#was thinking roman war masks initially but those have very neutral expressions

[galadhremmin]

"For the Naugrim withstood fire more hardily than either Elves or Men, and it was their custom moreover to wear great masks in battle hideous to look upon." Tolkien...are you trying to say the Dwarves wore something like Sōmen masks on the battlefield?!

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with LUCIEN, who is THIRTY-SEVEN years old. He is often called LAMPRIUS and is NEUTRAL. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

Lucien’s beginning would be a familiar one, were he willing to share it with the masses. He grew up with little to his name and took what he could when it was given. Those with the gilded crests sitting at their throats feasted on sweetmeats and REVELED in their predetermined fates. Lucien, meanwhile, carved out his own path with nothing to use beyond his own two hands and words of assurance that things would work themselves out. If he dedicated himself, he’d find a decent job and live a meager life, like them. He kept his head down, said little beyond what was needed, let his actions do the talking. Still, the SHADOWS of the mobs nipped at his heels day after day, as they did every other Veronan, until their relentlessness reached a peak. He can remember it clearly, even now: his mother had collapsed in their small kitchen and wept at the news of her husband’s passing. A casualty of crossfire between two notorious families. She’d looked so... FRAGILE. When he settled down beside her and shared her tears, he’d felt just as small. He’d been seventeen, no more than a boy, but when he stood, he rose as a man, head held high. Verona would change - for his family, and all the others like his.

There were a few problems, in spite of his grand designs: he had no clue where to begin. He had the will, but not the way, and Verona itself had other plans. Three, to be exact. THE WITCHES were bound to find him one day, looking back, and find him they did. He’d always been unsure as to how they did it. Was it an unwitting conversation with Circe? Had he wronged Medea, somehow, who took pity? Maybe he’d shouldered into Hecate and spilled their groceries across the cobblestone. Whichever way they discovered him, they saw an opportunity in him, his shoulders sloped from the weight of REVENGE. Lucien, at first, didn’t see them at all. Everyone knew about the Capulets and Montagues. The Witches were MYTH to him, up until they weren’t. When they offered, not insignificantly, to take him under their wing, their anonymity is what bound him to them. That, and the fact they never shied away from those who could not bear the burden of living in a city torn apart by war. They didn’t turn their faces from those who waged it, either. They dealt in absolutes, and it was those dealings that kept Verona’s innocents from their demise. 

He’d soon learn that the work of the Witches was often UGLY, comprised of hushed meetings and ears pressed to the ground, but their secrecy garnered them their reputation and power. At the same time, they taught Lucien how to hold himself, how to mask his resentment for the very men and women they negotiated with behind a neutral expression. They taught him to bury Lucien and compartmentalize his own humanity until nothing but a hollow shell remained - it was the only way to work with BEASTS, after all. They gave him the title of Lamprius, and the reassured him that he, too, would one day become a full-fledged Witch, should he prove worthy. He threw himself into the tasks they gave him fully, carried himself the way they did, imitated the pinch of their brows and flat lines of their mouths when something displeased them. Things settled, and for the first time in years, Lucien was loose from his self-imposed sorrows. He got married, moved into a house grander than one he could ever dream of. He ate a full meal every night, and paid off his mother’s medical debt up until her passing. He traveled outside of Italy, attended galas, saw the ocean, perfected his smile in the mirror. He helped broker peace from the shadows, and when the Witches felt unstoppable in the face of their Gods, so did he. Maybe that’s what caused their ruination. ARROGANCE. They considered themselves above humanity, the same as Ozymandias. It still aches to think of them, an open wound at the center of his chest, but perhaps their deaths were inevitable. Maybe they’d known - each of them had been disconcertingly cryptic in those final days, as they pushed all of their responsibilities onto Lucien - no, Lamprius - with the promise that it would all be settled, soon.

