Young Writers Society

Plot:

It's been six months since Prince Derrick became king by default— his remaining siblings are either dead or too far away to pose any threat. But actions his sisters set in place are still in motion. And now, Court is about to be thrown in turmoil again. Lady Popplewell, a woman distantly in line for the throne and well-supported in Court, is paying a visit. She knows more about the turmoil than she should, thanks to a letter Arianna sent when she was still alive. The late princess' intent was to bribe Popplewell into supporting Arianna's claim to the throne. But with Arianna gone, Popplewell has no reason to stop at supporting the claim.

This is where you begin. This storybook is a direct continuation of Sibling Rivalry, and if you plan on being a part of this SB you must read the backstory. We'll be using several repeating characters, however the timeline is altered so Princess Cassie was discovered to be deathly ill instead of dead, and sent away to recover away from the proven-deadly court. She's been deemed non-threatning because she lacks connections within the advisors and has no possible regiants.

Characters:

Vivian (Assassin, rogue but has twisted loyalty to the Crown; controlled by Rosey)
Garis (Retired assassin who got a Lordship for saving Derrick's life, strong ties to the Crown; in the military; controlled by Kyllorac)
Sandor (Captain of the Guard; Garis' superior; half-brother to King Derrick; controlled by Jagged)
King Derrick (Tossed around in the events of Sibs1; strong loyalties to Vivian, Sandor and Garis; controlled by AquaMarine)
Lady Popplewell (Claimant to the throne; controlled by Kitty15)
Roan (Rogue assassin, currently working for Lady Popplewell; controlled by Lumi)
Gregory (higher ranking than Sandor, military, been on campaign till recently/now; controled by Isha)
Gypsy (from Vivian's old group; ambigious gender; violently private; controlled by Celdover)
Random noble (fill-in-the-blank; controlled by Dreamwalker)

There is a high probability characters will die. By the nature of having two active assassins and one retired in this SB (plus one very protective anxious angry big brother in the form of Sandor), most/all characters are at risk. However, if your character dies and you are still interested in the SB, then you can create a new character right away.

If you want your character to die, bring it up in the club or PM one of the local assassins. The assassin will bring it up with the mods (Jag, Kyl and Rosey) and we'll determine the best plot to get your character killed off.

Depending on how valuable your character is to the plot, inactive characters will either be killed off (with permission) or made into NPCs.

Major events in the 6 months since Sibling Rivalry:


Profile template:

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[b]Name:[/b]

[b]Age:[/b]

[b]Gender:[/b]

[b]Appearance:[/b] (Pictures are fine, detailed descriptions also appreciated. Get a front face shot if you use a picture)

[b]Personality:[/b]

[b]History:[/b] (if anything radically different about it— also mention what they were doing during Sibling Rivalty, their impressions of, and oppinions on the current situation in court)

[b]Other:[/b] (specific skills, weaknesses, likes, dislikes, secrets etc.)

Name: Vivian

Age: 21 or so, maybe 22. Unsure of her actual age because birthdays tend to be forgotten in the Gypsies.

Gender: Female

Appearance: Everything about her looks is designed to be exotic and alluring. Her skin is just a shade or two darker than normal, with her bone structure that of the Gypsies who raised her— but nobody seems to mind. She wears her dark brown hair up with two locks to frame her face, and will more often than not wear an open neckline to draw attention to shoulders toned from sneaking around. This often leads her targets to see her figure next; an hourglass sometimes envied and sometimes scorned because of how she accentuates it while walking. If they ever look up to her face they see large brown eyes that just read "trouble" but nobody can pinpoint why.

Personality: After so many years of being in court, she has the air of a noble which prevents people from throwing her out on the spot. But once she's in a palace she's more of a courtesan than anything else. She smiles to everyone and flirts with anybody who'll have her— especially if they'll provide her favours later on. She loves living on the edge of safety and toying with everybody she possibly can. Because of her life with people, she can tell who is the best possibility for favours and who not to tread on too much. Her very nature makes it impossible not to toy with people, at least a little.

She always appears flighty, with sarcasm and wit to match some of the best. She genuinely enjoys her life (toying with people is particularly entertaining), no matter what happens. In fact, she frequently goes out of her way to do something different. She gets bored easily and needs lots of danger in her life to truly feel alive.

History: She grew up with a family of Gypsies. She's at least half Gypsy from her looks but forming a tight relationship with parents wasn't exactly encouraged. She learned to dance, she learned to entertain, and she learned to steal. Eventually, she got bored with a life of traveling and competing between families for coin. She left her family and worked her way into court as a mistress, and one noble decided she would do well as a spy under his service. But she had other ideas. Once he'd taught her everything he knew, she went rogue and started seeing who else wanted her services. She was careful never to speak to that noble again. Not like she has to worry much anymore. He died of an illness a few years ago.

As she worked her way through courts, she heard of the upheaval in the Royal palace. She'd avoided it in her travels, even her love of risk was strained at the thought of entering the palace, which probably had an established net of assassins already. But as the siblings started making their intentions known, she figured it was worth a shot to try. She followed her latest noble benefactor to the palace and worked her way into intrigue.

