HALF IN LOVE

It’s mere happenstance, coincidence, circumstance, but there she is, and there he is, looking right at her. Every time Armel comes across Naenia, and perhaps Levana as well (although less so, as she’s made something of a pet out of him, which he isn’t sure how to approach at all) fear coils itself up in the center of his chest like a snake, the fleet-footed sensation of panic quick to try and climb into his throat. It’s... not his favorite thing in the world, and so he thinks himself lucky to not have to face it as often as others might. He’s had an inquiry, lingering in the back of his head for some time, however, and so it is here that he makes the decision to stand his ground.

He approaches, long legs carrying him over in a matter of moments. 

“Might I ask you something?” Perhaps it’s too quaint, too shy, too meek for his usual behavior, but the reality is that he is terrified of death and all that accompanies it. When he meets his end, there is no doubt in his mind he will act a fool. To meet someone who so openly defies it, day by day, just by breathing... It’s mind-boggling. Yes, he’s met a few Necromancers in his travels, but they’d all been so decrepit they’d looked like they’d fall apart with a warm breath. He hadn’t tried. His line of inquiry isn’t dissimilar from what he often asks Levana, time and time again, but every time he asks, the answer is never quite the same. It might be the anxious beast in him, or the charismatic one, but he’s always felt the need to pick apart words until there’s nothing left even for the carrion birds.

recorded  /  several days past the tourney with  /  open​

Tension tied knots around her spine, but Meraud refused to let it overtake her. The whispers hadn’t ceased in the court since the tourney, endless discussions of the day’s events, of the violent, abhorrent thing which had taken place. She’d not witnessed it, changing out of her soiled gown as she had been, but she’d hear of it, oh, far more times than she wished to count. It didn’t bear thinking of, frankly — she’d forbade the girl who tended her morning fire from speaking of it, and she just couldn’t understand why the court was so consumed with something so awful.

Even now, seated as they were scattered about the courtyard, morning sun peeking through clouds that’d plagued Tyrholm for weeks, she could hear tentative murmurs, of fire, of the King… She had little interest in any of it, vastly preferring far lighter, far less political topics — fashion, art, trade, none of which seemed to be to be of much interest to any of the groups around her, much to her disappointment. Well. She could certainly change that. Smoothing a furrowed grimace into a polite, neutral expression, Meraud turned to the person nearest her, offering them a polite topic that had nothing to do with that damned tourney. “I grow rather tired of such stressful topics in the morning, don’t you? The new shipment of fabrics they’ve received down at the docks, however… Simply gorgeous, and the needlework is exquisite. I attend the Tyrholm seamstresses’ new creations with them with baited breath, I must confess.”

The weather in the courtyard’s not quite as abysmal as the weather in the past several days, and Armel finds himself rejoicing in what little sun peeks through the clouds. It’s not warm, necessarily, not by any means. But it’s enough to spur him to step out from the tall walls of Castle Tyrholm and into the open world, and it is here that he finds a former pupil -- Meraud, of course, always Meraud, her gaze cast elsewhere. Others speak of politics, current events, things which weigh heavily on their shoulders. Armel doesn’t think he’s seen anyone less interested, even from afar.

LOVEFOOL!

When it comes to Saif, there is no recompense or remorse. There only is and is not. Plainly stated facts. Yes and no. Saif is Guard-Captain: yes. Saif is good at his job: in theory, yes. There’d be no reason otherwise to keep him in his position, were it not for the fact that Septimus calls on him like a dog. He points, and Saif does. That’s the case as far as he can tell, and while it might not be a pretty one, it’s on display for all to see. Armel’s particularly fond of picking apart Saif’s failures, when the opportunity presents itself, has been for a while. 

He’s got his pants on, now, at the very least, and is fumbling with the buttons of his shirt -- fumbling being the most apt of words, really, given his lack of coordination. The air in the office is cool, but the light reflected on Saif’s face from the lamps is warm, and if he had some vellum or a pen he might scratch out petty words of poetry. Mindless scraps, things that float around in the space between his ears when he’s not really thinking. Something something statue-like, morose and sorrowful, caught in intense thought. Not quite the way you want to see someone after you’ve just had sex, but he’s had worse experiences. It might just be that Saif’s face does that, even when relaxed.

