Fantasy Two Courts, Both Alike in Dignity

[Persephones Grief]

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny. Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

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Two Courts, Both Alike in Dignity

Four Courts dominate the known realm. Winter and Summer rest upon the precipice of war, nursing a long simmering feud over the Continent and the riches that lie within the Wild Lands. Spring shies away to dwell upon Islands and enshrine itself within nature, whilst Autumn evokes laughter and cruelty alike, a shadow of its former self, populated by centaurs turned into slaves.

Men, women, and children branded demons and traitors are murdered in the streets of Winter. Corruption, betrayal, and hushed history riddles the beauty of Summer. Spring has long forgotten what it is to have a voice. Autumn faces an epidemic of hate crimes without justice.

A reckoning is coming.

A reckoning is here.​

[Playing: Persephones Grief & -sunkissed ]​

 

[Persephones Grief]

• Amren
• Hel

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  Amren 'Ren' Skadi​

  
  

  Health: In Tip-Top Shape
  Location: Damien's Chambers
  With: Damien
  Outfit: HERE
  

  
  
  

  Tagging: -sunkissed
  

  
  

  
  

  For the first time in six moon cycles, the sky is grey.
  
  Even Summer, with its perpetual sunshine and brief showers, sometimes falls victim to poor weather. Of course, whilst Ren grew up among snowstorms so treacherous that even the rich were at risk of death, 'bad weather' to the Summer Court means exactly this: not a ray of sunlight breaking through the canopy of oppressive dark grey clouds. The crops would get a good soaking, and farmers would actually have to consider moving their cattle into shelter, but nothing would die. The land would be nourished all the more for it, and it would give the common folk something to exclaim about for months.
  
  The Winter-born courtier stands scrutinizing the brewing storm, resting against the balcony of his charge's quarters. He ought to be standing rigid by the door, ready to attack any and all who dare enter the Royal Prince's chambers, but Prince Damien is exactly the kind of noble who detests things like that. He is far, far too intimate with Ren for it to be proper, and though Ren tried - well, tried a little - to discourage it, in a land where he is despised by almost all, the one chance at friendship was too sorely needed to be completely rejected. It is a kindness he will never forgive the Prince for, for it has wrecked certain havoc on Ren's otherwise well-disciplined heart.
  
  But that is besides the matter. What is of importance for that day is the rapidly approaching Samhain Ball. The New Year of the Courts, Samhain has always been celebrated by a coming together of the four courts, even in the most unfriendly of times, though the method and form has varied. This time, it welcomes emissaries from Summer, Spring, and Winter only, although Autumn is 'welcomed' in that some of their people have been allowed to 'host' the servicing.
  
  Centaur waiters.
  
  Ren can hardly even imagine such a thing. Poor bastards.
  
  Below, around the Summer Domus, evening is settling in and the people are lighting fires. Though the courtyard is populated mostly by guards and to-ing and fro-ing errand boys, beyond, below the peak of the hilltop, the city of Summer is finding its second wind. The markets of the day have drawn to a close, but filling their bustling chatter are the shouts and laughs of a city preparing for one of the biggest festivals of the year. Whilst the nobility join and dance in ballrooms, others take to the streets, burn effigies, bid the spirits of the passed farewell and welcome in the New Year.
  
  It should feel like a joyous affair. And yet there Ren sulks in silence, feeling like he might be sick, a heavy, violent sunk sensation playing in his stomach.
  
  Sighing, he pushes away from the railing and wanders back into the chambers. His eyes go a little to quickly to the dressing Prince, who is 'between outfits', so to speak. Ren's face betrays nothing, no emotion, no drying of throat or clenching of stomach, but then that is only proper of someone in his position. A protector, not a companion. "I know I am solely your glorified bodyguard," he says in a flat drawl, drifting from the doorway to approach Damien, "not your Valet, but: Might I be able to help you with that?"
  
  With a wry smirk, he stops just before the prince; Hands clasped behind his back, spine ramrod straight, posture impeccable. Face speaking of dry, teasingly-condescending amusement. It is a catty side of him he lets solely the Prince bear witness to. "Only, I think your guests may notice if I continue to let you take all day."
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Hel​

  
  

  Health: Emaciated, but FINE
  Location: Her swamp shack
  With: Nnamdi
  Outfit: HERE
  

  
  
  

  Tagging: -sunkissed
  

  
  

  
  

  There has not been a guest in Hel's House for - Well. Long enough that she can no longer recall the stranger's name; only the face, pale, terrified, haunted. But they had healed, despite their near fatal wounds, and thus her job had been done.
  
  She does not need to be liked.
  
  And she will do the same for this unfortunate creature.
  
  The centaur she has dragged back to her shack is quite possibly one of the worst cases she has seen since coming to the Continent. Whatever ignorant, monstrous excuses for 'people' did this to him, they did it well. She has seen this technique used before; The centaur's legs are first bound to force it to kneel, before it is hoisted by that same rope to dangle from the branch of a tree, where it can play an easy target for anyone wishing to inflict further harm.
  
  It is a technique seemingly saved solely for the members of the Autumn 'Court'.
  
  After studying the damage, she grinds poultices and mutters chants, draws sigils into his skin with swamp water and calls upon The Mother. This ritual and others are repeated throughout the day, then the days, as she waits for the creature to regain coherent consciousness.
  
  Her shack, she knows, is not welcoming. Animals she has found dead around the swamp she lives beside rest embalmed and hung upon the walls, decorating every available surface save the floor. What animals she did not find whole, she has preserved the organs of; A whole row of frog's eyes rest upon her windowsill. The entrails of a crocodile are dangled from the ceiling as she lets them dry out before the embalming process.
  
  Yet the room smells sickly sweet, of flowers and pollen so much that she knows some find it difficult to breathe once they catch wind of it. Plants, alive, dying, and pressed, are littered everywhere among the corpses and sparse furniture, some collected in labelled jars whilst others sprout voluminously from too-small plant pots and threaten to burst out the windows, out the doors.
  
  To the local population, it is a strange, sick place. But to Hel, it is home.
  
  Everything has a purpose, everything has a place. As does she. And with that, she is content.
  
  And so she waits, and watches, never once doubting that the centaur will wake up.
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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