chosen put her one seat away from the new female member of the Knights of the Round Table and had her next to Jesse who was murmuring something to the newest. Someone who was known as a Sophia Caldwell. To her right was Leonard.

As the others' glasses were raised, she raised hers as well. Words were spoken. Then conversation resumed.

"Does anyone have a clue as to where Othello is, by any chance? Someone should really go fetch him," she murmured in Leon's direction, not expecting much in return. She then applied herself to the luxurious dishes placed in front of her. "Madame Magrath has outdone herself again," she said under her breath. She wondered how many hours the serving staff had slaved to provide such a grand feast for them. As good manners dictated, she didn't eat too much nor too little, leaning more towards too little than anything. Delicious flavors danced upon her tongue, which she barely allowed herself to enjoy. She was still preoccupied with the absence of Othello. Even if manners were lax around here, would he really be late to his own dinner party? In her old life, nothing of this sort would ever have happened.



coded by: s e v e n s e v e n happy birthday! <3
 

Akudon

Digital Alpaca
Cenric Dalton

As Cenric gazed at the starlit night sky, he could not help but reaffirm the truth that the flow of time waited for nobody. The once roaring flames of celebration within Britain for this momentous day had now died down to smoldering embers in this frigid Autumn night. The final two remaining seats belonging to the legendary Knights of the Round table had been filled with the arrival of this generation's Lady Galahad and Sir Gareth. With the thirteen heroes and symbols of hope now gathered, the people were now safe from blood sucking menace that plagued humanity; or so it is thought. In reality they were naught but promising men and women from many a background to be thrown into this bloody war where only their small number are able to be of use. Should any fall they will be replaced: the new Lady Galahad with which he lured here was the very proof of this matter. No, this day was merely meant to enjoy and forget before the true battle began and ravaged the world and very souls of the knights.

Cenric could only shake his head to free himself of the dark thoughts haunting his mind and sigh tiredly. "This is what happens when they make me wait all day to get a drink" he thought to himself in bitter amusement. Getting him to act like a proper noble let alone a great knight was already like trying to give a cat a bath, but it only got worse when it was necessary to parade him around to the public with all of their expectations. He supposed that was only half of it however, the other was that he wanted to hide himself from a very specific pair of sky blue eyes that haunted him. Before the candle lighting his room was used up from how long he was taking he resumed his task of getting cleaned up for their celebratory dinner.

Even after around a year of this, Cenric still couldn't help but feel like a dressed up street rat in his own opinion. Even combed; his auburn seemed to struggled to stay straight, his brown eyes were muddled with darkness unlike the gleam of a standard noble, and the scars he had gained from his reckless fighting littered his body with the most apparent running along his head. He was wearing a black suit that was left open revealing his white dress shirt and likewise black tie to go with it. Of course both his pants and dress shoes were also black as well to go along with everything else. It was a simple and classy outfit and he disliked standing out too much among these events with other choices that were too frilly or colorful.

Though he had gotten lost in his thoughts and worries, Cenric had managed to catch the tail end of knights on their way into the dining area before it was too late. After the ladies had chosen their seating, he was unfortunately met with the issue the numbers being lacking for one to accompany every man's right side. Though he would take great pleasure in showing Erza that he was capable of showing etiquette just as fine as any noble and harassing her about her dress, he decided to leave that pleasure to someone else as he took the seat next to the left of the still absent Othello. Though a man; his boss, brother in arms, and friend challenged the beauty of any woman and both took the position of and henpecked him like one during their nightly activities.

Not only in their nightly activities, Othello was just as strict with his table manners and drilled them into Cenric until it was almost second nature as much as he hated it. First, he made sure that he was neither too close nor too far from the table and sitting as straight and gracefully as he could with his napkin in his lap. With everyone seated, the great Arthur called for everyone's attention with the clinking of his glass and started the evening by drawing attention to the two newcomers. Though unorthodox from what he's seen, it didn't matter too much in this private setting and Cenric joined the applause, gave a smile towards sophia as he did so. Even if he had his regrets bringing her into this, he could not deny he was pleased to have her by his side and she seemed to truly be alive now because of it.

With the entrace of the amuse-bouche the popping of champagne, and the toast to the new knights in which he raised his glass the dinner had officially started much to Cenric's joy and relief. Although he had to restrain himself to eat slowly, properly, and with grace; the food and drink made up for these kinds of events for the most part. Other than putting his life on the line fighting for a good cause, this was what gave him life. He could simply enjoy the rich delicacies to his heart's content and drown his worries and woes with the aid of alcohol. It seemed as though it was not to last however as his attention was brought to his still empty side seat beside him by the quiet worries and complaints of the others.

"There's being fashionably late and then there's causing problems for others. Is this a case of do as i say and not as i do?" Cenric thought to himself with an amused smile. "I suppose its my turn to go correct him" With that thought decided upon, he took a slightly larger sip to get more alcohol into his system as he was unsure how long he'd be gone and then spoke in a low tone. "My apologies Arthur, as wonderful as this dinner is; i must request a chance to step away for a moment. I will be sure to return with great haste." Ignoring his disgust at speaking in such a way, he gave a quick glance towards Othello's empty seat to tip Arthur off without embarrassing the former.

After receiving permission from Arthur, Cenric began his mission to seek out his missing prince charming. The halls of the manor were cold, dark, and almost silent save for the maids scurrying to and fro while attending to the dinner. Other than the temperature, it was nice in its own way; making him feel like he was in a safe world of its own to explore and relax from the day's stresses in. His search began in the most obvious place of Othello's room, though that produced no results after a knock and a peek inside. With that he was left wandering the manor for a little while and asking any of the staff if they had seen the man. Thankfully he was in luck when he spotted a rather flustered maid retreating from the porch hurriedly, flinching and giving a slight bow a thte sight of him before continuing on. "When in doubt, follow the trail of heartbreak"

With only the stars and pale moonlight illuminating the ethereal beauty, Cenric had found who he had sought on the porch. "And here i thought i would be the one warming you tonight. Is there enough room under there for two?" he said giving a suggestive smirk as he up strolled beside the man and leaned over the porch to appreciate the night sky. "As much as this beautiful view suits you the most, i do believe there is a dinner that is missing its wonderful co-host. I've been behaving so well just for a certain someone that taught me so thoroughly as well." Cenric chuckled, giving a brief pause to enjoy their moment and work himself up to get to the topic at hand. He always prided himself on being the person that others could be at ease around but when it came to Othello he couldn't help but poke his nose where it didn't belong due to his concern. "Is something bothering you? You're usually not the type to miss these kinds of things or scare off a cute little maid."
coded by: s e v e n s e v e n Happy Birthday Husband!

As Cenric gazed at the starlit night sky, he could not help but reaffirm the truth that the flow of time waited for nobody. The once roaring flames of celebration within Britain for this momentous day had now died down to smoldering embers in this frigid Autumn night. The final two remaining seats belonging to the legendary Knights of the Round table had been filled with the arrival of this generation's Lady Galahad and Sir Gareth. With the thirteen heroes and symbols of hope now gathered, the people were now safe from blood sucking menace that plagued humanity; or so it is thought. In reality they were naught but promising men and women from many a background to be thrown into this bloody war where only their small number are able to be of use. Should any fall they will be replaced: the new Lady Galahad with which he lured here was the very proof of this matter. No, this day was merely meant to enjoy and forget before the true battle began and ravaged the world and very souls of the knights.

Cenric could only shake his head to free himself of the dark thoughts haunting his mind and sigh tiredly. "This is what happens when they make me wait all day to get a drink" he thought to himself in bitter amusement. Getting him to act like a proper noble let alone a great knight was already like trying to give a cat a bath, but it only got worse when it was necessary to parade him around to the public with all of their expectations. He supposed that was only half of it however, the other was that he wanted to hide himself from a very specific pair of sky blue eyes that haunted him. Before the candle lighting his room was used up from how long he was taking he resumed his task of getting cleaned up for their celebratory dinner.

Even after around a year of this, Cenric still couldn't help but feel like a dressed up street rat in his own opinion. Even combed; his auburn seemed to struggled to stay straight, his brown eyes were muddled with darkness unlike the gleam of a standard noble, and the scars he had gained from his reckless fighting littered his body with the most apparent running along his head. He was wearing a black suit that was left open revealing his white dress shirt and likewise black tie to go with it. Of course both his pants and dress shoes were also black as well to go along with everything else. It was a simple and classy outfit and he disliked standing out too much among these events with other choices that were too frilly or colorful.

Though he had gotten lost in his thoughts and worries, Cenric had managed to catch the tail end of knights on their way into the dining area before it was too late. After the ladies had chosen their seating, he was unfortunately met with the issue the numbers being lacking for one to accompany every man's right side. Though he would take great pleasure in showing Erza that he was capable of showing etiquette just as fine as any noble and harassing her about her dress, he decided to leave that pleasure to someone else as he took the seat next to the left of the still absent Othello. Though a man; his boss, brother in arms, and friend challenged the beauty of any woman and both took the position of and henpecked him like one during their nightly activities.

Not only in their nightly activities, Othello was just as strict with his table manners and drilled them into Cenric until it was almost second nature as much as he hated it. First, he made sure that he was neither too close nor too far from the table and sitting as straight and gracefully as he could with his napkin in his lap. With everyone seated, the great Arthur called for everyone's attention with the clinking of his glass and started the evening by drawing attention to the two newcomers. Though unorthodox from what he's seen, it didn't matter too much in this private setting and Cenric joined the applause, gave a smile towards sophia as he did so. Even if he had his regrets bringing her into this, he could not deny he was pleased to have her by his side and she seemed to truly be alive now because of it.