CHAPTER I – THE BURNING MAN. setting: the Rosewood Maiden dating: the eight of the tenth month, sometime in the evening with: #dishonoredstart / open

The Rosewood Maiden remained a port of revelry, despite the Grand Tourney and the ashes left in its wake. Come here, its cheerful windows seemed to say. Wax candles cast merry shadows on the cobblestones outside, as fern frost slowly laced itself across the glass. The somber spirit that laid over Tyrholm could only linger at the door, here – a ghost kept at bay by cups of brandy and the sound of laughter.

A much-loved deck of cards was splayed out across lacquered rosewood, a magpie’s hoard of prizes swept to Zoya’s side of the table. She rarely played for coin: she favoured oddities & trinkets instead, stories & song. The evening’s winnings so far included a silver brooch shaped like a lyre, and six stanzas on the merits of ale against fainting spells – and her personal favourite, a little figurine of an ermine, which its previous owner swore brought good luck. ( ”Can’t be much left in it, then,” Zoya had said, pocketing it; her eyes glimmering as she watched them sputter & flush red in anger. )

So far, no one had managed to win her own proposed stakes: a set of dice carved from bone. Their symbols had been painted to look like actual eyes, inlaid with a shimmering, deep green pigment. As the last of her would-be opponents scampered off, she finally turned her attention on a familiar face.

“Ah! Care to join me for a game of Fox’s Gambit?”

“–– Or are you here for something else?” Idly – and yet with surprising grace despite it – she waved to the chair across from her, not a command but an invitation: come, sit.

Armel’s opportunity to leave the Castle grounds is nothing short of a miracle siphoned out of a handful of guards and the offering of coin to have them look the other way. They do, eventually, turn their heads -- at the cost of a few bitter comments under their breath. He has no idea in particular as to how he’ll be getting back in, but that’s a problem for the future, and not necessarily the current moment.

It comes naturally to him to visit The Rosewood Maiden; stepping over the threshold brings an immediate sensation of warmth and welcoming. Most here know his face, if not all of them, and that’s in part thanks to Zoya -- who’s dug her claws in to this establishment with all the passion of a dedicated lover. He climbs the stairs in search of her and finds her exactly where he’d expect her to be: sitting in the storm’s eye of chaos. She’s got her hoard, much like a dragon, shoved to the side, and has the look of a pleased hound full on their last meal of the day.

He doesn’t even think before approaching, even when his pockets are empty, settles in the chair and slumps down with his legs kicked out in front of him. Eyes rove over the set -- the cards set in silver and gold, reflecting amber hues from the lights in the room, the occasional drop of ale on the surface. They’re pretty, at first, seemingly thoughtless in intent or effect.

“Some do,” Francis replies, misunderstanding the nature of Armel’s question. “Love for the Undying manifests itself in many ways. Alas, I do not.”

Francis does not like the way the Temple sounds on Armel’s tongue. He has no right to speak of it, they think, not after the chaos he caused there. And yet– the bard does not seem to recognize Francis. Many moons have passed since their first meeting, of course, but Francis has not once forgotten. Surely the Undying God has not, either.

“If I recall correctly, the Temple is where you inspired three men to forgo their faith in Undeath,” Francis comments. They use his word– inspire– on purpose. As a weapon, perhaps. Francis is not a fighter, not at their core, but Armel ( and here’s that word again ) inspires a kind of fight within them. Armel cannot turn them away from their God, with neither a lute nor a saber. Francis’ faith in the Undying is stronger than that, too strong to be broken by just one man’s honeyed voice. They are sure of it.

They look at Armel, both curiosity and distrust visible in the lines of their face. 

“Is that what the Temple called you to do?”

Armel’s never met someone so deeply entrenched in faith that he felt he could trust, and maybe, at the quick of it, that is the issue here. When you put all your eggs in one basket, he thinks, and the basket inevitably collapses, do you blame yourself? Or do you blame the basket?