Vivian, in the end, loved what happened. With Derrick loyal to her and several contacts in the palace already, she still keeps an ear, and eye, on what's happening in Court. Despite the risk it poses on her neck to return, thanks to Sandor's dislike of her because she killed a few of his siblings.

Despite her flighty nature, she's developed a kind of twisted loyalty towards those in the palace, because she knows it acts as a safety net for all her exploits. She's returned and made her presence known after getting wind of Lady Popwell's plan to overthrow the throne. Although that's not stopping her from using the situation to her advantage once more.

Other: She's illiterate, not having the patience to learn how to read. She knows how to write her name to better her career, but not much more. She still loves poison and uses it instead of knives for killing, but she knows the basics of knife fighting. Nearly every piece of jewelry she wears holds something for her assassin jobs, be it poison pins (her favourite weapon) or lockpicks. She always keeps a small vial of poison and antidote with her, should she be caught unprepared (hasn't happened in a long time) or her own pins are turned on her. But since nobody really knows what is poisoned on her body, they rarely know what to turn on her. Even if they know she's an assassin. People tend not to live long enough to figure it out, should they discover it by accident.

wow... its good

Mayhaps under construction.

Name: Roan
Age: 21
Gendrar: Male, unless otherwise costumed.
Role: Rogue Assassin

Appearance: Roan, with short, choppy chestnut hair and a generic "skinny boy" physique is tailored to the nines for normality. He's not one you would pick from a line-up, and he likes it that way. His belief is that the more generic his appearance, the more ease he has in altering it for his missions. Given his basic appearance, he is of average height with a build closer to a woman than a man. His easily-disguised features have landed him in fairly deep before, even going as far to fooling a distant Lord into requesting his presence in the lord's chambers. Consider his appearance malleable and subject to numerous-and-frequent costume changes. He has small hands.

Personality: Always the joker, Roan relies on wit and charisma to land him his work. He's never shy of a sharp remark, and is heavily critical of inferiors or enemies. However, as his job demands, he takes on the personality of his subject--his role--and plays it until the final act. Given this, Roan has a partial following of absorbing traits from his roles, diluting his own thoughts and persona beyond recognition (i.e. Roan today is not Roan two years prior). Some of his former (and still lively) employers have remarked that he carries several Roans on his shoulders, denoting an air of schizophrenia (which totally doesn't exist) about him.

Given all of this, Roan is an actor--a roleplayer--and disregards his own self in lieu of his role. Consider Roan split into two characters (or several):

Face-Value Roan--witty and critical, uncaring for scathing opinions and rather cynical of most subjects. Rather fiery when provoked, though prefers to kill with silence and grace, much like a swift, deadly swan...

Acting Roan--insert personality of the closest character to his target. This is his preferred art of assassination, as opposed to stealth and speed. (Refer to the bed chamber story).

History: Roan was born into a family of roaming performers, hitting the stage as a baby playing the roles of saplings and boulders and crying babies. His parents fell onto hard times and melded to the underground among the gypsies, losing their son among the mob faces of the gypsy children. Growing up, he was swung in and out of alley-way performances for food scraps and trade supplies. Once he found the beauty of a needle and thread, he began making his own costumes, pulling himself into the head of the sideshows. Roan performed behind the mask of countless characters, impersonating political figures and royal men and women alike. His talent got the attention of a roaming rogue who fell intrigued by Roan's unique talent both in appearances and voices.

The man kidnapped Roan that day and presented him with his very first dirk--pressed to his jugular in a dark room. The boy consented to follow this man, whomever he was, and learn his ways. Much to the Rogue's expectation, Roan pulled off jobs seamlessly as an impersonator of deadly caliber.

Roan soon found that his profits earned by hard theatric work were feeding solely into his teacher's pockets, and swiftly mended the situation to his liking, leaving his master in cold blood after a visit with his black market contact.

Roan left the Rogue's keep and quickly found work, passing from one mysterious disappearance to another, finally landing himself in the courts of Lady Popplewell after a single mission gone wrong. Bound up and targeted, Roan was given the ultimatum between death and servitude. Roan chose servitude as a Rogue, but later heard rumor that Lady Popplewell was misled in her apprehending Roan, believing him to be much more of a notorious assassin. Roan, however, left her none the wiser, both enjoying his sundry rewards and slightly fearing Popplewell's promised execution.

Name: William Dover

Age: 22

Gender: Male

Appearance: William is blond, thin, and very well put together. The type of person who always looks either completely in the zone or contained to the highest degree. His jawline is strong and rather appealing to look at, but his eyes are dark and hard. A very deep, almost chestnut brown. He's pale of skin as he toils mostly inside, and he wears whatever clothing he owns with absolute meticulousness. Everything about the way he looks is pristine.

There is a definite aura about him though that naturally keeps people at a distance. Its the hardness, mostly. The complete lack of expression and or emotion. It does not mean he doesn't feel. Just that he is very good at not showing it. He's very much an introvert in that sense.