With the entrace of the amuse-bouche the popping of champagne, and the toast to the new knights in which he raised his glass the dinner had officially started much to Cenric's joy and relief. Although he had to restrain himself to eat slowly, properly, and with grace; the food and drink made up for these kinds of events for the most part. Other than putting his life on the line fighting for a good cause, this was what gave him life. He could simply enjoy the rich delicacies to his heart's content and drown his worries and woes with the aid of alcohol. It seemed as though it was not to last however as his attention was brought to his still empty side seat beside him by the quiet worries and complaints of the others.

"There's being fashionably late and then there's causing problems for others. Is this a case of do as i say and not as i do?" Cenric thought to himself with an amused smile. "I suppose its my turn to go correct him" With that thought decided upon, he took a slightly larger sip to get more alcohol into his system as he was unsure how long he'd be gone and then spoke in a low tone. "My apologies Arthur, as wonderful as this dinner is; i must request a chance to step away for a moment. I will be sure to return with great haste." Ignoring his disgust at speaking in such a way, he gave a quick glance towards Othello's empty seat to tip Arthur off without embarrassing the former.

After receiving permission from Arthur, Cenric began his mission to seek out his missing prince charming. The halls of the manor were cold, dark, and almost silent save for the maids scurrying to and fro while attending to the dinner. Other than the temperature, it was nice in its own way; making him feel like he was in a safe world of its own to explore and relax from the day's stresses in. His search began in the most obvious place of Othello's room, though that produced no results after a knock and a peek inside. With that he was left wandering the manor for a little while and asking any of the staff if they had seen the man. Thankfully he was in luck when he spotted a rather flustered maid retreating from the porch hurriedly, flinching and giving a slight bow a thte sight of him before continuing on. "When in doubt, follow the trail of heartbreak"

With only the stars and pale moonlight illuminating the ethereal beauty, Cenric had found who he had sought on the porch. "And here i thought i would be the one warming you tonight. Is there enough room under there for two?" he said giving a suggestive smirk as he up strolled beside the man and leaned over the porch to appreciate the night sky. "As much as this beautiful view suits you the most, i do believe there is a dinner that is missing its wonderful co-host. I've been behaving so well just for a certain someone that taught me so thoroughly as well." Cenric chuckled, giving a brief pause to enjoy their moment and work himself up to get to the topic at hand. He always prided himself on being the person that others could be at ease around but when it came to Othello he couldn't help but poke his nose where it didn't belong due to his concern. "Is something bothering you? You're usually not the type to miss these kinds of things or scare off a cute little maid.
 

Plutoni

spin it!
GODFREY
TRISTAN



LOCATION: Cavendish Manor
TAGS: Melpomene Melpomene
The chill night air clung to his hair and clothes like spidersilk as he mounted the mansion stairs in a quick two-step, the purpose of each stride making plain the risk of lateness that the doctor was all too aware of beginning to push his usual custom. Lights gained in number, movement flashed in crystal windows, and darkness and stillness fell away with every step until the heavy doors heaved open at his touch. Godfrey St. Clair was bathed at once in the strong, familiar candlelight of Cavendish Manor that quickly began to burn the damp veil of evening from his form, and he noted the time on the great clock that oversaw the hall with a private satisfaction. Perfect. In the blink of an eye, not even the suggestion of haste was left in the lines of his bearing - only the poise of a man at ease in a home that could almost be called his.

This bygone hurry was what he deserved for putting it off so late, after all. This manor house, lit with a glow that could outshine the evening rays themselves, was the closest he’d come to touching sunlight since yesterday. He gave an absentminded murmur of thanks as a stray maidservant alerted by the door shyly took the silk-lined coat slid from his shoulders, stride barely broken as he straightened his cuffs and continued on into the plush corridors. Godfrey considered with dim amusement that he’d spent so long studying vampires that even his habits had now begun to mimic theirs; shunning both light and human company, he’d worked feverishly through the unholy hours of eve and morning, hours that even now he could only find hazy recollection of but had produced many a scrawled note in his books’ margins as if by another’s hand. He didn’t know if he’d slept or if his brain had simply shuttered as he stared at the walls, wobbling with shadows of gas-light. What had he thought about, then? But come sunrise, it had already slipped through his fingers. He swept it all to the side as he made coffee with hands trembling only just, routed the heavy air with the sharp morning breeze through his windows, and opened his practice in time for his first appointment. It had been a while, and not even illness and despair slept on such a morn of celebration. He almost craved the mundanity, in a way. But, regardless of his wishes, he still found his mind often wandered to the ceremony taking place not far from there, yet seemingly in another world to that of the street with the bronze plaque bearing his name - Dr. St. Clair | General Practitioner, R.C.P. - affixed upon such prosaic things as white stone and black-painted door. No knights. No queens. No divine duty and conquest, only medicine and the raw, base, painfully exposed humanity of the needy. And yet. Things had changed when he’d taken the knighthood. Recognition hounded him, for the odd tears and effusions of gratitude and relief of years past had, in some, become reverent. They clasp Sir Tristan’s hands and stare into his eyes like he was holy, like nothing less than the angel Raphael, and the way their illusions of the divine now took credit for his rare skill was simply a thorn in his side. This particular spite he felt this morning he couldn’t help but tie, in part, to the festivities today, and he considered that they may have expected him to attend. Perhaps driven to faint irrationality by lack of sleep, the thought only made him sink his teeth ever harder into his work.

He crashed, eventually. His housekeeper and occasional assistant, a certain Miss Marcia Monroe, found him out cold on the chaise longue in his office, and had closed up shop herself as the light began to draw in. Another reminder amongst many that he likely owed her his life, by now, and she woke him with the aroma of a brewed coffee more potent than ammonia salts and the first taste of food he’d had that day. Not her forte by any means, but half-dead gratitude will make even the most burnt fare pleasant. He’d taken himself back to his desk to continue filing his notes from the day’s patients as soon as she’d left and was thus unable to comment, and had watched the hour of the dinner draw closer with growing disfavour. A day and a night of isolation and grim study had suppressed his appetite for celebration, but try as he might to pretend he had a choice in the matter, he inevitably tore himself away in time to wash and carefully, immaculately dress in evening jacket and narrow white waistcoat and hail a cab to take him to Westminster. He knew he’d disappeared for long enough.

He entered the drawing room where they all waited, sweeping an eye over faces both familiar and strange, and noted that he was, rather excellently, neither the first nor the last. Even so, he had only just greeted the hosts with the customary and now familiarly wry thanks that he‘d had drilled into him since he was a child before they were taken inside. He barely noted the splendour as he took his seat, his glass quickly attended to and just as quickly drained as the table filled around him. A little cushioning for his patience wouldn't hurt tonight. And, as an all-too familiar voice slid into the chair beside him, he realised that this choice had been far, far too prescient for his liking.

“G’evening m’lady.”

Godfrey didn’t even turn. Only a quick clench of the jaw and a slow, self-controlled breath like a prayer gave away that he was even aware of Sir Percival’s sudden presence, and he raised his glass to be filled for the second time before all the guests had even taken their places. In such dire circumstances as these, may his manners indeed be forgiven.
“Leonard.” His curt acknowledgement was already wary. “If you try to kiss my hand I will deck you.”

They both watched and toasted the newly knighted members of their order in an uncommon silence, and Godfrey took the chance to fully appraise the pair that had joined their ranks. The Galahad replacement and Sir Gareth, was it? A delicate-seeming lady who was already engaged in apparent conspiracy with Jesse Kenward, and her tall, green-eyed contemporary - Othello’s choices? He would soon find out. Leon spoke just as his name - and suddenly glaring absence - occurred to him.

He glanced over for the first time, vaguely irritated that they’d shared such a synchronised train of thought, giving him and his state of dress a quick, critical once-over as he tipped back the champagne.
“I’ll give you that. For the record, I tried my utmost to stop you,” he intoned as he turned back to the yawningly empty chair across the room, placing the glass before him to be filled with bubbles once more. Any other day he would‘ve remarked immediately on the wanting leadership, but even he paused to consider how borderline uncharacteristic it appeared. Othello’s table-manners were one of the few things Godfrey could rarely fault. Strange. “Those waistcoat buttons and my sanity would both probably thank you for it, actually.”

Three glasses in and yet to even complete the starters. He swirled the wave-edge of foam gently around the rim, musing as to whether he should take it easy as the amuse bouche began to disappear from the table to be replaced by bowls of fine porcelain. He decided against it.
“Who are they, anyway?” Voice low enough to not be overheard, his pale gaze returned to lock itself upon the newcomers. Might as well bite the bullet. Perhaps Leonard would know, and he’d be damned if he didn’t dictate where the coming trial of the night began.
 
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LionInTheHorizen

an average nobody

Odonata Moore




One of these days, Odonata Moore was going to be remembered.

The mallet hymned a whistle. Swinging- it stung the air like a soundless scorpion hidden in a surf of sand. The end of the wooden stick gyrated as far back as the altitudinous mountains of her shoulders.

At once, the ball whooshed.

“You need me, Odonata. You still desire me,” spiked aloud the vaporous messenger, wind, strolling close to the vasing fork of her ear. The grizzly grass, which had picked up alongside the balding of the ground when her mallet reeled, scattered in elongated splinters of alligator scales. In the air castle of speckling dirt and greenery, Odonata Moore felt sweat lick the sides of her mouth in a salinity like the first spray of water in the foam of autumn’s tides, felt her henna curls tickle her chiseled cheekbones, all while the temperance of waiting suspended still in the air. The ball lashed out promisingly. It spiralled out of orbit as if it was the chain reaction dawning from Saturn’s rings raising the flaming sword to cut away their tight bindings from a reign of tyranny. Oh to dream! To fight! To find your own place in the startling abyss home to all!

