#other(side)

Initially I thought I'll use this one for carving, but when I cut it I found my favorite pattern, floating rocks. So, painting it is. And a process pic.

Radio Apple 🍎 - Executioner AU Animation

Hehehehe

he's a lil mess but i still love him. :3

I DIDN'T FORGOR HIS BUN!!!!!!!!!🔥

ah and uhh.....

he has a lil friend. :3

Is fine by me

✧✧✧✧✧

The journey back to Arles was long, and it was lonely in a way Laurent had not quite expected.

Nikandros rode with him, close enough to satisfy courtesy and distance enough to preserve peace. They exchanged words when they must—about roads and weather, about supplies and guards—but never more than necessary. Nikandros’s loyalty was to Damen, openly and without apology. Laurent accepted that for what it was. He did not require affection to recognise usefulness, and there was something almost reassuring in Nikandros’s bluntness. It asked nothing of him.

Damen had insisted on the escort.

He had not framed it as fear, though Laurent knew better. Vere was still Vere, and Arles still housed men who remembered Laurent as someone he had let them believe he was—unfit for the throne. A crown changed appearances, not opinions. Damen had stood at his side, hand firm at Laurent’s wrist, and said simply, You won’t go back alone.

Laurent had not argued.

There were, in truth, only a few reasons he had returned at all.

He had come to secure his crown, now that no regency stood between him and rule, now that the law named him king without qualification—though the official crowning ceremony was still to take place. He had come to gather a council—not to soothe it, but to know it, to understand who remained and why. And he had come to lay someone to rest.

The palace received him with careful deference. Servants bowed. Guards stood straight. The air held its breath as he passed, as if the walls themselves were waiting to see what kind of king he would be.

Radel was freed from the dungeons immediately upon Laurent’s arrival.

The order left his mouth without hesitation, but the thought that followed struck deeper than he would have liked. It had not occurred to him—or perhaps he had not allowed himself to think about it—that his household might have suffered in his absence. That his servants, unarmed and unguarded, might have been punished simply for remaining loyal.

Not just—

...

Radel was brought to him washed, fed, and uninjured. There were no marks on him, no signs of neglect beyond the pallor of confinement. He had been detained, nothing more. Laurent felt the tightness in his chest ease by a fraction.

When Radel was led into the council chamber, he bowed deeply.

“Your Highness,” he said.

Laurent’s gaze softened, just slightly. “Radel, I will need your account of events. And it is Your Majesty now.”

Radel blinked, then inclined his head again. “Yes, Sire.”

Laurent gestured for him to speak, his posture relaxed, hands resting lightly on the arms of his chair. He was aware of the council watching, weighing every inflection. He did not give them what they expected.

“Were you taken into custody before or after the death of my uncle’s catamite, Nicaise?” Laurent asked.

“After, Your Majesty,” Radel said with only slight hesitation.

Laurent nodded. “I was informed of those summoned when my late uncle sentenced his catamite to death.” His voice remained calm, almost gentle. “Your name was among them.”

“Yes,” Radel said, eyes lowering briefly. “I was present.”

Laurent’s expression did not change. “Thank you.” A pause. “Who on this council spoke up on Nicaise’s behalf?”

Radel lifted his head then and looked, carefully, around the chamber. Faces shifted. Silk whispered as someone adjusted in their seat.

“None of them, Your Majesty,” Radel said.

Laurent let the silence stretch.

“Thank you, Radel,” he said at last. “You may go.”

Radel bowed once more, deeper this time, and withdrew. The doors closed softly behind him.

Only then did Laurent straighten.

The remnants of any warmth left his expression. His gaze moved to the council at last, cool and assessing.

“Your Highness—” Herode began, leaning forward as if to reclaim familiar ground.

“You will each have the opportunity to speak,” Laurent said, his tone still even, still controlled. He did not raise his voice.

He let his eyes travel the length of the chamber, taking in every face. Men who had prospered under the Regent, and Vannes—who had been the first to willingly pledge herself to Laurent.

“If I am satisfied,” he continued, “you will remain in your positions.” A brief pause. “If I am not, you will be dismissed from this council indefinitely.”

“You can’t really—” Guion’s voice rose too quickly, the outrage arriving before thought, as though volume alone might restore what he felt slipping from his grasp.

“Guion.”

Laurent said the name mildly, in a conversational tone, and it cut through the chamber far more effectively than shouting would have. He did not raise his voice. He did not even look irritated. His gaze rested on Guion with detached patience, as though he were waiting for a servant to finish a rambling excuse.

“You are dismissed from my council,” Laurent continued. “You are dismissed from Arles. You are stripped of your title as Lord of Fortaine.”

“But my wife—my sons!” Guion blurted, his composure cracking entirely. His hands clenched. “You can’t—what will happen to them?”

Laurent regarded him for a moment longer than necessary. When he spoke again, his tone was almost bored.

“Guion,” he repeated. “Do not embarrass yourself.”

There was a faint stir among the council. Laurent continued.

“Not a soul in this chamber believes you care about your children,” he said. “I doubt you even care for your wife. If you did, you would not have wagered their safety so casually for favour with my uncle.”

Guion’s face flushed a mottled red. He surged to his feet, the scrape of his chair sharp against the floor.

“You can’t do this to me!” he shouted. He spat with the force of his anger, the glob landing short and wet against the polished surface of the council table.

The sound it made was small and pathetic.

Laurent did not bother to even look at it.

He reached for his cup and took a measured sip of water, eyes never leaving Guion’s face. When he set it down, his expression had not changed.

“You should consider yourself fortunate,” Laurent said calmly, “that I do not have you displayed beside my uncle at the city gates for the spectacle you made of yourself in Ios.”

The room felt suddenly very still.

Laurent waited—allowing space for another protest—a last effort plea. None came. Guion’s bravado had collapsed into a trembling, wordless fury that could no longer shape itself into argument.

The guards moved in without being summoned, each taking an arm. Guion struggled briefly, then sagged as he was dragged toward the doors, still muttering curses that no one bothered to hear.

Laurent turned his head slowly, his attention shifting to the first councillor seated at his left.

The other side of the Playz Crew members are here in Session!

Characters in Order:

Nathan, Kevin, Darren, Bill, and Colin.

"This is one of the GREATEST things ever seen!" - Nathan O'Hehir