Personality: A pragmatist. William is pretty much out for himself in any case. The ends always justify the means, no matter how folly those means may seem to most. What he gains is so much more important than value or moral code. He's strongwilled, cold, and often seen as perpetually dull. There is nothing all that interesting about him that he shows other than the fact that he does whatever he's told and succeeds in whatever he does. Hes never really the type to settle for less than what he believes he deserves.

That being said, William's big flaw, other than the fact he is as cold as a rock, is that he also has a temper. This temper, which is not often shown, does cause him to act passionately if ever fully perturbed, which doesn't take much if one knows how to push his buttons. Kindess and happiness cannot break his will, but a good kick to his pride will reel him right out of that dull stature.

History: William has been a servant to Lady Popplewell for the greater part of his adolescent years. Before that, he was a stable hand. The rest is of no real significance. He tasted the feel of being something more than just peasantry. The gentry life is what he constantly looks for openings into, especially politically wise. His big opening, he thinks, is with Lady Popplewell, how appears to be as malignant as himself. That being said, he has been following her thus far and is only waiting for the time when he could be of use.

William has no general opinion on what had occured. The only opinion he keeps is that he will one day be something and if Lady Popplewell should succeed in giving him the opportunity, he would follow that and that alone. This time, though, there would be no failure.

Other: William's weakness is his temper. The problem is, only very few things actually trigger that temper. Usually jokes about his stature set him off. He may be a servant, but he deems himself of a higher accord than the rest of the servantry who work for Lady Popplewell. Its why is pay is just a slight bit higher. That being said, if someone of noble blood or of a higher standard were to pick fun at his low stature of peasantry blood, it often leads him to a lapse in his usually perfect judgement when it comes to his own dealings.

He is also quite the musician whenever having the chance to do as such. This doesn't happen often as it does not really appeal to him that music should ever grant him higher superiority, so he pushes it aside for much more dangerous tasks. Still, music is something he loves. Its something in his blood. Its the only thing that really makes him appear even somewhat human.

shamelessly copy-pasting most of this from S1

Name: Sandor

Age: 25

Gender: Male

Appearance: Tall, built more for power than speed. He has the family's blue eyes, but the cropped black hair sets him apart from his more fair-haired siblings. Has some pretty bad scarring on the right hand, leftover from that time he picked a fight with a mirror. His clothes are generally plain, a bit rough and scuffed, but he cleans up well enough when he has too--which happens more and more often lately, much to his dismay.

Personality: Sandor's got himself a rather nice collection of Issues over the years, including but not limited to a crippling lack of self-esteem and a truckload of mixed feelings about his standing in the royal family. The untimely death of those siblings he got the least along with has made the wound less raw, but has also added to his guilt complex and notched up his already exaggerated protective and borderline territorial tendencies towards the few people he has left. He's got a vicious streak, especially when cornered, and absolutely hates being laughed at: disdain he's gotten used to, but not laughter. Has a bad tendency to call trouble to him. In the rare times when he actually relaxes he's rather laid-back and good-natured, and a complete pushover when it comes to his brother and Garis.

History: His simple existence as second child of the queen would have guaranteed him a rather comfortable position of power, had there not also been the undeniable fact that he was not the king's legitimate son; not when the man hadn't been back to the castle for a year, or when the child had black hair that was completely at odds with the blond-or-brown of the royal couple. As such Sandor was immediately considered as inferior, unworthy; Arianna first, then the ones that came after, always prevailed over him, and any conflict between him and them was usually judged in their favor. The king pretended he didn't exist; the queen oscillated between affection and neglect. Slowly but surely he was drawn away from the heirs, made to take his own place in a world that wanted little to do wit bastards. The military didn't care much, so he went, and stayed. There was little choice in the matter.

What would have then been a relatively straightforward, routine life then turned to absolute hell during the short time where his half-siblings were vying for the throne. He took every death and assassination attempts hard, somehow managed to always come in too late to do anything and nearly fell apart a couple dozen times. When the dust settled he threw himself into keeping a peace that had grown fragile, the court turned wary and whispering and the people starting to wonder. His greatest concern is ensuring Derrick's continued safety, and it's gotten rare to see the young king without a glaring Sandor in the immediate area.

Other: Is getting something of a reputation for his hair-trigger temper when the topic of his family is brought up and/or when he's been hitting the alcohol again. He's mostly useless when it comes to politics, subtlety and tact, and would rather settle his problems with a sword or his fists (which probably explains a lot about why his problems never actually get solved).

Name: Lady Petronella "Petra" Popplewell
Age: 29
Gender: Female

Appearance: Petra shares the blue-grey eyes of her cousins and their pale skin, high cheekbones and that regal look which has accompanied their family for many generations. Her hair is long, red and always dressed well, sometimes curly, sometimes not. The young innocence of her girlhood figure has bloomed into a comfortable womanhood and she now gives the impression of being kindly, reliable and timidly brave in the face of adversary. She stands at around 5 foot 6 inches.

Personality: On the outside, Petra gives the appearance of being a strong, yet delicate woman who depends readily on others to defend her, but at the same time perseveres against the darkness of the world. She is seen to be kind and generous, using her money to aid many charities and the people of Aldira love and respect her. This, of course, is not the real her, or not entirely anyway.