Bullseye!” She hollered, throwing the stick down she had striked with, “Take that you totty, one lung-

Not a fair second tolled when the ladies of class burst forth catalogued like swooping archangels. Gowns veered around like a compass struck with fever, simultaneously hatching a fantasia palette no artist could resist. Chiffon billowed in the mid-October gust, taffeta blossomed above a flared hoopskirt. Their jeweled garments twinkled like light trapped in aloof shapes of jars, and their elephantine hats yanked shadows few and far between the lawn whose tussocks were evenly trimmed. Faces powdered whiter than corpses under rooted coffins became neighboring, parasols agape with protruding corners that can jut out eyes flaunting with torn smirks.

“Ahem,” coughed, a woman in a dried tangerine gown, “Have you forgotten the rules of Croquet? You did not make it through the wickets, Lady Moore. The ball has gone beyond the gates.”

Horrendous giggles like outuned harmony of instruments resounded in echoes among the harpies.

“Is that not the point, dear Dalia?” Odonata’s instinctive mouth syllabled, “You constrain yourself to a lawn, and I seek for fields.”

A stitch in time later, she had returned in time for the feast. Tonight, her signature would be peacock silk: a cloudburst of a water-colored array between blue in cold war with green. It had a floor-length hemline, enveloped her warm, tawny skin as the way lightning does when it purges in entanglement with one of its own. With relish, the dress went on to trench out the curves of her bust with all due pleasure coming from the self-conceited neckline. Scissored on her own had been a slit which split out her toned legs. She may be forced to be stuffed in a half-ordinate crinoline and petticoat for formalities, but it had nothing on Odonata Moore and never would. Dusting her hands off of beeswax and crumbs of crushed powder that she applied to her grid of her eyelids, she was off.

Not entirely.

“Bah! Get on you- you! I will not be late tonight! Othello will not have that blasted satisfaction!” She cursed, as she hopped on one leg like the time-crazed white rabbit in an incidental version of Wonderland. Painfully, her heel finally sunk fully into the mould of her slipper, and with time of the essence, her skirts flew as her feet.

A similar narration occurred a couple years back. Barefoot with her hair a nest for any sparrow that chirps, she had been young and unkind in dirty, cream cotton. Defender of England- that was what had awaited her. “I want to be a knight,” she had fisted her hand down with no mercy, fostering the will of water. Unyielding. Flash-flooding. Roaring. She threw away her safety in the cork of her lover’s cognac bottle, and met foreheads with men that had voices that knew how to slain her pride in and out.

A map clings to a wall, but travels the world. Odonata Moore was expressly devoted to the ghosted chairhead of Othello Rosconval, cross-legged and biting back smugness that came smokier than the empress of night turning the sky outdoors in a honeypot of black. The assemblage of the dinner had been worth an applause; there were diamond-flame candles, chinaware and cutlery intimate with silver polishing. Warped around her light fingers had been her drink, fingers sired to the cylindrical edge as she surveyed the two knights best as she could with Jesse at her left elbow. Will they survive? Was this a premeditated funeral? Under the capsule of time, it was her restlessness that had kept her out from turning in her grave. She had recessed down till her cheeks gloved in dirt over and over again, but her hunger for vengeance and made her crawl, made her limp, made her run. Toasting through Arthur’s speech, then Sophia’s, and half-eaten amuse-bouche, she chewed on her lip. Where had her only true adversary gone off to?













happy belated birthday! coded by: s e v e n s e v e n


 

SkyGinge

Shroom for More Effort

Simon Jettesen

It was the sort of garish 'gala' his mother had dragged him to whenever her puppy-dog eyes could earn her an invite, a banquet that would surely find the young nobleman in his element. After all, he looked the part: stern-lipped, stiff-postured, jawbones sharp as a rapier, was he not the very image of nobility? But sat among a dream of never-ending food and peculiar faces, the Hero of Oxbridge felt like the lone teddy-bear at the picnic - a silent, shallow segment of the whole fantastical facade.

The rich scents and sharp suits carried down reluctance-waterfall to memories of his youth, where he was paraded around innumerable ballrooms in a baggy suit. In those days, he had learnt the importance of propriety the hard way, an image of sneering stares permanently ingrained into his mind. Three years at Oxford was supposed to have installed in him an adoration of noble sensibilities, and given him a jolly good whipping of manners. Alas (for beloved father and mother), he was quick to discover he was not the only posh creature glad to have flown the coup, and the main thing he'd learnt had been how to surpass his alcohol limit.

His attire tonight was suited for the privacy of the affair, a dark suit with an emerald green trim that complimented his bronzed hair (well groomed, of course). Even now, the sleeves sagged against his slim frame. He'd attempted to get a fitted suit once, but had decided against it after the seamstress likened him to 'an impoverished spectre' - not an image he would willingly befit! Nevertheless, even he had to admit that the dark waistcoat was a good choice, and with a patterned cravat as the finishing touches. Even father would approve, he thought, and then shuddered internally.

O, what loathsome festivities! He watched the maidservant's eyes twinkle as they watched entrenched at the steady flow of plates and glasses. Such unnecessary opulence must seem exotic as the jewels of the West Indies to eyes as theirs, and equally impossible. Dazzlingly beautiful. And yet, as with all the gaudy needlessness of noble frivolity, dig beneath the gem and one will soon find the festering worms. Would the wonderstruck urchins who had clapped them through the afternoon's processions clap at this sight? When but a single course would be enough to feed an entire street?

If only I'd the boldness to avoid this afternoon's proceedings, Simon grumbled in his subconsciousness. Then there'd have been nothing to trigger that sinking feeling of insufficiency, of being a very small actor on a very big stage. I must be getting old. He glanced enviously over at Alixa's book. He wanted nothing more than to escape to his quarters to read, or perhaps return to the canvas of the falcon he'd been working on. That that woman could get away with such blatant flounting of expected behaviour was preposterous. Though given the character of the hosts, not entirely surprising. He shot another envious glance, this time at the empty seat of #2, Lancelot himself, presumably above such formalities. He had half the mind to leave himself, with it seemingly permissable for Othello to do so!

He shook his head, though as ever the motion was subtle as to be indistinguishable. Men would kill to be in your possession, you ungrateful oaf, he scolded himself. The empty plate in front of him proved he hadn't lost his taste for luxury. Yet though his mouth watered at the sight of each arriving plate, these formalities were by far the worst side to his life as a knight. It was the thrill of the fight, iced with mud and blood, that he lived for. In the absence of the hunt, his mind was privy to a most unhealthy meandering, a meandering normally satisfied only by the splash of paint upon his canvas or the rustle of feathers at his hand.

These celebrations were for a good cause, theoretically - the arrival of two new knights. Simon tapped his empty glass with a long finger, eying the newcomers up. The man, Elian, was hard to read - ruggedly handsome enough to be of either class, particularly among such an unconventional congregation. It mattered not what he looked like - a poor man judges character from countenance! Yet the woman caught his gaze for a little longer. She was pretty, but then anyone would seem so in such 'romantic' lighting (and under the influence of one two many glasses of champaigne!), and he'd seen enough prettied-up birds at various balls and galas to avoid being dazzled by her appearance. It was her dress that caught him. He'd met a girl in a dress like that once, some seven years prior - 'met' of course politely meaning he snogged the daylights out of her in full view of her outraged father, who pulled a face so perturbed it even now brought a slight grin to his stony features. But, dare I say, that dress was fashionable a decade past, he mused. He turned back to the next plate of food (for even the basest gentlemen knows it is rude to ogle a lady!), but the nostalgic dress kept on drawing him back in little glances.

Lady Galahad, he thought, and his stomach churned. He shot another icy glare at Othello's empty seat. His was not the seat that deserved to be empty.

As with all the other knights, Haymitch had been a solitary enigma to Simon. For that very reclusive reason, he had been among Simon's most respected knights - no-nonsense, not nosy, simply a man with a purpose. That his seat had so quickly been filled, by a young lady who judging from her dress sense, wouldn't be able to tell a vampire from an alley-cat, seemed morally wrong. He was a hero - he deserved a legacy, a hero's memory. Or did his death mean nothing? Were they all so easily replaced?

Come, Simon, thought Simon, attempting to rally himself, Your brothers-in-arms already consider you a dour specimen - let us give them no further cause for such characterisation. Mustering a very forced smile, Sir Palamedes buried himself in the next course of the meal, praying internally that nobody would interrupt him with some mindless chatter.

coded by: s e v e n s e v e n . Happy belated birthday, seven! Thanks for writing up a world interesting enough to bring me back to RPing :D




It was the sort of garish 'gala' his mother had dragged him to whenever her puppy-dog eyes could earn her an invite, a banquet that would surely find the young nobleman in his element. After all, he looked the part: stern-lipped, stiff-postured, jawbones sharp as a rapier, was he not the very image of nobility? But sat among a dream of never-ending food and peculiar faces, the Hero of Oxbridge felt like the lone teddy-bear at the picnic - a silent, shallow segment of the whole fantastical facade.

The rich scents and sharp suits carried down reluctance-waterfall to memories of his youth, where he was paraded around innumerable ballrooms in a baggy suit. In those days, he had learnt the importance of propriety the hard way, an image of sneering stares permanently ingrained into his mind. Three years at Oxford was supposed to have installed in him an adoration of noble sensibilities, and given him a jolly good whipping of manners. Alas (for beloved father and mother), he was quick to discover he was not the only posh creature glad to have flown the coup, and the main thing he'd learnt had been how to surpass his alcohol limit.

His attire tonight was suited for the privacy of the affair, a dark suit with an emerald green trim that complimented his bronzed hair (well groomed, of course). Even now, the sleeves sagged against his slim frame. He'd attempted to get a fitted suit once, but had decided against it after the seamstress likened him to 'an impoverished spectre' - not an image he would willingly befit! Nevertheless, even he had to admit that the dark waistcoat was a good choice, and with a patterned cravat as the finishing touches. Even father would approve, he thought, and then shuddered internally.

