prince of snakes

ZOYA

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.

But they can rob a man blind. He smiles, and it’s genuine, something he can’t claim about half of his other grins throughout a day. “I don’t know if I’m much in the moods for cards, but I do have other things we can speak about.” He’s shameless in the way he waggles his brows, his cat-like posture, his comfort in a place that certainly is not his but feels like it is. He nudges at her foot underneath the table, all-too-teasing. “Would you like to hear it?”

It would be a lie to say she isn’t pleased that it’s Armel who has made his way to her table – and when it’s just the two of them, she has no need for dishonesty, doesn't have to dress herself in the marvelous little mummer’s outfit she’s made her life into. Call it history – or perhaps a blind spot – but her smile still matches his: genuine.

When he tells her he has other things they could speak of, she leans in, her interest immediately caught. "Do you, now,” Zoya says, planting an elbow on the table and resting her chin in the palm of her hand. She does not take her eyes off him: gazes, unabashed, from beneath a cover of dark lashes. Armel is all cat’s grace, lounging in his seat like the most confident of tomcats, and it suits him, as confidence should a bard. On someone else, it might not look so charming – and that, she finds, is a skill all its own. His foot finds hers below the table, and she shifts her hand, cocks her head to the side – and there it is, alight in her eyes: mischief; darkly satisfied, but not yet sated.

Would you like to hear it? “––Always.”

She nudges back, boot against boot, touch so light it might have been accidental – but her smile says otherwise, gleaming wicked at the edges. (Affectionately so, one might argue, but all daggers should be handled with caution, and Zoya is sharper than most.)

when: eighth of the tenth month, in the afternoon where: courtyard status: closed for @serpentcrown​

“You would think,” Valeria said lightly, as if it did not bother them in the slightest, “that the dreary weather would keep the courtyard empty.” Between each word, Valeria painted a clear picture of warning for Zoya: we are not alone. Guards scurried back and forth, encircling them as if they were flying from point A to B, rather than keeping a close eye on them all. Though Valeria could not know who they meant to study, she could not shake the feeling that Septimus was keeping an eye on her, and her alone. She could only wonder if it was to protect his pet prize, or if her traitorous heart was beginning to spill out from the cracks of her armor. Either way, it left Valeria prickling with paranoia.

The king’s relentless security grated on her nerves, and she found herself grinding her teeth with irritation at the sight of them. Many of them were her friends; she sparred with them, had profoundly knocked them on their backs and offered a hand to help them rise. Now, whenever they drew too close, Valeria wanted only to bare her teeth. There was nowhere to hide — there was nowhere to speak freely with Zoya, who alone bore their burdens and their jagged ambitions.

A princess accustomed to their orders being followed, Valeria could not stand it. “Has the investigation reached you, then?” Another veiled command: do not let it. 

“I suppose autumn deters no one, and neither does winter.” This cannot go on like this for much longer. Though eyes had a tendency to find Zoya for a rather impressive list of reasons, magical fire was not in her personal repertoire – and so she did not worry an undue amount about the increased number of guards currently circling the two of them. ( Besides, any thief worth the coin in their pocket had best keep calm near guards. ) “It has not,” Zoya answered, gazing up at Valeria out of the corner of her eye. Elegant, stoic Valeria, with their startling eyes and cheekbones cut from marble by caring hand. They would make a fine figure, sat on the throne.

–– What did irk her treasonous mind was the utter lack of privacy. The increased need for doublespeak – which, while she did enjoy it, did not do much for efficiency; a matter she thought Valeria might enjoy. But alas.

“You were rather formidable at the tourney,” Zoya began, taking a step to the side, eyes on her chosen regent. “You might not be one for boasting––” unlike your cousin “––but I’m certain the people of Lowtown might enjoy the sight of their champion victorious, if you’d permit yourself a visit.” If you are able… ?

serpentcrown:

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 casting merry shadows on the cobblestone 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 as she palmed it, eyes glimmering as she watched them sputter. )

So far, no one had managed to win her own stakes: a set of dice carved from bone, their symbols 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.