Devious and confident, Petra has spent her life under observation of the public eye and quickly learned that the people are her card. She is highly emphatic, knowing how to read people and to turn their desires to her own means, which she does frequently. She is determined at all costs to have the throne for herself as she sees it as her right and can not stand the thought of dwindling out into harmless obscurity. Petra is, however, also patient. She knows the benefits of observing a situation and using others as tools instead of getting one's own hands dirty.

There are many layers to Petra and most of them are black. She cares nothing for individual lives, instead looking to the bigger picture which involves her ruling everyone. Her desire to have others love her is enough that she would be a benevolent ruler, granting all the requests of her citizens and soon draining the treasury until there would not be enough money for the more important, serious matters. In short, she would be disastrous and her selfish, needy ways would soon lead the kingdom to ruin. In short, Petra is not practical enough to run a country. She does, however, have intelligence enough to persuade others that she is.

History: Petra was born to the older sister of the late Queen Erika. It was generally accepted that Leida would inherit the throne and then it would pass to the sweet, intelligent girl child who would in turn be queen. So for the first eight years of her life, Petra was raised a princess. She was spoiled, she was loved and she was paraded around in front of the citizens. Petra grew accustomed to the attention and it was as much a part of her life as her lessons were. But then tragedy struck. Princess Leida fell ill and died swiftly, leaving her sister Erika in line to the throne and subsequently her children.

The public were not so much devastated by Leida's death, since Erika was well loved amongst them, but they were charmed by the eight year old Petra who mourned her mother with a grave seriousness. After this, Petra was somewhat removed from the court by her father who thought it best if she be known as 'Lady' as opposed to Princess. He came from more humble backgrounds, only a lord himself, but had little idea of how to raise his daughter. So he left her to her own wills.

Even at such a tender age, Petra wanted the throne. She had been promised it and didn't understand how or why it had been pulled from her grasp. And so she set off on her journey. She knew she had to keep up appearances with the public which was easy enough for the first few years since her mother's death was fresh in the citizens' minds and their pity for her endeared the child to their hearts, so much more than their new royal family. However, when the queen died and Erika took the throne, things started to change. Petra started to be forgotten.

Petra's father was well known in every social circle and loved for his honour and his generosity. His marriage to Leida had been a welcome one in the eye of the public. Now Petra had no need for a father. He didn't teach her anything and she felt that he didn't love her, couldn't love her after her mother's death. Besides, Petra had been cherished much more by the servants and the public than her father. Petra was twelve when his illness started. Obtaining a poison was an easy matter for those with the money and resources. And Petra was back in the public eye. Poor, dear sweet Petra who had not only lost her mother but now cared for her father with an enduring loyalty and a brave outlook.

This was her charade for many years and still her father lingers in ill health, never well enough to leave his bed chamber and dosed frequently by her hand or that of a trusted servant. Petra also took up charity work when she neared her twenties and has spent almost a decade building up her good name and a strong following for Lady Popplewell.

During all the commotion of Sibs1, Petra observed from a safe distance, knowing that the children would happily wipe each other out for her. Arianna's letter and request for her support is her opening. Petra has decided to descend on the court in full mourning attire and to accuse her cousin Sandor of hiring an assassin to kill his sister. She intends to portray herself as a dear friend of Arianna and in this way to get Sandor out of the way. Petra is cunning though and hopes to fool Sandor into truly believing her grief and anger, into believing that she believes what she says. This would be beneficial as it would hopefully blind Sandor to her true purpose. Then she would attack Derrick through his heart. Petra intends to see if she can first encourage her cousin to fall in love with her and marry her, leaving him as her puppet while she sits the throne. Alternatively she will have him killed if that's what it takes.

Other: Petra's strength is in her strong following and her use of servants and assassins. Her weakness is her neediness and her belief that she can make anyone love her. It would be reasonably easy for someone to pretend they are under her control but not be. It would also devastate her to hear a few home truths, such as her cousins do not love her, she is alone in the world, she will lose the throne and then have nothing etc.

Following in Jagg's quite sensible footsteps...

Name: Garis (now also known as Baron Bullhollow)

Age: Somewhere in his early 20s; being an orphan, he doesn't know his birthday or -year

Gender: Male

Appearance: Lithe and quite small for his age, Garis' light and delicate build used to be one of his greatest assets when assassinating. Not only did he appear fairly harmless in a fight (a very misleading impression), but it allowed him to get into places and positions other larger, more muscular folk could not, and he often passed himself off as being younger. Nowadays, he finds his slight build more a source of annoyance since most of the ladies of the court are close in height, and they tend to prefer men that are taller than they are.

Garis has almost-platinum blond hair, which he dyes various colors according to his mood/outfit, and hazel eyes, which tend more towards the greenish-gray side of the spectrum. He can be considered quite attractive and a charmer, though he's currently considering investing in several pairs of height-boosting footwear to compensate for his lack of vertical appeal.