O, what loathsome festivities! He watched the maidservant's eyes twinkle as they watched entrenched at the steady flow of plates and glasses. Such unnecessary opulence must seem exotic as the jewels of the West Indies to eyes as theirs, and equally impossible. Dazzlingly beautiful. And yet, as with all the gaudy needlessness of noble frivolity, dig beneath the gem and one will soon find the festering worms. Would the wonderstruck urchins who had clapped them through the afternoon's processions clap at this sight? When but a single course would be enough to feed an entire street?

If only I'd the boldness to avoid this afternoon's proceedings, Simon grumbled in his subconsciousness. Then there'd have been nothing to trigger that sinking feeling of insufficiency, of being a very small actor on a very big stage. I must be getting old. He glanced enviously over at Alixa's book. He wanted nothing more than to escape to his quarters to read, or perhaps return to the canvas of the falcon he'd been working on. That that woman could get away with such blatant flounting of expected behaviour was preposterous. Though given the character of the hosts, not entirely surprising. He shot another envious glance, this time at the empty seat of #2, Lancelot himself, presumably above such formalities. He had half the mind to leave himself, with it seemingly permissable for Othello to do so!

He shook his head, though as ever the motion was subtle as to be indistinguishable. Men would kill to be in your possession, you ungrateful oaf, he scolded himself. The empty plate in front of him proved he hadn't lost his taste for luxury. Yet though his mouth watered at the sight of each arriving plate, these formalities were by far the worst side to his life as a knight. It was the thrill of the fight, iced with mud and blood, that he lived for. In the absence of the hunt, his mind was privy to a most unhealthy meandering, a meandering normally satisfied only by the splash of paint upon his canvas or the rustle of feathers at his hand.

These celebrations were for a good cause, theoretically - the arrival of two new knights. Simon tapped his empty glass with a long finger, eying the newcomers up. The man, Elian, was hard to read - ruggedly handsome enough to be of either class, particularly among such an unconventional congregation. It mattered not what he looked like - a poor man judges character from countenance! Yet the woman caught his gaze for a little longer. She was pretty, but then anyone would seem so in such 'romantic' lighting (and under the influence of one two many glasses of champaigne!), and he'd seen enough prettied-up birds at various balls and galas to avoid being dazzled by her appearance. It was her dress that caught him. He'd met a girl in a dress like that once, some seven years prior - 'met' of course politely meaning he snogged the daylights out of her in full view of her outraged father, who pulled a face so perturbed it even now brought a slight grin to his stony features. But, dare I say, that dress was fashionable a decade past, he mused. He turned back to the next plate of food (for even the basest gentlemen knows it is rude to ogle a lady!), but the nostalgic dress kept on drawing him back in little glances.

Lady Galahad, he thought, and his stomach churned. He shot another icy glare at Othello's empty seat. His was not the seat that deserved to be empty.

As with all the other knights, Haymitch had been a solitary enigma to Simon. For that very reclusive reason, he had been among Simon's most respected knights - no-nonsense, not nosy, simply a man with a purpose. That his seat had so quickly been filled, by a young lady who judging from her dress sense, wouldn't be able to tell a vampire from an alley-cat, seemed morally wrong. He was a hero - he deserved a legacy, a hero's memory. Or did his death mean nothing? Were they all so easily replaced?

Come, Simon, thought Simon, attempting to rally himself, Your brothers-in-arms already consider you a dour specimen - let us give them no further cause for such characterisation. Mustering a very forced smile, Sir Palamedes buried himself in the next course of the meal, praying internally that nobody would interrupt him with some mindless chatter.
 

Shadow

Walk with your safety buddy out there, kiddos.
Elian Shackleton

Taking two steps to the left, Elian could see himself in the mirror and, oh God, what a sight he was. He had never been so smartly dressed up in his life. Newly tailored black suit, shiny shoes, stiff necktie, all felt as if it was pulling and crushing his body into an ideal form that really didn’t suit him. He had even been compelled to tie his hair back, leaving his face uncomfortably exposed to scrutiny. He’d had no notion of this requirement of being a Knight. To be fair, it was his own shortcoming for not recognizing it, considering he had seen the grandeur of the Knights from afar ever since he had returned to London. Putting on a show for the frightened citizens was just a part of being the heroes, it would seem.

Despite finding a moment to himself, he knew it would take far too long to undress and re-dress before dinner; just for a few moments of semi-comfort; a break from his socially accepted, nay, required bonds. Proving himself a noble man, in appearance, if nothing else. He sighed and on tugged his jacket sleeve to straighten a wrinkle on his shoulder.

Truth be told, the luxury of his surroundings had been pulling him under all day. The knighting ceremony itself had nearly put him in a waking sleep, it was so dreamlike. The blinding morning sun, the crowds, the fanfare, from trumpets to red velvet carpets, knelt on...he hadn’t dreamed it, but somehow it was impossible to think of himself that morning being the same man who had quietly lived in a hostel in this same city for so many months. Was it really that easy to change one’s station if they asked nicely and had some measure of skill?

Light green eyes fell to the carpeted floor beneath his shiny feet, and for a moment he felt a sudden light-headedness as if his mind was fleeing from surroundings that it deemed too far removed from probable reality. Surely, he couldn’t have been kneeling in front of her true Majesty the Queen this very morning. Surely it was impossible that he would soon be sitting and dining at the same table as the noble knights he had admired from a commoner’s distance since their honorable organization had formed. Yet he had, and it was so. He now had the moniker of Sir Gareth, and it would evidently take some getting used to.

Setting aside his thoughts was old habit as he emerged from his refuge in the lavatory and made his way to the drawing room where he had been told to gather with the other knights. It felt too strange to count himself as one of them, but his eyes settled on his fellow new initiate in amongst them, Lady Galahad, and he let that put him somewhat more at ease. Though they’d had but a short time to talk outside of all the day’s ceremony, he was able to imagine, rather wishfully perhaps, that she was feeling some of the same nerves he himself was battling.

When Sir Arthur made the call to move the company to the dining hall, Elian found himself at the edge of the group, waiting uncertainly to determine if there was a lady he ought to accompany. As they trickled out into the hall, it seemed that there was an uneven collection of genders present. Since he hadn't been directed towards a lady to escort, and his limited experience with high class manners didn’t give him any information on a proper alternative, he simply accompanied himself to the dining hall.
Unfortunately, upon his arrival in that room of luxury, he encountered another diversion from what his limited knowledge had prepared him for. Where to sit.

Lagging far enough behind the others slowly showed him an open seat towards the foot of the table, and, finally back in a familiar position, he waited until the ladies and senior knights had become seated, then lowered himself into his own chair, careful not to let his jacket bunch up behind him. His eyes flashed up to scan the table as he listened uncomfortably to the words in his head that came in his father’s voice. Surprisingly, it stopped itself when he caught the eyes of the one called Merlin. He nodded his head in return, though a smile couldn’t be conjured. His eyes fell back to his lap.

The tinkling of glass was an easy enough command to follow, so he looked back up and watched with polite interest, and a sudden blush, as Merlin gave a toast in Lady Galahad’s and his honor. It embarrassed him more than he would openly admit to be toasted in such a way, but the pouring of champagne was a welcome distraction. He only had to make eye contact with his glass, and then sip at it for a moment, until the hotness in his cheeks began to dissipate.

Small conversations sprouted as the first dish was served, but small talk had always been his weakest social skill. In his defense, his father never had given him much advice, or much of an example, on how to make good conversation, so he felt compelled to find the delicacy on his plate rather more interesting than it in fact was. Though the atmosphere and food were unquestionably delightful, he found a quiet wish in his heart that it would soon be over. Tomorrow, surely, he would be able to acclimate himself better. Though he was loathe to make an unimpressive impression on the other Knights by being ill-mannered tonight.

Elian reached again for his glass, holding it delicately between his fingers as he took another, rather more generous gulp. Then a voice to his right addressed the table and he found himself frozen in a new sort of predicament. Was he meant to give a short speech as well? He had in no way prepared for such an eventuality, and the last thing he wanted to do was improvise after Lady Galahad’s heartfelt words. He swallowed thickly and raised his glass to return her salute. “May the Lord watch over us all,” he intoned quietly, breathing out slowly, eyes on the table, as he hoped that would be enough. He truly hadn’t expected his social skills to be so harshly tested this night. He tried not to find it unfair, but he considered that being forced to duel every single person in this room might have left him with fewer battle scars than this polite torture.

coded by: s e v e n s e v e n
 

s e v e n

goth bitch ♡ art: peritwinkle
Othello Rosconval

The door has opened behind him once more. Othello had not looked back, for if it were another servant, the man swore someone would be flying off the railings- and it would not have been him. Uncomfortably, he dug his fingers over the blankets, pressing its folds against his chest. It was true that he was never much bothered by the cold, yet warmth is something even he could appreciate. Though as the footsteps neared, it was almost that he could sense the other approaching, and the tension over his shoulder dissipated.

My dearest Cenric.” Othello welcomed the other male with a smile, a single outstretched arm to rest upon the other’s shoulder. A decent company, at least, and he was not in plan to complain. “Pray tell, what are you doing here instead inside where the dinner must have already started? Haveyou missed me so? Or it was Anselm that sent you, again?

Not that it would have mattered, of course. And truly it would have been much hypocritical of himself to have inquired in the first place, for what sort of host abandons his own party? Instead, he batted his lashes upon the compliment, not at all for he had not expected it, as Sir Balin has always been much of the flirt.

Dear me,” he gasped, feigning surprise and laughed. “Such a compliment would much more befit a fair young lady, would it not? Dastardly heart-breaker you are, Sir Balin!” Othello rested his head upon the much shorter male’s shoulder, his eyes still fixated against the dark abyss that bents over them. And so he remained as such for a few minutes long, the invisible trails of time pacing before them. And for a moment, the world belongs to them.