The obvious answer differs for many people. Followers of Undeath, however, seem intent on only ever blaming the basket.

The Temple had not been... an intentional visit, he supposes. He’d just wanted to see, hadn’t intended on staying, and those who perhaps had different plans for themselves trailed after. It’s just that simple.

His brows climb high on his forehead. It seems they are hurtling quite quickly towards some sort of confrontation, and the pieces then seem to click into place. Ah, he thinks, this is how you know me. It’s a conversation he’s had many a time over the years: You seduced my brother, my wife, my husband, my sister, my cousins, my friends. Maybe it’s here that the problem lays its roots. It’s always Armel’s fault, and never anyone else’s.

morning 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖆𝖒𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖘 with @bardglory​

       𝓤nlike the harp, the only other string instrument she knows, the lute requires finger muscles she does not possess. She has been trying, under Armel’s tutelage, to grow those muscles, but it has not been easy. Now, she strums with melancholy as she stares out over Tyrholm, anxiety a thready drum within her ribs. There is no way to gather the city she views into her arms, to take the kingdom itself and whisk it away somewhere her father can never find it again. She thinks, as she has for days, about how miserable one must be to want to die simply to know that you took someone with you.

The thought fills her with lingering, heavy dread.

A discordant noise comes from the lute and she frowns, staring down at her fingers as though they’ve betrayed her. Normally she would dangle her legs over the edge, but with all that’s happened, her Coterie has recommended she sit more safely. She turns the instrument over and over in her hands before settling it in her lap once more, plucking away her melancholy as though it will give her succor.

She doesn’t notice her tutor himself until she’s almost upon her, but she turns to him with a wan smile when he’s close enough to swim into her vision. ❝ Morrow, ❞ she greets, for it doesn’t feel particularly good. ❝ You’ve risen early today, Armel. Is it a miracle, or trouble on the horizon? ❞

He’s gotten admittedly little sleep -- he tends not to be a lout, sleeping late in the day and settling in too late into the night, but with the events of recent happenstance... well, maybe his unrest just makes sense. The sun rises and is summarily covered by overcast weather before it’s had the chance to show itself in full, and Armel rises with it. Washes his face, combs his hair back in whatever manner it will allow, dresses modestly. Always modest, with the princess, when he can help it. He usually puts on a show, but with Aurelia there’s no real need. 

She’d see right through him, anyways. So he grabs his lute and his notes, stacks of papers shoved haphazardly between the spines of an empty book, descends upon the kitchens for breakfast. He eats quickly, and the food is more or less tasteless, which he thinks might be the effect of recent events, but there’s no real way to be sure. The food they give those in the dining hall is not unpleasant, just occasionally tasteless. If he wanted something richer, he might have stolen something off a plate headed for the receiving hall.

A few inquiries after the location of Her Highness points him towards the ramparts, and with his head swimming with the murky haze of exhaustion and desperation in trying to get itself in order, he climbs. Breaking out into the cool, fresh air is more a relief than anything else. The fog clears, even if the clouds are low, and he spies Aurelia sitting with her legs tucked behind her and her coterie as close as she’ll allow them. It’s going to be one of those days, then. Delightful.

With another – and particularly after the unfortunate circumstances of the day – Kithri might have responded to the insistence of being accompanied with a growling demand to be left alone. With Armel, she merely responded with a scoff and roll of her eyes: a display of mild irritation, but ultimately toothless. She did not necessarily call the bard a friend, but they had come to occupy similar positions at court despite the paths of their divergent lives; they were both chief amongst the King’s favored performances, albeit for different reasons. He understood, and yet he could never fully understand.

“I need not be subjected to another of your little melodies this evening, nor do I need your pity.” Kithri responded, turning the apple over in her hand before taking another bite from the ripe fruit. She had heard a whisper before that Armel had come from Hightown before exchanging his status for his lute – she doubted he could understand the years of hunger that remained an ever-fresh memory in Kithri’s mind. The bits of fruit she had gathered would have been a feast to her as a child, and she remembered as much to ward off gluttony. “This is as fine a last meal as any, bard.” 

