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date :   the  thirteenth  of  the  tenth  month

location :   tyrholm  city  sanctum

(  @vasylia​  ) 

to  speak  of  unwavering  devotion  would  be  heresy  on  heathen  tongue.  he  even  itches ,  like  a  mutt  with  a  flea ,  under  stone  vaults.  he’s  there  for  the  fangs ,  the  ones  still  devout ,  feels  it  something  like  the  duty  of  a  captain  to  pray  alongside  his  pack.  even  if  the  words  ring  mute ,  if  they’re  an  echo  of  a  father  he  hardly  remembers ,  a  long  line  of  aubenets  that  came  before  him ;  gentle  farmers  who  knew  the  undying  to  raise  brittle  crops  and  fatten  thin  cattle.  

though  his  mouth  is  empty  of  prayer ,  of  request  or  absolution ,  his  head  spins ;  the  fog  of  doubt ,  feeling  like  a  blemish  in  a  place  constructed  for  something  divine.  what  would  he  possibly  have  to  say  to  something  so  distant ,  a  figure  so  abstract  they  warp  until  they’re  shapeless ,  until  he  can’t  remember  his  own  face.  canis  was  never  fond  of  things  he  did  not  understand ,  like  monarchies  that  murder  their  own  people  and  gods  that  don’t  whisper  in  his  ear.  

he’s  grown  accustomed  to  the  way  other  worshippers  can’t  seem  to  share  the  sanctum  with  his  company ,  the  way  packed  halls  empty  until  little  is  left  but  a  mangy  pack  with  too  much  blood  on  their  hands.  a  disturbance  he  wishes  were  easier  to  ignore.  blue  eyes  glaze ,  so  unfocused  they’ve  greyed ,  and  it’s  all  he  can  do  not  to  jump  in  the  nearly  empty  pew  when  he  recognizes  the  figure  he  shares  it  with.  

vasylia ,  and  to  canis  she  could  fit  right  into  the  iconography  on  the  walls ,  the  etchings  in  the  scripts.  it  shouldn’t  make  him  shiver ,  but  he’s  already  straight  backed  and  tight  fisted.  like  fight  or  flight  is  calling  him  towards  the  latter ,  a  threat  where  there  isn’t.  “i was just  readying  to  leave,”  he  calls ,  perhaps  too  loud  for  a  sanctum  so  quiet.  his  men  know  better  than  to  turn  and  gape.  “i  don’t  want  to  disturb  ..  whatever  it  is  you’re  getting  on  to  here.”  brows  furrow ,  at  a  loss.  “no  levana  in  sight.  interesting  development.”  

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date :   the  ninth  of  the  tenth  month

location :   the  armory  and  blacksmith 

 (  @revoluticn​  )

SWEET  SCRAPING  SYMPHONY ,  METAL  on  metal.  some  might  find  madness  in  the  way  acute  ears  perk  up  to  the  sharpening  of  a  blade  or  the  pounding  of  a  hammer ,  but  canis  has  never  made  a  habit  of  minding  what  some  might  find .  after  a  lifetime  of  restless  streets ,  without  the  mercy  of  silence  behind  stone  walls  and  cobbled  roofs ,  canis  finds  comfort  in  the  noise.  pleasure  in  watching  sword  attach  to  hilt  and  metal  become  mold.  he’d  be  fine  with  only  seeing  in  grey ,  he  thinks ,  for  no  beauty  is  lost  to  a  weapon.  

it’s  under  the  guise  of  visiting  the  blacksmith  --  and  what  a  thinly  veiled  plot  it  is.  who  would  believe  the  dog  in  need  of  any  more  arms?  --  he  hopes  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  lieutenant.  their  association  to  any  on  looker  is  strictly  professional ,  for  what  is  one  high  commanding ,  military  underling  to  another.  but  canis  feels  the  ebb  and  flow  of  revolution  that  winds  between  every  word.  that  their  discussions  are  strategy  fraught  with  rage ,  looking  in  a  mirror  and  seeing  a  snarling  reflection.  