There was something odd about Cenric in fact, one he could not quite comprehend. How his presence brings forth winds of tranquility, how the same scene appeared different in his company. The streets were not so dark, and the stars much brighter, where the sun would rise the next day and it would be a blessing. A foolish illusion made by a fool of a man. It reminded him of the two children he had met earlier that day, wide eyes of childhood naivety. His fingers made its way towards the cuffs of his shirt, where the badge had no longer hung, leaving the dark wine-shaded fabric bare. Merlin has yet to notice this- a small smirk of mischief crossed over him.

As the question rose whether something was bothering him, the platinum haired knight averted his gaze quickly. Of course some things had bothered him, as much as it would perhaps Arthur, and the rest of them. When Haymitch laid there upon the cobbled pavement, large eyes rolled to the back of his head, chapped lips hanging ajar, they had not even a chance to say their farewells. The gaze that he last emit had been pure terror, what words could have been his last? A scream, or a prayer to a God that would never listen? Within the span of twelve months, they have saved the lives of many, surely one in turn would not have been so bad?

Rubbish.” For a split second, his expression darkened. It upsets him more that there was nothing he could have done about it, nor any further reason to be more angered. And it scared him how it was not the knight’s death that have irritated him most, nor the fact that he had been so quickly replaced by two fresh faces for no reason other than political stability. It was not the dishonoring for his past co-worker that irks him so, for truly he had not been so close to him either. Instead, it was the ideals that stood before it all that did, more than anything.

Othello removed himself from the other, removing the blanket off his shoulders and folded it neatly in his arms. Though he smiled soon after, a mask he had grown used to wearing for it became so natural. “Come,” he ushered. “They would be in the middle of their course by now, and rumour has it they serve chocolate cake for dessert and I will not miss that for the world.

A small peck at the corner of Cenric’s lips, Othello regained his stature, pushing the door back in.

─── ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* :☆゚. ───​

Maids rushed in, exchanging empty or near empty plates of their first main course with a small portion of palate cleanser, served in a lovely set of glass, a freshly sliced lemon hanging by the rim of it. Silver dining utensils clinked against each other as they were picked away, plates stacked over plates ringing. Anselm had not felt much for eating, despite how good they all have tasted. Oh, how simply exquisite the chefs’ works were! Splendid masterpieces served in the form of edible art, not only have they been stunning to look at, each of the ingredients sung in their mouths. Yet all the same, appetite had not been his friend that night. Speaking of friends, the seat still remained empty. What could be so important?

Lancelot.

The redheaded male’s attention was snatched away when he heard Merlin speak his name, and there he was, the bright faced, slightly eccentric, knight standing at the doorway, slipping in when the last of the maids had made their way out. Next to him was Sir Balin, who had excused himself much early during their dinner.

Merlin. Arthur,” Lancelot had regarded back, tipping over a hat that does not exist. Then he flashed a smile at the rest of the crowd, bowing. “I apologize for my tardiness, as I have been…preoccupied by a few unexpected drawbacks.

At this, it was as though Othello himself could sense rolling of eyes in the room, in which he had ignored. His eyes had caught Godfrey’s for a moment, and a sly snicker tugged at the ends of his lips, a similar look borne by a child who has done slight misbehavior and prides himself for. Then Leonard that sat beside him, then all the way across towards the two new comers.

"Lady Galahad," he reached over towards her table, kissing her hand. The name, which had once belonged to someone else. It tasted weirdly upon his tongue as the words rolled off it. "Ever so graceful. Sir Gareth, as well, lovely evening to you."

And so the night proceeds, dishes after dishes, friendly conversation upon the table over the course of meal. The atmosphere could not have felt more warm and welcoming, the gentle glow of candle light framing each of their smiles. This was meant to be a party of joy, after all, as their family mismatched personas accepts an addition of two. If only a moment could last forever.


coded by: s e v e n s e v e n
The door has opened behind him once more. Othello had not looked back, for if it were another servant, the man swore someone would be flying off the railings- and it would not have been him. Uncomfortably, he dug his fingers over the blankets, pressing its folds against his chest. It was true that he was never much bothered by the cold, yet warmth is something even he could appreciate. Though as the footsteps neared, it was almost that he could sense the other approaching, and the tension over his shoulder dissipated.

My dearest Cenric.” Othello welcomed the other male with a smile, a single outstretched arm to rest upon the other’s shoulder. A decent company, at least, and he was not in plan to complain. “Pray tell, what are you doing here instead inside where the dinner must have already started? Haveyou missed me so? Or it was Anselm that sent you, again?

Not that it would have mattered, of course. And truly it would have been much hypocritical of himself to have inquired in the first place, for what sort of host abandons his own party? Instead, he batted his lashes upon the compliment, not at all for he had not expected it, as Sir Balin has always been much of the flirt.

Dear me,” he gasped, feigning surprise and laughed. “Such a compliment would much more befit a fair young lady, would it not? Dastardly heart-breaker you are, Sir Balin!” Othello rested his head upon the much shorter male’s shoulder, his eyes still fixated against the dark abyss that bents over them. And so he remained as such for a few minutes long, the invisible trails of time pacing before them. And for a moment, the world belongs to them.

There was something odd about Cenric in fact, one he could not quite comprehend. How his presence brings forth winds of tranquility, how the same scene appeared different in his company. The streets were not so dark, and the stars much brighter, where the sun would rise the next day and it would be a blessing. A foolish illusion made by a fool of a man. It reminded him of the two children he had met earlier that day, wide eyes of childhood naivety. His fingers made its way towards the cuffs of his shirt, where the badge had no longer hung, leaving the dark wine-shaded fabric bare. Merlin has yet to notice this- a small smirk of mischief crossed over him.

As the question rose whether something was bothering him, the platinum haired knight averted his gaze quickly. Of course some things had bothered him, as much as it would perhaps Arthur, and the rest of them. When Haymitch laid there upon the cobbled pavement, large eyes rolled to the back of his head, chapped lips hanging ajar, they had not even a chance to say their farewells. The gaze that he last emit had been pure terror, what words could have been his last? A scream, or a prayer to a God that would never listen? Within the span of twelve months, they have saved the lives of many, surely one in turn would not have been so bad?

Rubbish.” For a split second, his expression darkened. It upsets him more that there was nothing he could have done about it, nor any further reason to be more angered. And it scared him how it was not the knight’s death that have irritated him most, nor the fact that he had been so quickly replaced by two fresh faces for no reason other than political stability. It was not the dishonoring for his past co-worker that irks him so, for truly he had not been so close to him either. Instead, it was the ideals that stood before it all that did, more than anything.

Othello removed himself from the other, removing the blanket off his shoulders and folded it neatly in his arms. Though he smiled soon after, a mask he had grown used to wearing for it became so natural. “Come,” he ushered. “They would be in the middle of their course by now, and rumour has it they serve chocolate cake for dessert and I will not miss that for the world.

A small peck at the corner of Cenric’s lips, Othello regained his stature, pushing the door back in.

─── ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* :☆゚. ───​

Maids rushed in, exchanging empty or near empty plates of their first main course with a small portion of palate cleanser, served in a lovely set of glass, a freshly sliced lemon hanging by the rim of it. Silver dining utensils clinked against each other as they were picked away, plates stacked over plates ringing. Anselm had not felt much for eating, despite how good they all have tasted. Oh, how simply exquisite the chefs’ works were! Splendid masterpieces served in the form of edible art, not only have they been stunning to look at, each of the ingredients sung in their mouths. Yet all the same, appetite had not been his friend that night. Speaking of friends, the seat still remained empty. What could be so important?

Lancelot.

The redheaded male’s attention was snatched away when he heard Merlin speak his name, and there he was, the bright faced, slightly eccentric, knight standing at the doorway, slipping in when the last of the maids had made their way out. Next to him was Sir Balin, who had excused himself much early during their dinner.

Merlin. Arthur,” Lancelot had regarded back, tipping over a hat that does not exist. Then he flashed a smile at the rest of the crowd, bowing. “I apologize for my tardiness, as I have been…preoccupied by a few unexpected drawbacks.

At this, it was as though Othello himself could sense rolling of eyes in the room, in which he had ignored. His eyes had caught Godfrey’s for a moment, and a sly snicker tugged at the ends of his lips, a similar look borne by a child who has done slight misbehavior and prides himself for. Then Leonard that sat beside him, then all the way across towards the two new comers.

"Lady Galahad," he reached over towards her table, kissing her hand. The name, which had once belonged to someone else. It tasted weirdly upon his tongue as the words rolled off it. "Ever so graceful. Sir Gareth, as well, lovely evening to you."

And so the night proceeds, dishes after dishes, friendly conversation upon the table over the course of meal. The atmosphere could not have felt more warm and welcoming, the gentle glow of candle light framing each of their smiles. This was meant to be a party of joy, after all, as their family mismatched personas accepts an addition of two. If only a moment could last forever.
 
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Laughing Lunatic

*Cue Crazy Laughter*
Location - Manor. Mood - Calm.
Alixa Occisor


They were in the middle of the main course by the time Othello came to his own party, Centric following quietly. She may not have normal matters, but it's a bit rude to be late to a celebration. But who followed the etiquette around here? It would be hypocritical to judge him harshly. That wasn’t going to stop her from thinking of it as rude to the newbies. Othello, greeting the two newbies, Alixa decided to poke a bit of fun.

“Please, don’t follow his example of following proper etiquette.” She says, humour palatable in her voice. “But if I was to be honest, we don’t really follow all of the rules of etiquette here, social etiquette and hierarchy more like, but semantics.” She chuckled slightly. She didn’t speak, letting them ingest the words as she ate her duck. It was absolutely divine.