LITTLE  DREW  A  SMILE  to  such  tight  lips  as  the  rosewood  maiden.  two  sleepless  nights  –  no  different  than  the  others  pocketed  though  perhaps  particularly  fraught  with  tossing  and  turning  –  and  the  sellsword  had  finally  managed  some  time  to  himself.  he’d  never  known  a  job  more  demanding ,  he  had  complained  rather  brutishly  to  any  of  his  fangs  unlucky  enough  to  get  caught  in  conversation.  nor  any  more  exciting ,  like  an  echo ,  the  declaration  of  an  entire  crew ,  all  equally  desperate  to  see  their  captain  in  higher  spirits.  and  maybe  they  were  right.  maybe  there  was  something  to  celebrate.  

it  was  to  be  expected  that  the  rosewood  would  be  the  pack’s  first  stop ,  when  the  work  was  all  but  sorted  and  they  were  finally  unchained ,  let  back  into  the  streets  to  prowl  for  debauchery  once  more.  it  was  in  part  the  ale ,  the  wine  that  flowed  so  sweetly  down  dry  throats ,  the  service.  but  if  canis  were  to  be  honest ,  the  rosewood  was  mostly  a  place  to  enjoy  the  prince  of  snake’s  company.  crystalline  eyes  spotted  his  target  immediately ,  enjoying  herself  perhaps  a  bit  too  much  with  a  hefty  stack  of  reward  to  boot.  like  a  pirate  laying  siege  to  treasure ,  and  canis  knew  better  than  to  make  bets  with  zoya  by  now.  

still ,  he  sat  in  the  chair  now  abandoned  ( as  his  crew  sprawled  themselves  amongst  the  tavern ,  finally  free  to  do  as  they  pleased )  and  offered  a  nod.  little  more  greeting  was  necessary ,  frequent  comings  and  goings  and  just  as  frequent  chat  and  it  felt  as  casual  as  coming  home.  “if  i  have  to  listen  for  one  more  second  to  a  bunch  of  noble  pricks  hammer  on  about  unrest  in  the  kingdom ,  and  how  imperative  our  companies  are  now ,  i’m  drowning  myself  in  one  of  your  barrels.”  a  curt  nod  to  the  bar.  “which  doesn’t  sound  half  bad ..  besides  the  point.”  swift  as  a  fox  might  cut  through  brush ,  canis  pulled  a  scrap  of  charred  cloth  from  his  pocket.  “from  the  clothes  of  the  fire  lad.  think  it’s  got  any  worth  in  your  game?  what’re  we  playing ,  anyway?  i’m  feeling  lucky.”

The Second Fangs were a welcome presence in her tavern: she enjoyed their company and – selfishly – she also enjoyed the looks on any noble faces once Canis’ pack came through the doors. At his quip, her mouth curled into a smile, teeth showing. “Would have thought you’d be a drowned man already, hearing that,” Zoya said, “but patience is a virtue, I suppose.” And Canis, she thought, had to have a sizeable supply of the intangible matter. Theirs was the long game, that much she knew. 

Interest tugged at her spine, made her sit up straighter; dark gaze appraising the charred cloth in his hand. She cocked her head to the side, braids shifting over her shoulder. “… It will do.” Below the calm in her voice lay a nest of curiosity barely tempered; smouldering quiet as embers. She didn’t doubt Canis could pinpoint it – but she had long-since made her peace with how she didn’t mind.

“I was playing Fox’s Gambit, but I could certainly be persuaded otherwise.”

afternoon 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖓𝖊𝖞 with @serpentcrown​

       𝓣here seems to be no end to the rain, and she can see her servants growing tired. Unlike her Coterie, they are not used to the awkwardness of such conditions, and Aurelia takes pity on them, reaching out to one and squeezing her arm. ❝ I would appreciate if you would ferry me to that corner, ❞ she says, pointing toward where Maiden plies her wares, and nearby, where the Prince of Serpents waits. Oh, yes, she knows that name, for she hears much of it in the missives she isn’t supposed to receive, but that’s neither here nor there. Lady Zoya Nathair is here as a court Noble, though she’s positive there’s plying of wares to be had as well. Who says you can’t do both?