Having called out her own elephant in the room, Kithri glanced his way briefly as they walked in the direction of her humble rooms. “If you have come for gossip, I have none. I did not do it.”

She rejects his offer summarily and he finds it stings, but on the surface level -- a slap on the wrist rather than a slap to the face. He hums, nods his acknowledgment, and tries to keep pace with her regardless. He is admittedly gluttonous in no small number of ways, has to curb the disappointment that builds in the pit of his stomach that she would so quickly set his offer aside. That will be something to worry about later, he thinks, when he’s not trying to wheedle words out of her the way someone might squeeze blood from a stone. He’s under no disillusion that it will work. He know it won’t. Her tongue, however barbed, is often kept to herself.

“I think you’ll live to see tomorrow, you know,” because he does, and then: “half the men in this place are too stupid to even put two-and-two together. It won’t be the guardsmen you’ll have to worry about.” The Captain of the Guard, however capable he professes to be, is going to take some time before pulling himself together. Armel’s almost entirely sure of it. “There are other things to worry about. Other people, I should say.” The corridors are warm from torchlight, and Kithri herself seems to radiate heat by default. He tries not to think about tugging at the neck of his collar, the heavy fabric that covers the start of his throat.

The library -- as a concept, really -- has always fascinated him. Endless spines of books and towers of novels and bits and pieces of history, all crammed into what one might otherwise consider a small space. The shelves make it look vast, to say the very least, and when he walks from section to section it’s easy for him to feel as though he is treading across the grassy terrain of a thick forest, tree trunks on all sides, branches overhead in place of lights. It is here that he finds himself most often caught in his imagination, and if he is really feeling down on his luck in terms of writer’s block, he comes and finds a quiet spot, prays that no one will come close enough to bother him.

Usually, he’s successful. Not always, but usually. There’s an errant pair of lovers, occasionally, or gossips in the shape of nobles, never anything worth eavesdropping on -- even if he eavesdrop anyways. 

His Majesty is known to visit, apparently, from time to time. Not to educate himself, obviously, or read up on the lore of the very world he resides in, but instead to bother the antiquarian and look at the baubles he’s collected over time. Armel can’t say he blames him; he’s done much the same thing. Far less directly, of course, from afar, but there’s undoubtedly something alluring in artifacts shaped from steel or blown from glass. It’s why he’s here today: he has nothing better to do right now than bother Feivel and see what the man has to say about the most recent turn of events; maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll get a story out of it. He enters without even the most remote of attempts to announce himself.

It shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that his first instinct is to seek Maiden out; in the midst of all the chaos and convolution which has ensued in the last twenty-four hours, Maiden seems like a port in a storm. Sure, it’s not a storm he’s necessarily been hit with, but he’s feeling the lasting effects of the bad weather anyways. In no less than a day it feels as though the world has been turned upside down. He weighs his options, do or don’t, as he plucks a fruit from a passing servant’s tray during his stroll from the kitchens up to somewhere that isn’t the kitchens. They shout in protest. Armel keeps walking. Maiden’s been a friend, to him, in his time at Castle Tyrholm, and maybe the only one he feels he can openly express his thoughts to. He has plenty of thoughts about the burned man.

Thus, Maiden. Thus, the greenhouse. He moves through the halls and corridors with the practiced ease of someone who feels they belong here even when they don’t -- it can be odd, at times, playing the fool and acting like one but still managing to blend in. No one so much as looks at him. What could he, a mere bard, someone who sings and dances on tables for no other reason than entertainment, do? He certainly hasn’t set anyone alight, and doesn’t particularly wish to see anyone beyond Septimus himself burn. He’d almost wished he’d caught flame, yesterday, the tactics and motives of his would-be assassin seem messy at best now that he’s thought about it.

Step one: light self on fire. Step two: run at the king. Step three: hope for the best? He mulls on the process as he opens the door to Maiden’s space and closes it behind him, is more than overjoyed to find her present even if it only means she might send him on his way as soon as he’s arrived. He strides across the room, looking for a place to put himself down with intent.