The duck meat was juicy and tender, the fat benign cooked to the point where you couldn’t tell it from the meat, and it blended together well. And meat fat often made her feel like she was going to throw up annoyingly. The skin was crispy and had a slight flavouring of ginger, which only enhanced everything. She much preferred this to chicken, where you have to add so many other flavourings to taste anything. You don’t have to add anything to the duck, the meat being flavourful enough by itself. The ginger was interesting, and it was something she wasn’t exactly expecting.

“Madam Magrath and her girls have out done themselves once again.” She said, almost blissfully. This was worth not bringing her book with her and only bringing a small drawing room book.

“Oh, but manners are still manners, I am Alixa Occisor, Knight Lucan. But just call me Alixa, I find titles needlessly annoying unless you’ve earned them.” She says, looking over to the Doctor of the room, one of the few titles she would respect, giving him a nod, before going back to her duck.​

 

Melpomene

Destroyer of Worlds|Art by NataliaDrepina|

Leonard Lincoln



It was a wonder beyond all others to be brought into this new world of rich roasted duck and fine porcelain dishes. The sheer amount of wealth present in the room was overwhelming, suffocating. In that lovely cacophony of pleasantries and smiles there came the overwhelming chaos of apathy. Everything shined bright and beautiful, but was it gold through and through, or was it simply gilded? The silver forks belied elegance, the heat stowed off the chill leaving only a delightful warmth, the food was heavy and filling, every single inch of the manor was beget with jewels and the finest of sands, but what was it all for? Where did it come from? What little hands, fractured and broken, took it from the dirt and tidied it for them?

Leon sat his champagne glass down. It was halfway empty, the bubbles still worming through the pale liquid. His hunger had began to die down, he could never eat much of the food they served here, it was far too rich, even compared to what Mrs. Taylor had at her home. They mostly ate soups and stews there, with the occasional fish and beef when it was a day for celebration.

Briefly, Leon’s mind lingered on the fine matured face of the woman that had taken him in. Were they eating now? What was it? A simple stew more than likely with the rest of the girls, little Emma blissfully unaware of the sin that went on in that household, likely happy to tell stories of what she had read in her little books. Who should be the most pitied? Them in their simple shack or him stuck in silk next to the world’s most arrogant doctor? At least he got some entertainment.

He had not been able to hold back a smile at Godfrey’s threat. He briefly considered doing just that, just to see if he would keep his promise and they could liven this party up with a brawl, which Leon was sure he would win. Though, Godfrey was decently taller, perhaps he would be more of a challenge than Leon expected.

“Oh, darling, you didn’t try too hard then, you must want to see me. Eh- it’s what happens when you put a street rat in silk, nothing ever fits, but I must say, your clothes fit your curves rather ravishingly,” he said with a rogue smile and then offered a heavy wink before he glanced back to Ezra.

“Othello? Who knows. It… isn’t like him to have such failed etiquette, but I doubt he’ll miss the entire party.” He assumed as much at least, but he would leave Cenric to fetch the man, the two were closer and if Othello was in need of comfort he would wish to see Cenric more than anyone else.

“As for those two…” he said, turning back to Godfrey. “Haven’t heard much about ‘em. Tried asking around, heard a bit about the new Lady Galahad on the streets, Mm. She looks like a fine woman, think she’ll do the name proud.” In all honesty, Leon did tend to have a preference towards women despite his inability to find them attractive. He found them easier to trust, easier to talk to. But, he was also usually surrounded by women.

Othello, as Leonard thought, did not miss the whole party, and luckily it seemed all he needed was Cenric’s gentle tug.

“I do think this does mean we can shame him for his tardiness, so rejoice about that.” He had a feeling Godfrey would take the chance to shame anyone. And now that dinner was ending, he did not have to be Leon’s captive anymore. Shame. But Leon wished to mingle with others anyways. As dinner came to a close he stood and slipped his gloves back on. He did not actually want to mingle, but as fun as annoying Godfrey was, it was a sad way to spend his night. It was still young, and the chill was still being kept out, as out of place as he felt, he could not simply disappear.

A street rat in silk clothing.

Who would have thought such a thing would be in the Cavendish manor.


coded by: s e v e n s e v e n




It was a wonder beyond all others to be brought into this new world of rich roasted duck and fine porcelain dishes. The sheer amount of wealth present in the room was overwhelming, suffocating. In that lovely cacophony of pleasantries and smiles there came the overwhelming chaos of apathy. Everything shined bright and beautiful, but was it gold through and through, or was it simply gilded? The silver forks belied elegance, the heat stowed off the chill leaving only a delightful warmth, the food was heavy and filling, every single inch of the manor was beget with jewels and the finest of sands, but what was it all for? Where did it come from? What little hands, fractured and broken, took it from the dirt and tidied it for them?

Leon sat his champagne glass down. It was halfway empty, the bubbles still worming through the pale liquid. His hunger had began to die down, he could never eat much of the food they served here, it was far too rich, even compared to what Mrs. Taylor had at her home. They mostly ate soups and stews there, with the occasional fish and beef when it was a day for celebration.

Briefly, Leon’s mind lingered on the fine matured face of the woman that had taken him in. Were they eating now? What was it? A simple stew more than likely with the rest of the girls, little Emma blissfully unaware of the sin that went on in that household, likely happy to tell stories of what she had read in her little books. Who should be the most pitied? Them in their simple shack or him stuck in silk next to the world’s most arrogant doctor? At least he got some entertainment.

He had not been able to hold back a smile at Godfrey’s threat. He briefly considered doing just that, just to see if he would keep his promise and they could liven this party up with a brawl, which Leon was sure he would win. Though, Godfrey was decently taller, perhaps he would be more of a challenge than Leon expected.

“Oh, darling, you didn’t try too hard then, you must want to see me. Eh- it’s what happens when you put a street rat in silk, nothing ever fits, but I must say, your clothes fit your curves rather ravishingly,” he said with a rogue smile and then offered a heavy wink before he glanced back to Ezra.

“Othello? Who knows. It… isn’t like him to have such failed etiquette, but I doubt he’ll miss the entire party.” He assumed as much at least, but he would leave Cenric to fetch the man, the two were closer and if Othello was in need of comfort he would wish to see Cenric more than anyone else.

“As for those two…” he said, turning back to Godfrey. “Haven’t heard much about ‘em. Tried asking around, heard a bit about the new Lady Galahad on the streets, Mm. She looks like a fine woman, think she’ll do the name proud.” In all honesty, Leon did tend to have a preference towards women despite his inability to find them attractive. He found them easier to trust, easier to talk to. But, he was also usually surrounded by women.

Othello, as Leonard thought, did not miss the whole party, and luckily it seemed all he needed was Cenric’s gentle tug.

“I do think this does mean we can shame him for his tardiness, so rejoice about that,” he had a feeling Godfrey would take the chance to shame anyone. And now that dinner was ending, he did not have to be Leon’s captive anymore. Shame. But Leon wished to mingle with others anyways. As dinner came to a close he stood and slipped his gloves back on. He did not actually want to mingle, but as fun as annoying Godfrey was, it was a sad way to spend his night. It was still young, and the chill was still being kept out, as out of place as he felt, he could not simply disappear.

A street rat in silk clothing.

Who would have thought such a thing would be in the Cavendish manor.
 

s e v e n

goth bitch ♡ art: peritwinkle








Chapter 2:

The Empty Vial









November 1st, 1866

A month has nearly passed, and now the screams of London are heard once more. Hear ye, hear ye! The murders have started again! May the Lord have mercy on us! As our good citizens hide behind their doors, the knights will once more shine through. Another day, another case. While the cold dead body of a faceless woman lies between the deepest, darkest alleys of Wandsworth, a vile being is on the loose. Who could be responsible? A vampire, or a mad man? Or is there something else, something far more sinister in play? We are nothing more but pawns to a greater game of chess...






X
X
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code: s e v e n s e v e n

Chapter 2:

The Empty Vial









November 1st, 1866

A month has nearly passed, and now the screams of London are heard once more. Hear ye, hear ye! The murders have started again! May the Lord have mercy on us! As our good citizens hide behind their doors, the knights will once more shine through. Another day, another case. While the cold dead body of a faceless woman lies between the deepest, darkest alleys of Wandsworth, a vile being is on the loose. Who could be responsible? A vampire, or a mad man? Or is there something else, something far more sinister in play? We are nothing more but pawns to a greater game of chess...
 

s e v e n

goth bitch ♡ art: peritwinkle
Othello Rosconval

Beneath the frigid dawn, in the magic resting beneath a veiled sun. Morning breeze snuck in through the window, like a discreet criminal, inching through every gap as all heads were turned. Curtains fluttered within its gentle touch, similarly to the bouncing of a woman’s skirt presented in a dance. The glass itself had begun to fog-his finger print smudged against it when as he pressed his index upon- and a single coat barely seemed adequate. The final days of fall is ticking by, and the kingdom of winter unlocks its gates much faster than anyone had anticipated. Othello deliberately breathed out, brume in small clouds of white twirled before him, soaring high up before vanquishing up to the sky. And he smiled.

Winter cherries framed their gardens, planted on each sides of the road to give the illusion of a tunnel, the entrance to an unknown realm found only between the pages of a fairy tale. Pink petals waved, then plucked itself off, spinning in circles with celerity as the wind carries it on its back. Wonderland, perhaps, as Lewis Carrol would have described it. Cobblestones aligned neatly, snow white cyclamens bordering each path as the early morning dewdrops hung at its tips, crystals adorning miniature crowns. Winter is coming, though it was nowhere near an excuse to rid London off its colors. In fact, miles away where screams could not be heard, red just painted the walls.