Personality: He used to be a cold-blooded killer in it only for the money, but you'd never know that just by meeting him. Garis is extremely personable, and you'll rarely find him alone, especially now that he's (mostly) retired and throwing parties left, right, and center. Garis enjoys being the center of attention and makes a point of having many "friends" in high places; the higher the "friend", the better the favors, after all. Those he considers true friends are few and far between, but Garis is quite loyal to them in his own way; if he really likes a person, he'll ensure they at least survive any of his orchestrations somewhat intact (though just how intact and whether anyone they care for survives as well is another matter entirely).

Despite his almost non-stop flirting, Garis really isn't all that interested in women; he just likes the attention. As a result, he has been known to dress quite flamboyantly and to dye his hair outlandish colors. He also has quite the reputation for knowing the best places to go to have a good time and, more recently, has made his newest residence one of the places to go for said good time.

All this frivolity goes out the window, however, when he's conducting business. In those cases, he's dead serious -- after all, a quick kill (metaphorically speaking... most of the time) means a quick payoff, and he's quickly discovering that political payoffs can be just as lucrative (or even moreso) than the payoffs he garnered from assassination.

History: Orphaned at an early age, Garis grew up an urchin on the streets, picking pockets and conducting petty thievery to survive. He became especially skilled at sneaking into and out of places unseen. Never one to be content with what he had, Garis looked to join the military as soon as he was old enough, though it took him several tries before the recruiters would believe he was of age. Once within the military, however, the skills Garis had acquired as a thief served him well, and he was quickly chosen as a candidate for espionage and/or assassination, though he was eventually deemed too "loud" to be a spy after a certain series of fiascoes in a particular tavern.

It was during a night out on the town that Garis met Sandor and, over the course of a couple drinks and some crazy antics neither of them can quite recall, became friends with the bastard prince, though he was unaware of Sandor's history at the time. He found out shortly after, though, which only gave him even more reason to continue being Sandor's friend. Over the years, however, the friendship has become more genuine on Garis' side, and the ex-assassin has become quite fond of Sandor, in his own way. This affection has also been extended to Prince Derrick in some part.

Currently, Garis serves under Sandor's direct command, when he's not off doing various Baron-y things that involve monitoring cattle exports, making sure taxes are collected, and throwing wild parties every month (or more). Only Sandor and a select few others are aware of Garis' past as an assassin and the exact role he played in Derrick's ascension to the throne, and he would much rather things stayed that way.

Other: Though Garis can hold his own in straight combat, he prefers sneak attacks and trick moves; basically, he fights dirty. Garis will do anything and everything to win a fight and/or survive since his main ambition is to be successful in life, and you can't be successful if you're dead.

Now that Garis has officially retired, he quite happily occupies himself with throwing parties and doing rich people things in addition to managing his small (and distant from the Capitol) barony of Bullhollow.

Name: Gregory

Age: 34

Gender: Male

Appearance: Tall and muscley, though he seems to be a bit... disporportionate. His arms seem just a few inches longer than they should be, and his neck is long and unnaturally thick. He has very high cheek-bones, muddy brown eyes and dark, thinning, brown hair that he usually keeps back in a short ponytail. The greys that are "already" popping up scare him half to death. His feet are smaller than one might expect from somebody of his size, which he tries to hide by getting shoes that are too big and stuffing them with whatever he can find.

He's got a nice scar on the side of his neck- a foe's almost-not-failed-attempt at slitting his throat. He's also the owner of a few upper-arm, side, and leg scars. He doesn't know whether to be proud or ashamed of them.

Personality: Once an avid partier, and a person who needed people in order to thrive, the craving to be within a group is still there. He can't stand being alone for more than a few hours at a time, and will go out of his way to socialize with anybody he can. Unfortunately, most people get sick of him after a while- he has a tendency to ramble on and on about his accomplishments, hardly pausing to breathe between sentences. He gloats endlessly, and has a history of aiding people in their development of a twitch.

He's famous for his excessive amount of pride, and his ego has grown to the point where he's almost delusional. His assumption that he can overcome anyone and do anything has grown substantially over the years. If he sees a situation that he thinks needs taking charge of, you can bet that he'll be the first one to rush "to the rescue," and automatically dub himself capable of every task it hands him. Unfortunately, if there isn't somebody there controlling what he does and what he jumps into, he tends to go a bit nuts. He listens to those he dubs worthy of listening to, and walks all over those that he doesn't.

His pride is a set-back, and since people try to avoid it as much as possible, he often lacks the crowds of fans that he craves. Without somebody standing right next to him, he grows depressed and anxious.

History: Born into a wealthy family, Gregory's quite used to the "good life." His father was in the military before him, and being the first-born son, he was encouraged to follow in his father's footsteps. He did so willingly. His child-hood was spent fantasizing about what heroic feats he would perform, of the foes he would vanquish. From an early age, he was pestering the servants and any company that they had with his star-eyed wishes and pre-planned life scenarios.

Of course, as soon as he was old enough, he enrolled. Thanks to his father, who had taught him a thing or two when he had the time, Gregory was admitted right away. Despite his blooming pride issues, those he respected enough to obey helped him to move up. He never under-mined those that he respected, and it was the only humility in him.