The barracks are busy. It’s not his favorite place in the Castle but it certainly is one of the most interesting and most active. Where the upper corridors, meeting rooms, and quarters are quiet, in the barracks it’s all noise. Around every corner there is a prime example of someone acting entirely, totally, utterly human. Not five minutes ago -- yes, he might have gotten lost, he’s not particularly familiar with the layout -- he’d watched a guard trip and fall over their own two boots, and their compatriots had only laughed and then gone to help them up. That sort of fellowship wouldn't occur anywhere else in the place, Armel thinks, especially if any members of the royal family were around.

He can see it now, picture it in his head with startling clarity: a guardsman trips and falls over their own two boots. Instead of laughter, there is silence. The worst kind, the one that tells you you’re well and truly on your own. Dead blank stares, a necessary distance between humanity and occupation. And, in their embarrassment, the head of the guardsman is called for. Dead within the hour. All the pieces fit into place like a truly awful puzzle. It’s happened before, he’s certain, and it can happen again. What does life matter when it comes at the cost of shame to some men with too much money?

He tries not to think about it too hard -- he’d been one of those men, once. Not anymore, but... still. Maybe he’s a hypocrite. It’s these thoughts that carry him forward, dwelling on the concept of hypocrisy and the stereotypes his mind can conjure up, up until he reaches the office of the Lieutenant of the Guard. He’d done some poking around, early, and found that her father had been one of his teachers at the college all those years ago. Good man, her father. Wise man. Had his head on his shoulders.

There are only so many pieces of poetry one man can write about horses before it all begins to blend into one large, amalgamous mass of incomprehensibility. Something something hair, something something marking, something something thunderous beasts, hooves, manes, and so on and so forth until the end of time. The stables, as a result, are not the best place to brainstorm pieces for composition, but Armel gives it his best go anyways. Why not settle down among hay and horseshit and feed and hope for the best? It doesn’t work, but... he’s trying.

The stables also happen to be one of the few places in Castle Tyrholm that the guardsmen tend to avoid. There are some nippy beasts of burden in here, to say the very least, and something about the shiny metal must be enticing. His eyes turn up, trying to conjure up a metapohor, away from the dapple-grey stallion munching on oats from inside a bag of feed -- and oh, joy of joys, look who it is. None other than Wraith, one of his current pursuant focuses. He’s been after them for no small amount of time, some years, in fact, and each and every time has been pushed to the side like fodder.

Not today, Armel decides. Definitely not today. Here, among the horses, they’ll have a discussion. Just one story is all he wants, and then he’ll be out of Wraith’s hair. Long, black hair, like silk, newly woven, yes, that’s something to write down--

He tends, unfortunately, to show up like a bad copper. Or that’s what he’s been told, at least. Like he’s been summoned up from nowhere at the worst possible time to stick his head directly where it shouldn’t be. It’s his favorite part of existing, really: getting in the way. Nothing feels better than to know he’s underfoot in as many ways as one can be. Truly. It gets him feeling all warm-and-fuzzy on the inside. He tucks away his pen and notepad into the small satchel strapped around his waist, slings it to the side, and stands. They don’t look much in the mood for conversation, but frankly, in Armel’s most humble opinion, they never do, and so he doesn’t find himself particularly daunted. He clears his throat as they come closer: “Wraith! So good to see you. Enjoying the day?”

It takes him near an entire week to finally track Reynaud down for a conversation. The prince has been notably difficult to get a hold of, and those who’ve managed to tell him where the man might be at any given time never arrive quickly enough for Armel to coordinate a happenstance meeting. The receiving hall is, blatantly put, not his favorite place to hold any sort of conversation, but dinner is done and guests in attendance are few in numbers. He spends some time people-watching; he watches as Lady du Pont misses her mouth with her spoon entirely, spilling soup right onto the bodice of her dress. Her husband is quick to furrow his brow and cover her while she desperately tries to sponge the broth up with a napkin. The man who’d been wiggling his eyebrows at her -- Armel doesn’t think he could name him if he tried -- averts his gaze.