Perhaps it was his fault, for it was the young blonde knight that first came to wonder how oddly peaceful everything had been ever since the day of ceremony. No one had been woken up at such ungodly hours, to be forced to prepare armories all the while the temptation of shutting their eyelids could not have been greater. It was almost as though vampires came that day, decided that now is not a good time to be cursed. Still two months away, yet the spirit of Christmas giving is thick in the atmosphere. How generous.

With a book in hand, an emptied cup resting by his side, what more could a man possibly ask for? Despite the refined piece of literature before him, his eyes could not help but stray over the pages, staring at the scene before him in such awe that could only be painted by the outmost talented of artists. The crashing of waves within the fountain, the scent of dampened soil from the rain of last night, the songs of early birds. Every single introduction to a boorish novel that has grown much too cliché. At least there were not butterflies.

May it not rain to-day, however, for as his eyes caught the sight of a servant, rushing in his direction in such a speed that her hair slipped out its net. She gasped for breath, her hands pressed to her knees. The man was caught in a daze, yet it was either that the young maid had caught on the papers before he did, or that the urgency of the matter defeats all other.

M-Master Rosconval,” she spoke. “Merlin expects you in his office.

─── ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* :☆゚. ───​

Come in.

Pushing down the handle, which head had been engraved in the shape of a lion’s, the knight allowed himself in. Stepping into Merlin’s study felt as though entering the gates of a whole new world. No matter how many times he had visited, the area had not failed to appear less of an enigma. The smell of parchment brews thick in the small enclosed room, a trace of drying ink and stacks of leather bounds of unknown age. Crisp sunlight pierced through the windows, where specks of dust drifted upon its sills. Books on the left, more books on the right, and most definitely a lot more stacked at the corners of his table.

Beyond the heap of a mess lies a man, whose glasses glistened in the presence of luminescence. His eyes looked up, darkened and dreary from exhaustion. Not a word was said before he shifted his gaze back down, thumb brushing against the stack of paper in his hands. Dark tousled hair fell over his face, with an annoyed huff he tucked it back behind his ears. The silence felt painful, almost deafening, as the burning of anticipation crawled beneath him. Othello’s eyes sneaked past through the pile, tilting his head slightly as he observed the writings upon a freshly delivered newspaper, lying upon his desk among all things. A gruesome headline, followed by an image just as much so.

Immediately he felt his shoulders tense. Lips pressed, his gloved fingers nervously drumming against his sides. A cruel, immoral, sense of enthusiasm rushed over him ever so briefly, as truly the walls of the manor had gotten so hideously bland after weeks of nonchalant dawdling. The thrill of a case is exactly what he needs. Othello brushed it off as quickly as it had come, for truly, a woman just died! So brutally, so violently… An innocent soul who had deserved none of what came for her. Alas, fate is written by a madman, God a child holding upon a cage of ants.

"I have a task for you."

"So I am aware," replied Othello, his expression unchanging as he sat back upon the opposite seat, lifting his leg up over one of the armrests. He could vaguely notice how Merlin's eye had twitched, much to his amusement. "So you've called me? Only me?" The male scoffed, eyes glinting when he grinned. "I must say I'm flattered."

"For convenience purposes," stated Merlin blandly. "Which I am sure you understand. In any case," the older male reached for the rim of his glasses, pressing his fingers upon his closed eyes as he pulled aside his pair of spectacles. Folding his fingers before him, for a while their eyes had locked- his sharp, unsmiling, calculated. "I...do believe you know quite exactly what my intentions are, Sir Lancelot."

"Ah. Of course." As he was handed over the files within the folder, Othello flipped through it, occasionally darting his eyes up to gauge Merlin's expression. He slid his gaze lines over lines, imprinting images to the back of his mind. The shadows loomed, faint yet clear at the same time. Skimming through the texts, eventually he folded them back, placing them neatly upon his lap.

"Well, I shall summon the knights shortly to the gathering room. But as for now, do tell-" Removing his legs, Othello inched himself forward, the ends of the chair scraping against the surface of the floor. He brushed the stray stacks of paper aside, then resting his elbows upon the newly made space. Instead of his usual weightless smile, a more serious demeanor took over, and yet, somehow, it felt a slight more genuine. A small crack through the mask. "How may I be of service?"
coded by: s e v e n s e v e n
Beneath the frigid dawn, in the magic resting beneath a veiled sun. Morning breeze snuck in through the window, like a discreet criminal, inching through every gap as all heads were turned. Curtains fluttered within its gentle touch, similarly to the bouncing of a woman’s skirt presented in a dance. The glass itself had begun to fog-his finger print smudged against it when as he pressed his index upon- and a single coat barely seemed adequate. The final days of fall is ticking by, and the kingdom of winter unlocks its gates much faster than anyone had anticipated. Othello deliberately breathed out, brume in small clouds of white twirled before him, soaring high up before vanquishing up to the sky. And he smiled.

Winter cherries framed their gardens, planted on each sides of the road to give the illusion of a tunnel, the entrance to an unknown realm found only between the pages of a fairy tale. Pink petals waved, then plucked itself off, spinning in circles with celerity as the wind carries it on its back. Wonderland, perhaps, as Lewis Carrol would have described it. Cobblestones aligned neatly, snow white cyclamens bordering each path as the early morning dewdrops hung at its tips, crystals adorning miniature crowns. Winter is coming, though it was nowhere near an excuse to rid London off its colors. In fact, miles away where screams could not be heard, red just painted the walls.

Perhaps it was his fault, for it was the young blonde knight that first came to wonder how oddly peaceful everything had been ever since the day of ceremony. No one had been woken up at such ungodly hours, to be forced to prepare armories all the while the temptation of shutting their eyelids could not have been greater. It was almost as though vampires came that day, decided that now is not a good time to be cursed. Still two months away, yet the spirit of Christmas giving is thick in the atmosphere. How generous.

With a book in hand, an emptied cup resting by his side, what more could a man possibly ask for? Despite the refined piece of literature before him, his eyes could not help but stray over the pages, staring at the scene before him in such awe that could only be painted by the outmost talented of artists. The crashing of waves within the fountain, the scent of dampened soil from the rain of last night, the songs of early birds. Every single introduction to a boorish novel that has grown much too cliché. At least there were not butterflies.

May it not rain to-day, however, for as his eyes caught the sight of a servant, rushing in his direction in such a speed that her hair slipped out its net. She gasped for breath, her hands pressed to her knees. The man was caught in a daze, yet it was either that the young maid had caught on the papers before he did, or that the urgency of the matter defeats all other.

M-Master Rosconval,” she spoke. “Merlin expects you in his office.

─── ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* :☆゚. ───​

Come in.

Pushing down the handle, which head had been engraved in the shape of a lion’s, the knight allowed himself in. Stepping into Merlin’s study felt as though entering the gates of a whole new world. No matter how many times he had visited, the area had not failed to appear less of an enigma. The smell of parchment brews thick in the small enclosed room, a trace of drying ink and stacks of leather bounds of unknown age. Crisp sunlight pierced through the windows, where specks of dust drifted upon its sills. Books on the left, more books on the right, and most definitely a lot more stacked at the corners of his table.

Beyond the heap of a mess lies a man, whose glasses glistened in the presence of luminescence. His eyes looked up, darkened and dreary from exhaustion. Not a word was said before he shifted his gaze back down, thumb brushing against the stack of paper in his hands. Dark tousled hair fell over his face, with an annoyed huff he tucked it back behind his ears. The silence felt painful, almost deafening, as the burning of anticipation crawled beneath him. Othello’s eyes sneaked past through the pile, tilting his head slightly as he observed the writings upon a freshly delivered newspaper, lying upon his desk among all things. A gruesome headline, followed by an image just as much so.

Immediately he felt his shoulders tense. Lips pressed, his gloved fingers nervously drumming against his sides. A cruel, immoral, sense of enthusiasm rushed over him ever so briefly, as truly the walls of the manor had gotten so hideously bland after weeks of nonchalant dawdling. The thrill of a case is exactly what he needs. Othello brushed it off as quickly as it had come, for truly, a woman just died! So brutally, so violently… An innocent soul who had deserved none of what came for her. Alas, fate is written by a madman, God a child holding upon a cage of ants.

"I have a task for you."

"So I am aware," replied Othello, his expression unchanging as he sat back upon the opposite seat, lifting his leg up over one of the armrests. He could vaguely notice how Merlin's eye had twitched, much to his amusement. "So you've called me? Only me?" The male scoffed, eyes glinting when he grinned. "I must say I'm flattered."

"For convenience purposes," stated Merlin blandly. "Which I am sure you understand. In any case," the older male reached for the rim of his glasses, pressing his fingers upon his closed eyes as he pulled aside his pair of spectacles. Folding his fingers before him, for a while their eyes had locked- his sharp, unsmiling, calculated. "I...do believe you know quite exactly what my intentions are, Sir Lancelot."

"Ah. Of course." As he was handed over the files within the folder, Othello flipped through it, occasionally darting his eyes up to gauge Merlin's expression. He slid his gaze lines over lines, imprinting images to the back of his mind. The shadows loomed, faint yet clear at the same time. Skimming through the texts, eventually he folded them back, placing them neatly upon his lap.

"Well, I shall summon the knights shortly to the gathering room. But as for now, do tell-" Removing his legs, Othello inched himself forward, the ends of the chair scraping against the surface of the floor. He brushed the stray stacks of paper aside, then resting his elbows upon the newly made space. Instead of his usual weightless smile, a more serious demeanor took over, and yet, somehow, it felt a slight more genuine. A small crack through the mask. "How may I be of service?"
 
Last edited:

Laughing Lunatic

*Cue Crazy Laughter*
Location - Manor. Mood - Slightly Frazzled.
Alixa Occisor


Alixa’s morning and noon were peaceful and quiet, and if she was being honest, that made her feel worried and anxious by the time she decided to finally take a break from reading and writing. She had spent most of the day so far in the library, uninterrupted by anyone which she thought and took as a blessing.