and  when  she  does  enter  he  grunts  at  the  blacksmith ,  as  is  cordial ,  prods  on  light  feet  to  flank  her  side.  “exciting  tournament,”  he  starts ,  a  whisper  under  the  clank  of  metal.  “have  to  say ,  i  was  falling  asleep  in  my  boots  til  that  magician  came  in.”  with  a  smile  that  doesn’t  meet  his  eyes  and  a  small  laugh  that  startles  even  himself.  “whoever  hired  him  must  have  paid  more  coin  than  they’re  paying  me.”  speaking  in  script ,  because  loud  will  never  mean  safe ,  not  within  castle  walls.  not  with  someone  he  only  half  trusts.  “sorry  the  pack  couldn’t  stick  around.  a  lot  of  drinking  to  be  done  after  parading  around  a  castle  for  the  better  part  of  an  entire  afternoon.”  dramatic ,  a  mouth  that  twists  into  a  relaxed  smirk.  “have  fun  on  cleanup  duty?”

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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.”

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                                      𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘 +    𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 +    𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐍 +

INTRODUCING ..   EFFERUS  AUBENT ,  formally  known  as  CANIS  or  THE  DOG .  

 ( mind  the  trigger  warnings :  death ,  murder )

GENERAL  STATISTICS : 

name   canis  to  friends ,  the  dog  to  foes . 

skeleton   seven  of  swords

age  /  dob   thirty - nine ,  born  on  the  twenty - seventh  day  of  the  twelfth  month

gender   cis male 

pronouns   he / him 

face claim   cillian  murphy

politically   revolter 

occupation   captain  of  the  second  fangs ,  a  mercenary / sellsword  company 

BIOGRAPHY  HIGHLIGHTS :

   a  twin ,  you  were  told ,  though  it  feels  like  something  you  should  never  be  permitted  to  forget.  ...  born  in  the  dead  of  winter  ...   and  childbirth  takes  your  mother  as  it  goes.  two  children ,  born  sickly ,  cold.  so  you  are  dubbed  efferus ,  a  savage  beast  who  can  claw  his  way  into  life ,  barely  holding  onto  breath ,  already  having  taken  a  life. 

   it  takes  a  village  to  raise  motherless  boys.  sometimes  it  takes  more  than  that.  your  brother  doesn’t  make  it  past  the  winter ,  ...  the  goat  farmer  next  door  tells  your  father  you  are  a  resilient  one ,  that  the  undying  smiled  upon  him. 

   it’s  your  tenth  winter  when  frostbitten  tendrils  take  first  your  farm ,  and  then  your  father.  you  make  a  deal  with  the  undying  and  you  get  what  you  paid  for ,  you  remember ,  and  it  almost  makes  you  laugh. 

   a  street  urchin  with  no  farm ,  no  family ,  and  most  prominently  no  coin.  ...  three  years  and  you’ve  developed  a  taste  for  fighting ,  scrappy  as  you  are.  ...  one  the  other  coinless  children  keep  telling  you  you’re  too  good  at ,  “it’s  no  fun  fighting  a  hungry  dog.”  ...  you  hear  it  when  you  dream ,  half  awake  in  chilled  darkness.   “i’m  so  hungry,  efferus.  i’m  so  hungry.”   you  start  going  by  canis.  it  makes  it  easier  to  sleep. 

   the  sons  of  argos  could  not  undo  what  you’d  done ,  what  had  been  done  to  you ,  but  maybe  you  could  give  back  tenfold.  ...  it  was  intended  to  be  permanent ,  ...  a  life  of  adventure  to  call  your  own  and  you  didn’t  need  to  suffer  anymore.  

   it’s  like  waking  from  a  dream ,  one  you  push  down  when  it  returns  to  you  in  the  night ,  leaving  the  sons  for  good.  ...  no  one  follows ,  no  one  even  pleads  your  case ,  and  when  you  see  them  playing  knights  on  the  docks  the  fire  in  you  swells.  it’s  all  rot  now.

   iriebury  is  the  stank  of  unwashed  flesh ,  the  heat  of  southern  sun ,  something  to  conquer.  the  citizens  are  mean  and  the  crime  meaner.  ...  naturally , you  thrive.  it  takes  just  one  winter ,  one  warm  southern  winter ,  before  you  have  something  to  call  a  crew  of  your  very  own.  the  second  fangs ,  a  handful  of  beaten  down ,  nearly  finished  off  mutts  that  think  you  look  like  a  future.  ...  the  queen  of  iriebury’s  no  different ,  when  you  flash  her  a  smile  and  run  a  sword  through  her  guard.  this  is  your  destiny. 