He's been away, campaigning in the south for what seems - to him - like forever. The only good thing that he found there was a pretty girl that took a liking to him. Unfortunately, he found out that she was engaged a short while ago. He's still sore about it, perhaps more because it hurt his pride than any other reason.

His reaction upon returning was anything but good. He sees this entire thing as a mess-- one that can't be stopped without his interferance, of course. Oh yes, he's plotting to "fix thing." Heaven and probably everybody else, too knows that that isn't a good thing.

Other: As soon as he notices that the people don't find him befriendable, he turns to alchohol. The taste, the light-headedness, it's all so very comforting. He's been known to drink himself unconscious, and his hangovers leave him testy and extremely sick to the stomach. Red wine is a personal favorite.

If he can't get his hands on alcohol, he'll run off on his own to heaven-knows-where to do heaven-knows-what. Usually, he's sticking to untamed terrain, jogging and working himself until he can't think straight anymore. Aftewards, he'll lock himself in his room and sleep everything off. By morning, he seems to be fine and extremely irritating dandy all over again.

We're starting, even though not all the profiles are up. They're out/NPC until their creators come back, as we are on a time limit!

Vivian

It would be nice to spend time at the palace again. Without having to worry about Sandor biting her head off for just being there.

No guarantee what he'd do once she told him why she was there. At least this visit, she could get Derrick to keep her at the palace no matter what Sandor said. She'd noticed, over the past few months, that whatever Derrick said Sandor went along with.

She always knew that act of kindness would be one of the best favours to cash in.

No surprise that the passage she'd used all since arriving was still clear. She'd made sure of that in her first visit to Derrick.

As much as she wanted to go see Sandor first— alone— it would be much safer to go see Derrick first. Then the king could ease his brother into the idea and Sandor would be stuck with her. After what happened six months ago, and the subsequent time spent avoiding him every chance she got... the idea of having to work with him again made her smile. He had always been just paranoid enough to work to her advantage, this time, but he was always missing something— like the passage inside the palace she was now slipping in through— to not pose too much of a threat.

In the hallway leading to Derrick's room, she heard two voices coming from the space behind his open door. Both were very familiar, although one much less so than the other because of a long absence.

She smiled and leaned in the doorframe. "Why hello Sandor. Fancy meeting you here."

Sandor
It must be an universally-recognized fact that stubborn younger brothers were a pain. Especially when they insisted on doing dangerous things like going anywhere without at least two layers of chainmail under their clothes actually going about their kingly duties refusing their big brother's insistent demands to increase security and pulled out the Look to make him fold.

You'd think I'd know how to resist it by now, he thought to himself with a wry sort of resignation, and gave up. For now. He was turning to leave when Derrick's eyes flicked to the doorway behind him, widened just slightly. Who—?

It took a second for the voice to register. You must be kidding me she wouldn't dare—

Apparently, yes. Yes she would. The moment he'd turned and set his eyes on her he was moving, a snarl rising in his throat... only to be caught mid-lunge by Derrick's sudden bark of "Don't!". Training and obedience won over rage and instinct; he stilled, eyes flicking between his brother and the woman.

She laughed. Sandor glared. Derrick sighed: "Vivian, please do not antagonize my brother."

That smile was still on. "I'm just having a little fun."

Sandor really didn't like where this was going. "Derrick. Why is she here?" And why aren't you letting me kill her on the spot? remained unsaid, but clearly implied.

The look that came on Derrick's face was the one he used to wear when trying to talk himself out of trouble by giving a Perfectly Reasonable Explanation For This I Swear to their mother. Sandor braced himself.

"She's here on my invitation," Derrick said.

Sandor had words for this. Lots of them. Not a single one would be acceptable in polite company or company of any kind, really. In an admirable display of self-restraint, he kept them to himself. "And of course you would have warned me of it, it just slipped your mind, right?"

"I can take care of my own business, Sandor."

His teeth were grinding. "She killed our sisters."

"They tried to have me killed first."

Thank you for reminding me of that. He would have dug his heels in about the issue, but suddenly he was very aware that they had a very smug, amused-looking audience. Not giving you the satisfaction.

"Fine." He drew himself to rigid posture, ignored the nagging sense of betrayal in him. "Deal with that business of yours, and don't come crying to me when she stabs you in the back."

One last glare in the woman's direction, and he was out, making a point to let as much space between him and her as was humanly possible when he crossed her in the doorway and to slam the door behind him, more strongly than strictly necessary. Was it too soon for a drink? Probably.

Petronella

I had given no warning of my arrival and knew that the ploy would only work if I descended on the brothers first and straight away, without stopping to gather any intelligence from my servant William. It was a bother but something I would have to deal with and, as my carriage arrived, I tucked the small hand mirror away. I felt satisfied that enough tears and make-up smudges were in place to give me a distressed and dishevelled appearance without taking anything away from my beauty or my tender grace. My poor cousins would be defenceless against my charms.