She was actually able to get quite a bit done, after all. She was able to finish the book she wanted to read before giving it back to Zane, completed and even took notes, a good recommendation indeed. She had a few Ideas and brain-storms that she had to write down, and no one came to bother her when she was writing out her theories and hypothesis, which can and has happened occasionally and causes her to lose her total train of thought. She even had the time to re-read her mother's journal a bit, re-reading and understanding some more of what her mother had talked about, and even started re-writing to expand and clarify what her mother couldn’t, either by lack of time or lack of understanding.

It was a productive day, but something good always had to leave with something bad. She stretched and started tidying her books, before noticing a note to the side, her name written in neat and clear writing. She didn’t recognise the handwriting, so she wondered if it was one of the maids.

‘So someone else was here then’ she hummed gently to herself. She picked the note up, opened and read it.
"Master Rosconval expects your presence in the gathering room.
Note: I tried to get your attention, my apologies. Your book looks interesting though, Lady Lucan"


She quickly re-read it, worried slightly that she didn’t feel someone reading over her shoulder, but dismissed it when she realised she was probably late for a meeting and she had no Idea when the meeting was supposed to start. She bolted up out of her set trying to quickly get everything.

“Shit!” She hissed to herself under her breath, wanting to curse someone. But even she could understand that even she could get into something that can and would block everyone else out, without entirely meaning to. She huffed in annoyance, either at herself or even the time she couldn’t tell herself, before grabbing everything. Specifically, her books, the note, and the ink and quill. There was no time to drop it all off at her room. Despite her dress being rather closed and something she wouldn’t wear if she were to go running, let alone wearing high heels like hers, she was determined to not be late. She took the route which was the quickest in her opinion which meant she had to run through the ball room, up the stairs and around the balcony. Truth be told, she could have gone the other way but it wouldn’t have made much difference. She felt like it was faster anyhow. She passed a maid who was cleaning the Ball room, who pleaded with her to not run.

“My apologies, but I’m going to be late to a meeting if I don’t hurry.” She explained without missing a beat and continuing. The ballroom was, mind her language, fucking massive, so even though normally she could run the length of the ball room, and thus the balcony surrounding it, rather easily, she was still in a dress and heels carrying 4 books, a letter, a quill and a bottle of ink.
She was finally able to get to the room, and she opened the door, albeit slightly frantically, and sped-walked in.

“My apologies for being late, I was too caught up on research and reading, and the maid sent for me just left me a note.” She explained herself quickly, before finding and sitting on her seat, adjusting the four books on her lap, but putting the quill and ink on the table. She somehow managed to not spill any ink as she was running, which she thought was something to be proud of, if only slightly.
She quickly found Zane, and kept his position in the back of her mind, so she could give back his book when the meeting was over with. However, she took out her note book and got ready to take notes, either on what she missed or any other information.



Alixa’s morning and noon were peaceful and quiet, and if she was being honest, that made her feel worried and anxious by the time she decided to finally take a break from reading and writing. She had spent most of the day so far in the library, uninterrupted by anyone which she thought and took as a blessing.

She was actually able to get quite a bit done, after all. She was able to finish the book she wanted to read before giving it back to Zane, completed and even took notes, a good recommendation indeed. She had a few Ideas and brain-storms that she had to write down, and no one came to bother her when she was writing out her theories and hypothesis, which can and has happened occasionally and causes her to lose her total train of thought. She even had the time to re-read her mother's journal a bit, re-reading and understanding some more of what her mother had talked about, and even started re-writing to expand and clarify what her mother couldn’t, either by lack of time or lack of understanding.

It was a productive day, but something good always had to leave with something bad. She stretched and started tidying her books, before noticing a note to the side, her name written in neat and clear writing. She didn’t recognise the handwriting, so she wondered if it was one of the maids.

‘So someone else was here then’ she hummed gently to herself. She picked the note up, opened and read it.
"Master Rosconval expects your presence in the gathering room.
Note: I tried to get your attention, my apologies. Your book looks interesting though, Lady Lucan"


She quickly re-read it, worried slightly that she didn’t feel someone reading over her shoulder, but dismissed it when she realised she was probably late for a meeting and she had no Idea when the meeting was supposed to start. She bolted up out of her set trying to quickly get everything.

“Shit!” She hissed to herself under her breath, wanting to curse someone. But even she could understand that even she could get into something that can and would block everyone else out, without entirely meaning to. She huffed in annoyance, either at herself or even the time she couldn’t tell herself, before grabbing everything. Specifically, her books, the note, and the ink and quill. There was no time to drop it all off at her room. Despite her dress being rather closed and something she wouldn’t wear if she were to go running, let alone wearing high heels like hers, she was determined to not be late. She took the route which was the quickest in her opinion which meant she had to run through the ball room, up the stairs and around the balcony. Truth be told, she could have gone the other way but it wouldn’t have made much difference. She felt like it was faster anyhow. She passed a maid who was cleaning the Ball room, who pleaded with her to not run.

“My apologies, but I’m going to be late to a meeting if I don’t hurry.” She explained without missing a beat and continuing. The ballroom was, mind her language, fucking massive, so even though normally she could run the length of the ball room, and thus the balcony surrounding it, rather easily, she was still in a dress and heels carrying 4 books, a letter, a quill and a bottle of ink.
She was finally able to get to the room, and she opened the door, albeit slightly frantically, and sped-walked in.

“My apologies for being late, I was too caught up on research and reading, and the maid sent for me just left me a note.” She explained herself quickly, before finding and sitting on her seat, adjusting the four books on her lap, but putting the quill and ink on the table. She somehow managed to not spill any ink as she was running, which she thought was something to be proud of, if only slightly.
She quickly found Zane, and kept his position in the back of her mind, so she could give back his book when the meeting was over with. However, she took out her note book and got ready to take notes, either on what she missed or any other information.
 
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Zane Dawson


How long had it been since he had a decent good night rest without the nightmares flooding into his mind? He had lost count already, he faintly even remembered how it felt, nearly being erased from his memories. Lightly darkened circles were visible under his eyes, the jet-black locks of hair falling over one eye as his head was facing towards the ground underneath his feet. The scrunching of the leaves was pleasant, the mixture of colors brightened the day up just for a bit. The crystal-clear eyes then slowly went upwards, his head moving along with the motion, taking in the barely visible rays of sun that creeped from behind the darkened clouds. A boy yelled out to him, making him go out of his neutral state of mind of not allowing himself to think of something; blank.

His stare went to the squeaking voice with a way too cheerful look plastered on his tiny face. In his small hands he had a wooden sword gripped, pointing towards Zane. ”Again!” The boy exclaimed, indicating he wanted to continue the sparring. Zane let out a sigh in response as he didn’t know why this kid had suddenly started clinging onto him despite his depressing demeanor. Oddly enough there were more children sharing the thought of Zane being cool because he was strong. They could have asked another knight who was more kind than him! Why was it him out of all of them? He let it go since the only idiotic answer he received when he asked was because they felt safe in his presence. One of the most delusional thoughts for someone to have as he was seen as an intimidating figure, already from when he was serving in the army. Having killed dozens by his own hands, his name could never be cleared due to the gruesome deeds he had done. Even more as he didn’t regret it in his messed-up way of thinking.

“Everyone dies, some just do so sooner than later.” That was the response he had given to the citizens whose loved ones had died in the fire, also called war. They just gave him astonished looks, not being able to make a comeback out of shock. Most just busted out in tears as they lacked the human touch which Zane lacked.

Reluctantly he accepted the invitation of the kid again nonetheless. It was better that they became strong so they could fend for themselves than to helplessly watch from the sidelines like his family did. Those cowards who only thought about themselves and their status, casting anyone out they didn’t approve of. Mere grim thoughts surfaced when thinking about those creatures, not even seeing them as humans anymore. With light motions he fended the boy off, a neutral facial expression which never changed. Eventually the boy was bound to make a mistake and his little sword got slapped out of his hands. The kid blinked and pouted as he lost once more. Zane sighed and ruffled through the boy’s hair. ”They’re waiting for you.” He commented as he noticed the parents standing a bit further away, watching the scene unfold. The kid hummed happily, thanking Zane and then ran back towards his family. “What an idiotic child…” Was what he thought as this was the cue for him to return to the mansion.

Ah, Alixa still had one of his books now he thought about it. Oh well, she’d hand it back to him when it’s finished like she always did. Unbuttoning his shirt which was now hanging more loosely around his frame. Showing off his chest partially which was toned in perfection. Taking out the letter he received earlier on and started to read it. ”Meeting…?” He muttered, having a bad feeling about it as it mostly meant there was something going on. Rubbing the back of his neck as he leisurely made his way back. It only took a mere few minutes before he arrived. Sitting down on the chair in the back. Not much later, Alixa entered as well. A maid was scurrying around in a frantic, perhaps a new recruit. Being distracted by the sound of a door opening, she crashed into a bookcase, making the piece of furniture wobble.

Within a split second, Zane hovered over her, his hand placed on the leaning furniture, books falling out relentlessly. Of course, it had to be the only bookcase in the room she had to bump into. Yet he remained calm as he looked at her after the damage was done. ”Did you get hurt?” He asked, the maids cheeks flushing bright red with words that didn’t manage to come out of her mouth. ”I-I-I am so sorry! I am fine! But you got hit! Do you have any injuries?” Her voice was high due to the panicking state she was in. Shaking his head as he tilted the bookcase back into place with ease. ”Since you’re fine, help me with picking everything up.” He instructed, having already started with putting everything back into place. The maid did so as well in a split second. Once done, she hurried out of the meeting room in embarrassment after having apologized for the tenth time already.

Without nothing more to say he went back to his seat, leaning back to make it himself as comfortable as possible.

coded by: s e v e n s e v e n
 

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