   ...  it’s  only  a  matter  of  time  before  real  gold  starts  knocking.  a  steady  job ,  you’re  promised.  a  lifetime  of  stability ,  peace.  you  know  more  of  the  king  of  tyrholm than  you  let  on ,  and  maybe  you  are  naive  to  trust  the  word  of  a  woman  who  did  not  raise  herself ,  but  when  you  look  at  your  company’s  worn  faces  and  tired  smiles ,  weathered  from  southern  strife ,  it’s  never  been   easier  to  bend  a  knee.  

   you  know  what  the  queen  expects  of  you ,  your  word  is  your  livelihood ,  but  these  things  take  time.  for  now ,  you’re  comfortable ;  your  cup  is  full.  there’s  always  been  something  about  wars  to  come  that  feels  like  home ,  ragged  and  battle  scarred  thing  that  you  are.  and  besides ,  it’s  easier  to  put  out  a  fire  that  burns  inside  your  ribs  than  one  that  swallows  an  entire  kingdom ,  of  this  you  are  certain. 

TLDR ; 

once  a  member  of  the  prominent  sons  of  argos ,  canis  now  captains  a  rougher  and  meaner  company  of  his  own ,  the  second  fangs .  hired  by  the  queen  and  now  working  under  septimus ,  he  is  expected  to  murder  the  king  in  exchange  for  a  lifetime  supply  of  coin  and  the  promise  of  a  peaceful  existence .  tired ,  whip  smart ,  and  perhaps  a  little  conflicted  on  the  whole  “ empathy ”  concept ,  the  seven  of  swords  will  do  whatever  he  can  for  the  right  price ,  even  if  it  means  inciting  a  revolution .  following  a  history  of  little  but  uprooting  and  loss ,  the  possibility  of  a  stable  and  secure  future  for  him  and  the  fangs  is  all  he  has  left .

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Congratulations, ALLI! You’ve been accepted for the role of SEVEN OF SWORDS with the faceclaim of CILLIAN MURPHY. Canis is certainly a fucking concept, whom I adore to no end. He’s got a tenacious and willful sort of attitude about him, the kind of incredulous charm and wit that lends itself to an air of villainy and danger, and I think that he fits into the Seven of Swords like one fits into a well-made boot or glove. In spite of remaining leashed like a dog, he’s got no small amount of fire in him, and I’m eager to see what (or who!) he sinks his teeth into during gameplay. You’ve brought me a real gift, dropped it on my doorstep, and I am grateful.

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𝐎’  𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐒 ,  𝑻𝑯𝑬  𝑫𝑶𝑮 . 

          FILED  UNDER :   SEVEN  OF  SWORDS  TAG  DUMP .

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Anne Carson, from Red Doc>

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NAME: Efferus Aubenet / “Canis,” “The Dog” AGE: 39 ALLEGIANCE AND OCCUPATION: Revolter ABILITIES: N/A PRONOUNS: He/him FACECLAIM SUGGESTIONS*: Cillian Murphy

HISTORY.

You don’t do well with rejection. It’s a plain and simple fact, a part of yourself you’ve had to live with your entire life. Rejected by your own flesh and blood – your mother, dead, your twin alongside her from the very beginning, without so much as the presence of their phantoms to comfort you – you have never had any other choice than to make your way. Your survival on the streets was one of desperation, and with a clever tongue and a brutality natural only to animals, you managed to make it. Still, there was that hungering – that yawning need for companionship. Family. Something to turn your thoughts from those you’d cut away from you in the very beginning of your life. You’d believed, in your naive youth, that the Sons of Argos would be that opportunity. A space to belong, a path carved just for you at the hands of The Undying. Here, you would settle. Here, you would stay. The unfortunate reality is that this is not the case; your clever tongue allowed for you to survive the streets of Tyrholm alone. When put in with a pack, a group, and expected to play nice, when you yourself are not in the lead… it doesn’t go well. Your tenacity lends itself more to viciousness of words than it does brutality of the blade, and you clash often with the Captain that leads them. It doesn’t take long for you to be cast out, and like the whelp of the litter, you tuck your tail between your legs and flee. Resentment builds in you that grows to be the the size of mountain peaks. You cannot stay in Tyrholm, you decide, and so you go south. If Tyrholm is awful, then you think they should see Iriebury. Led by a fledgling Queen barely able to control her own people, much less the crime and death that plagues her city, you settle in so easily it’s like you belong.