I did not wait for the carriage door to be opened but burst forth and held the black skirt of my dress up, storming toward the castle. The dress itself was a simple looking thing with minimal lace but of a fine material and even finer craftsmanship. It was perfectly demure and seductive at the same time. I ignored the startled calls of 'My Lady' that followed me. I ignored the offered arms of guards and brushed aside everything as I made my way to the throne room. I knew where it was of course, though this was my first time in the building in many years. I almost halted but I knew that if I stopped and looked around I would be overcome by a sense of nostalgia. I reached the big, gilded double doors and was stopped by the men on guard. Gently, one of them put his gauntleted hands on my arms and held me in place.

"My Lady," he was saying somewhat awkwardly. "My Lady, Lady Popplewell, by the Gods, what is it?" I blinked and allowed the familiar sound of his voice to draw me out of my pretended madness. I looked at him and thought I recognised something of those care worn features, something of the deep-set blue eyes and the thinning beard I used to twist between my fingers.

"Stanningway," I murmured. I couldn't have planned it better myself.

"What troubles you, My Lady? Please, accept the court's hospitality before you see the king. You are clearly tired and-"

"I must see him," I broke in, my voice trembling but quiet and sharp. It was not lady-like to sound shrill and the effect could be managed so much more easily with a little trembling. "I must warn him. I must- all is not right in this court, all is not right at all." I allowed the tears to prickle at my eyes and my voice softened for just a moment but then I reinforced it. "I will see him. I will break down this door if I must =. Let me go - announce me. Do your job and let me see the king!" I struggled valiantly against his steel armour. I could feel the bruises developing on my arms already and then his grip stiffened. There were footsteps behind me. I did not turn to look but pretended I had not noticed and continued with my charade.

Roan

He certainly hoped this armor didn't destroy his shoulders.

Roan adjusted the reflective breastplate draped over his shoulders and poked out his belly, trying to fill in the shell armor...to no avail. The poor lad was close to having a fashion and identity crisis all because of one game of stealthily find the quickest routes to each of the important quarters while the lady plays Miss Crazy. All-in-all, it was underwhelming. It lacked luster. It lacked blood.

But altogether, Roan couldn't be more pleased with what he saw. Spoils lined the halls in the form of precious paintings and urns--God only knew their contents--and even a modest, only-nearing priceless tapestry here and there. Maybe, if he did his jobs well enough, Sweet Poppy would let him have a few moments to play sticky fingers after all the mopping had been done.

Speak of the she-devil.

A quick spurt of melodrama and hamming so rich it needed gravy seeped from the passageway beside Roan like floodwaters. Perhaps the lady could benefit from acting lessons.

No matter, Roan thought, and trudged onward in his stolen armor, rounding the corner in sharp cadence to match the beat the armor's previous owner had set. He was in route to find the "King's" chambers--a place probably so heavily guarded that a window entrance would be required--and then to find his brother's, that name that always reminded Roan of the coastal Kingdom.

Sandor. Poppy hadn't liked saying his name at all. Maybe he had neglected a gift on a birthday...it seemed a viable enough reason to garner her hatred.

It certainly doesn't take much, he thought. What's this?

A scent so obscure, so delicate and low-profile that it only came to those who had actually been injected with the bastard before--a potion, no doubt, that would belong to a fellow assassin who had connection, who had power. It was a sleeping potion that's recipe was nigh upon impossible to crack.

Entriken's Doze.

Mmh. It was tempting. Deviously tempting and so damned nearby that Roan would consider suicide before passing it up...but the mission at hand. However!

The room was void of life from what Roan could tell...and approaching in cadence. Choices.

Roan nabbed the door's knob and slid silently into the room, closing it swiftly behind him. And the room, devastatingly, was empty. Oh, Roan swore beneath his breath and clenched his fist, making the plate metal between his fingers squeak with pressure. But the scent lingered, and that piqued his curiosity. After all, Entriken's Doze was certainly worth concealing, especially if it had a purpose later...which implied that nefarious intentions were afoot.

So the remaining thoughts to piece together:

1. Whose doze hides from me?
2. What is the purpose of this doze?
3. Who, then, shall be dozing?

Roan clicked his foot against a cobblestone and grinned as it shook loose, just as expected. He knelt and retrieved the tiny bottle from the flooring, peeling back a strip of parchment rolled against the head of the vial.

Click. Roan shirked the vial into his breastplate and covered the cobblestone where it once had been, stowing his breath to the back of his throat. The faint smell of a woman passed by the room, lingering before the door as her shadow did the same. Roan steeled himself to snap a neck or two, but the shadow passed with delicate, dancer's footsteps. He choked back his breath and waited for her to further pass before relaxing.

The doze was worth it.

Vivian

The room was disturbed. That should not have happened. A room this far back should never be disturbed, with servants not bothering to clean a room that was never used. But there was no mistaking the smell of Entriken's Doze was stronger than it should be for hiding under a cobblestone.

She knew going to into the room the doze was actually in was a very bad idea. Whoever thought to come this way was looking for something. Vivian was not about to risk getting caught in a back room where a body was too easy to stuff away.