No one who has met Lady Zoya, that much is certain.

Her tired servants escort her over to the correct spot, with little mud to be had and the presence of Lady Zoya’s company. ❝ Thank you, both of you. Now please, step inside for a moment and be warm. Anyone who asks, you are to retrieve something for me from my chambers. ❞ Aurelia smiles with a perfect mix of indulgence and mischievousness, nodding toward the castle. ❝ Go. I will be content with Lady Zoya’s company until Father calls for me, I assure you.❞ The path from here is relatively straightforward to where she must be to watch her cousin and brother compete, and with little mud to speak of. If anything, her Coterie can assist her getting there unblemished.

Servants gone, her two Coterie members settle in perhaps ten feet behind her, and she turns to smile in Lady Zoya’s direction. ❝ Is there much business to be found, with all this to distract them? ❞ Aurelia asks out of curiosity, making simple conversation. It’s rare she has an opportunity to talk one on one to the Prince of Serpents themself, and she’ll make the most of it while it’s within her grasp. ❝ Or are you perhaps taking bets? If so, I should dearly like to place one. ❞

She eyes the approach of the princess with surprisingly delicate interest; the eternal machinery inside Zoya’s mind turning soundlessly – a waltz of cogs; who-what-why, who-what-why, who-what-why–

( Her bets are already hedged on Valeria, but one takes a professional interest regardless. )

“Business can be found anywhere,” Zoya says, lips curving into a decidedly feline smile, mischief found at its edges. “Even here.” Even with all this noise – especially with all this noise; it merely depends on the business. Her half-moon gaze dares Aurelia to read between the lines, a serpent’s challenge.

“A bet?” She quirks her right brow, delighting in the surprise. “Certainly.”

The stench of burning flesh had seared itself into her very skin, rankling her mind until she felt her own limbs prickle and itch. Dead, her mind whispered, you’re dead too & they all know it, can smell it on you, all that rot–

She could hear it, even now, eyes fastened on the murals of the City Sanctum. They weren’t quite so grand as the stained glass of the castle Sanctum, but the depictions were still striking. How could they not be? The Undying and her dark-star saints; their faces like skulls, martyred and holy. 

Out on the steps, she’d left a little satchel – a loaf of dark bread, hard cheese, rashers of salted venison. Leaving something on the stair was good luck, oh yes, but it was the poor of Lowtown that relied on it. Though Zoya didn’t always drop them off personally, the satchels always had one thing in common – a little slip of paper with the Prince of Snakes’ mark on it. She supposed that in the services provided, she found common ground with the faithful – let Lowtown know who takes care of them. Let them be loyal.

Behind the altar, the Undying stood draped in black cloth, wreaths of roses left at her marble feet by the devout. Zoya stepped closer. Reached for the thorns. Dead, dead, dead–

Blood welled up from her fingertip, the instant pain making her full lips set in a grim yet satisfied smile. 

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?”

( 31. Revolter. Owner of the Rosewood Maiden. Nobility. Shit-stirrer. )

Zoya Nathair, daughter of the Duke of Serpents, born Zoya Casimira Lucem Zilvinas Nathair. Spawned a ghost story known as the Gaunter of Hightown in her youth. Known informally as the Prince of Snakes – an insult coined by her Lowtown cohorts, turned pet name & warning with time.

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( tw mentions of death; implied body horror; implications of negative views regarding gender roles/misgendering – Zoya often wears tailored men’s clothing and people likely have some Thoughts on that + her title as the Prince of Snakes partially stemming from this; not quite transphobia / misgendering but seemed pertinent to mention! )

It is an open secret in court, how something occurred with the Duke’s only daughter: nary a glimpse had been seen of her, the girl sick since birth. In what would have been her fifteenth and last year alive, the Nathairs retreated to their ancestral estate in the countryside near the Volkan to be with their youngest on her deathbed… only to return a scant few months later with a girl so vibrantly alive it seemed a scandal.