It takes some time, of course, some coin to grease palms, and your skill in speech, but you pull together your own small band of mercenaries within a year. They do not have the same reputation, the same mettle, but they are hungry, and when they grow ravenous, they are unstoppable. You build a name for yourself in Iriebury, do whatever work is tossed your way, feast unabashedly on the scraps. You grow fat and happy even as your body begins to ache and your appetite grows desperate for more. Funnily enough, it is desperation which brings Queen Almadea to you, with pirates lurking on the docks and bandits haunting the streets like sharks in the water. She gives you a proposition: for enough money to let you live out the rest of your days rich, return to Tyrholm. Play friends with King Septimus, offer your services, and when the time is right, strike him down – Iriebury will lead the siege which takes the throne entirely, and you’ll be allowed anonymity and the leisure to disappear from the pages of history, wander the long paths like an old wolf. You’d be a fool not to take it, and so you do – you travel three months to Septimus, give him your name, and he, although hesitant, agrees to give you something. This is your first task: when the time is right, you will ride to Koldam, an imitation of a city in and of itself, struggling after the recent death of its King. Burn it down. You write to Almadea of your task and move before Septimus gets the chance to think twice. Yours is a risky plan, but if you see it through, you will never have to feel the sting of rejection ever again – only the merits of victory and strength.

CONNECTIONS.

THE LOVERS: She reminds you of you, when you were young, hungering for something which you could not quite put words to. Her love for The World is leagues apart from your now-cold hunger, of course – it’s clear enough that The World loves them back, something which you don’t think you’ve ever quite been able to encapsulate in another person, but you still wish to guide them in some way or another, warn them of the pain that can come from wanting something and not being able to get it. Should you fail in the task Almadea has given you, and The World somehow end up on the throne, she will no longer belong to The Lovers; while you can’t tell them of your plan, of the fact she might ascend sooner rather than later, you can allude to it, give a wink or a nudge where allowed. 

NINE OF WANDS:  The work they do is appreciated, but they have paid the price for their outward dislike of the King in the shape of an eye. The anger they carry for the scars which are their burden is so viable you can practically taste it on your tongue, and in that sense, maybe it’s this which draws them to you and you to them. They can craft a blade as well as they can hold it in spite of their blind spot, and in recent nights you’ve taken to sparring with them in an effort to keep your blade sharp. They speak in vague terms of rebellion and rage, both powerful in equal measure, and you’ve been doing your best to spur them on. If you stoke the flames high enough, maybe they’ll do your work for you and cut Septimus’ head from his shoulders all on their own. It’s what they say, after all: an eye for an eye.

THE EMPRESS: She is your linchpin. In the event this all goes to shit – which, frankly, it very well might – you will look to The Empress, crawl to her on your hands and knees and beg for mercy. It is this knowledge which has brought you closer to her, offering your work and services in lieu of the Sons of Argos, who, for the most part, come and go at the beckoning of Septimus. She is the true ruler of the Tyrholm, regardless of whatever power it is Septimus thinks he has, and it could very well be her who saves your life. Your hesitant to call it a friendship, this thing, as she doesn’t seem to have very many friends, but if it means your life, then you are happy to lie.

SEVEN OF SWORDS IS CURRENTLY TAKEN.

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why won’t you let him go? – a.y. ( 2019 )

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“With the knowledge of her aloneness came the rush of self declaration: I will not be nothing.”

— Robin McKinley, Deerskin (via quoted-books)

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saying your names, richard siken

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I don’t want to set things on fire anymore. / That’s all. That’s all.

Darshana Suresh, from “Birds on a Power Line,” Howling at the Moon (via lifeinpoetry)