Chances are, she knew this place better than he did. A few steps down the hall— far enough to relax whoever had most likely just stolen the doze, not so far she'd lose them— and she waited. Still not far enough to approach once he got into sight, but she couldn't risk that he wouldn't move as she predicted. Even though it was fun playing cat and mouse normally, she just couldn't afford it this time.

Vivian waited as a man in too big armour— stolen, from the looks of it— went past. She kept her distance as he made his way through the castle, always ready to duck out of sight. He was looking around too much. Trying to keep in front of such a person— able to carry himself as a guard with ease— and keep her loyalty to Derrick, would be far too much fun. It was hard not to smirk.

Despite the subtle cues that he didn't belong in the palace, he held himself surprisingly well. She'd have to watch for him, should he decide that assassination was the next step from stealing. While keeping in front of a thief was entertaining, she just didn't have time for another assassin past Garis. And he wasn't even a threat anymore.

Finally. He was in a safe part of the palace. She smiled, thinking of what act to play.

"Excuse me?" she called from behind him, every ounce a lost noblewoman. "Could you please show me where the large ballroom is?" Not a prayer she was about to show him the noble's wing. He had enough prizes from the hall he'd gone by already.

He turned, surprised to see her, before smiling and motioning for her to come forward. Like a gentleman. "Of course, M'Lady..."

Vivian smiled and glided up to him. "Elizabeth Kirkwood." And another favour was cashed in.

"M'Lady Kirkwood," the man finished. He walked next to her in silence, not wanting to give anything away and Vivian not about to pull anything out of him. But now, it was time to truly play.

She began angling her body slightly towards him. "Gentle knight, I can't thank you enough." A hand to his cheek, causing him to slow down as her arm went across his body. "Maybe, I could..."

He pushed her hand down with a smile and a shake of his head. She felt an anomaly around his breastplate. Just enough to slip a vial in.

Vivian tried again. She slinked in front of him, using one hand by his face to distract him while she went for the empty space at the base of his breastplate. "Surely you want a small reward."

The man reached a hand up to her jaw. Too late, Vivian noticed the position of his hand out of the corner of her eye.

She gasped as he pressed on the pressure point in her neck, before dropping to the floor.

Roan

Bloody brilliant.

Roan hadn't much time. It was a quick snap to a quite obscure nerve that didn't even respond to most receptions--hot, cold, they were all the same to this one particular piece of the jaw. Roan knelt by the woman's body--Kirkwood's body--and slit a swatch of fabric from her seams, just enough to emulate her size and scent. From his breastplate, he retrieved the small fabric that had been stowed in the bottle of Doze. Any false positives to get this family away from Poppy was a good false positive. Roan slid the parchment in between the woman's breasts and smirked as he stowed the cloth of her tunic into the bottle.

Clicks rang down the hall as another guard neared, platemail clanging between toes and stone with each step. Roan exhaled and stowed himself behind a closed door as the knight neared. A quick gasp, platemail hitting the floor as he took a knee by the fair lady, and Roan began to slip from his armor, easing each piece to the floor soundlessly. He stopped his retreat as the cold touch of closed glass chilled his bare shoulders. He turned, slipping his feet out of the metal shoes, and peered out the window. A classic moat rested far below his window; Roan watched for bubbles and movement. There was nothing, which meant the royalties that be didn't care too much about crocodiles and protection.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, Roan steeled himself and slid the vial of doze and the stolen cloth into the backside of his tights, shivering at the slip of cold glass against his skin. Roan scanned the room with faint blue eyes, needing to cover his newfound escape route...and bingo.

Swiftly, he took hold of a mirror on the adjacent wall, heaving it behind him into the window sill to conceal his point of exodus.

Perfect. Fit.

He was getting lucky, but he couldn't rely on it beyond this point. Roan crouched and unlatched the window in front of him, watching out over the twilight as he prepared for his plummet. He couldn't shake the idea of a shallow moat from his head--the thought that he would land in just a foot or two of water and become nothing but a smudge on the stone floors. The man shivered and closed his eyes, breathing quietly. Behind him, in the room that now apparently had no windows, a door opened. It was probably the guard, probably just a patrol looking for the man who had downed poor little...not-what's-her-name. Roan froze and awaited possible capture...

...and the door closed, leaving no one in the room.

Poppy will enjoy this story he thought, and grinned. The sunset air raised goosebumps on his skin and he wished he had thought to retrieve more clothes from the woman, but it was trivial at this point, and he had to be gone. He had at least a third of the castle scouted at this point, and one or two more scouting missions wouldn't kill him.

He hoped.

So with toes curled against the edge of the stone, Roan pointed his body and dove into the open air, plummeting like a skinny, white, half-naked arrow into the water with hardly a splash.

The water was deep, dark, and cold. He forced open his eyes beneath the water and searched for the sewer drain that was always present in moats--the drain that would be his escape route into catacombs or a dungeon or some dragon's lair--and there it was, sucking him nearer.

Running low on breath as he was, Roan crouched over the drain and heaved, exerting far too much force on the heavy bronze bars. His breath escaped him and the bars gave way, the suction of the sewer pulling him in without mercy.

Roan closed his eyes and readied himself to drown.