How wrong they were. While the Witches had done their utmost to turn him away from walking the single-minded path of retribution, their deaths were the nail in the coffin. Their bodies swinging from the beams served as a final message: Lucien’s initial goal, all those years ago, was not out of reach. But he couldn’t do it alone. Circe, Hecate, and Medea had themselves to turn to in times of much-needed counsel. They leaned on one another in moments of weakness and stirred each other on when the task at hand felt insurmountable. They loved each other, as all siblings should have, up until their final day. And Lucien… had no one. In a city of more than two hundred and fifty thousand, he was truly ALONE - and that wouldn’t do. But if he played his cards right, this could go exactly the way he wanted it to. He needed allies, like-minded individuals, soldiers on either side of the war who were willing to listen if he greased their palms. Equipped with every resource and asset the Witches had come to collect over the years, he’d become unstoppable. They wouldn’t have to learn to fear Lucien, because the Montagues and Capulets would never know he was there until it was too late. They’d learn to beware Lamprius the Soothsayer, and he’d soon knot the rope around their necks the same way they had done to his beloved Witches. Not for himself, but for them.

RONAN IVARSSON: Husband. Lucien isn’t stupid. He’s aware he’s married to an empty vessel, carrying around a meaningless ring he never removes. There might have been love, in those early days, but Ronan has no heart in him -- only pride and hubris. He is a miserable coward to Lucien’s face and thinks himself the clever fox when he turns away, landing blow after punitive blow to Lucien’s reputation and pride. Lucien’s tolerated it for years, because he knows at his core that his husband will never change, no matter how many times Ronan convinces himself he will. He’s taken every rumor and slight in stride, laughed off casual insults at the outskirts of gatherings while Ronan garnered all the attention he could get at the center of the room. Their dynamic had shifted after his mother’s passing, a death that damn near broke Lucien, but things are slowly reverting to the way they were before -- and it’s strange, to miss the humanity in Ronan when he’s only really gotten a glimpse of it firsthand, a peek behind the curtain. In spite of that, if his husband has one true redeeming quality, he has come when Lucien called for him, every time, like a loyal dog. They are tied to each other, and Lucien isn’t going to be the one to cut the rope.

LORETTA DELLUCI: Kindred spirit. In Loretta, he sees a mirror image -- someone who’s danced the same steps as him, caught at her collar by the long-fingered hands of death. Saving her life was no mere coincidence; it was an orchestrated part of a thousand-step plan on his part, one that went better than he ever could have asked it to. Even better: he’s almost entirely sure that she has no idea it was him who hired the burglar in the first place. He’s inching towards outright asking for aid, but she’s just as enigmatic as he is, perhaps even more difficult to pin down. In moments where their conversations over tea lapse into silence, it’s difficult to tell if her goals align with his. Her words say as much, but the brimstone burning behind her eyes says otherwise. Either way, he considers himself lucky to have her as a friend. They’re hard to come by, in Verona, and Lady Anne doesn’t shy away from what she wants until she gets it -- that’s exactly the sort of partner he needs.

ARMAND GIORDANO: Opening. Ajax defines blind loyalty. He stands with a straight spine and rigid shoulders and goes by a name that is not his own just because it’s the one thing keeping him safe in a city of monsters that walk freely during the day. But he’s not loyal to the Montagues; it’s only Roman who has his attention, and that sort of single-minded dedication can be used, if Lucien sets the pieces up on the board correctly. He’s already made the effort to have a conversation or two at parties and balls, when his gaze is not wholly on Roman, and in spite of his stony expression and down-set brow, Ajax has listened. Lucien’s determined that it’s only a matter of time before he breaks through to him, or until Ajax reaches his breaking point and tires of being treated like a statue rather than a man.

HARLEY BRENTON: Opportunity. Harley thinks she’s grown from the child she used to be, but Lucien knows better than that. He can see the craving in her for something more, sees the way she looks at Hazel Accardi -- because he knows everything there is to know about these soldiers who run themselves ragged for men that just don’t care. He can see in Harley the naive want for love, for peace. He might have felt the same way, a long time ago, when he thought the world was true and honest and his dedication to his own husband was not just a facsimile of emotion. He’s taken the first few crucial steps to roping her in to the plan, because while she’s loyal to the Capulets, she has loyalties on the other side of the river and hasn’t done her utmost to hide it. He can’t tell if it’s because she doesn’t fear the consequences or if she hasn’t yet realized the full weight of her actions, but when the time comes, he’ll protect her and pick up another pawn from the board.

Lucien is portrayed by SUNG HOON and was written by JULIE. He is currently TAKEN by REY.