There, at the end of the hall, sits Reynaud. His step-mother and father disappeared some time ago, excusing themselves from the meal at hand to do what Armel can only assume are better things than listen to a bard -- himself -- carry a tune. It takes some time, some patience, some plucking at strings, but Reynaud does eventually stand and look towards the doors with what Armel can only think to describe in his head as wanton longing. Everyone had witnessed the embarrassment at the tourney, everyone had seen the way the crown had fit on his head, lopsided and stained with mud, as if it was never meant to be there at all. Everyone except Armel, who’d been occupied with more important things.

It’s not often that he finds himself alone with the princess’ lady-in-waiting -- so often is she attached to Aurelia, as though they are bound to each other at the hip. This afternoon is the exception: here he stands, lyre and notes in hand (although the notes may as well be a tome, at this point, given their length and lack of brevity), ready to teach away... with no one to tutor. Aurelia’s been called away by some important business at the last second, having a fervid conversation with someone in her little sitting room judging by the hushed whispers from inside. The two guards at the doors stand rigid, spines tall, braced for anything... as though he might retrieve a knife from between his sleeves and run her through with it.

There’s a thought. An awful one. A laughable one. Aurelia is loved by her citizens, after all, and that’s good -- she might be looking after them, one day, hopefully a better shepherd than her father ever was. He wraps long fingers around the spine of the lyre, thinks of how she might be the only one loved by anyone in Tyrholm without force or threat of apprehension. The people, after all, have expressed their dissatisfaction by large. That’s more than evident, given the recent turn of events. He can still recall with no small amount of clarity the way the flames had licked at flesh, the way the smell stuck with you for hours, days afterwards. It’d been terrifying. No other way to describe it. Sometimes he’ll close his eyes and---

No matter. It might be best not to think of it at all. His lips flatten into a thin line, his brow furrows, and then he looks at Cleo, clears his throat. “How have you been, Lady Nystrom?”

Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such?

I’d say he’s definitely had dealings with depression, although that’s more an effect of the situation he’s in than it is a part of him he has to carry all the time -- something he knows he should be thankful for, but struggles with. It comes and goes in waves, for the most part, with winter seasons where he can’t leave Castle Tyrholm on a whim really doing some significant damage. He just appears mopey, to other people, but it’s like something in his brain won’t click. Writing becomes harder. He tends to spend more time in his room. He eats less -- or more, occasionally.

Biggest and smallest short term goal?

Biggest: finish this seventeen-part story-song he’s been sitting on for forever. He’s performed all the way up to part ten, and the narrative is really starting to ramp up, so the sooner he finishes it the better. Smallest: purchase a new lyre! He’s picky about quality, so this is easier said than done.

How do they express love?

Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging

He tries not to, as he knows it’s an unfortunate side-effect of his birthright -- indulgence, to Armel, seems natural, whether that takes the shape of sex or appetite or gluttonous need for something. But like most people, he can’t always help himself, and so usually his favorite indulgence entails tailoring and clothing; it’s become something of a running gag at this point -- he doesn’t show up in the reception hall in the same outfit more than once a week if he can help it. The finery serves as a look at me! sort of flair, too, because if there’s anything he likes to indulge in, it’s attention. Good, bad, doesn’t matter. He just likes being looked at.

Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress

For rituals: wake up, clean up, and then from the top up: socks, pants, undershirt -- if there’s no jacket, the undershirt usually has a WILD sleeve situation going on -- jacket, and then if he’s feeling fancy, maybe a hat with a feather in it. Shoes of varying height and flair. Jewelry always goes on last. That’s usually his preferred mode of dress, too. Same format, different pieces, every single time.

What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?

Makeup?

Sometimes, but not always! Usually it’s the outfits that dazzle and not necessarily his face --he might smudge on a bit of eyeliner of blush if he’s performing for a large crowd, but that’s more or less it.

Intellectual pursuits?

He’s got a fondness for the arts -- obviously -- so any of his free time goes there. If he’s not writing, he’s reading. If he’s not reading, he’s studying up on history in order to write about it; most of his songs, if not all of them, have some vein of religious or fantastical history to it. He’s not necessarily a history buff, I don’t think, but he’s always looking for that next piece, and historical texts are usually the best places to look.

If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal?