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Beloved Star
- ≻ . . . . .theodore ✦ PEREGRINE
- he/him | playlist
Cl-click. Cl-click. Cl-click.
Yet another mundane, uneventful day in the office. He had seen enough stressed students worried about upcoming exams for one day. It was the same complaints; their professors hated them, the coursework was excessive, or the exam was in two days, and they didn’t have enough time to study. Theodore had heard it all, and sorely wished these students would be honest to themselves, if not to him. Their stress had nothing to do with the exams, but more with the culmination of everything going on in their little lives at present. The students who came to visit him have very particular circumstances that extend beyond the ordinary, and it was within his role of the University of Ivywood’s Arcane Advisor to advise them to the best of his ability. Not that they listened to him most of the time. Most of the time they would nod, leave, and return the following day with a new dilemma. Most of the time, Theodore would not call them out on their trivial excuses, and simply repeat the never-ending cycle. That was his job. He knew the circumstances these young adults experienced each day. He knew that many of them were missing one or both parents due to the ever-growing anti-Magikal sentiments growing across the country. He knew that if he didn’t help them in some way, no one else would. Such was the unique position of someone who had been raised in the Magikal communities yet had no clear Magikal abilities of their own. He understood, and he was in an inconspicuous enough position to help thanks to Dean Cain.
Cl-click. Cl-click. Cl-click.
At least it was nearing Beltane. Although not an official holiday by any Non-Magikal American standard, the Dean was always kind enough to organise a day or two around the holidays to allow his Magikal staff and students to recover from the revelry. Theodore, being a member of the prestigious Peregrine family and having been raised in the Magikal communities, was included in such an allowance. While it had been some years since he had returned home to the Welldwelling to celebrate with his grandparents, he had found the festivals of Witch’s Watch were satisfactory, and he found himself comfortable in the festivities each year. The Beltane Festival was especially spectacular. The bright mage lights, and the incredible smells that wafted through teeming streets, created scenes he could only remember in his childhood when magic was still extraordinary and incredible. He hadn’t had such memorable experiences with the holidays as he got older, so the Manshire celebrations were a breath of fresh air. Sure, he missed Ealdmoder Sophia’s freshly baked Cornish pasties that were handed out during Lughnasadh, and Ealdefaeder Sebastian’s fireside stories that were infamous across all the Dwellings, but he found comfort in Sana Hedera’s mysterious folktales about the founding of Thorpes, and in the Mischbrot brought to the festivals by Lu—
Cl-click. Cl-click. Cl-click.
“Did you know that each one of the pens in this office is made from sterling silver?” Theodore silkily asked out loud to his spacious office, eyes remaining on the documentation he was completing for one of his student’s scholarship appeals.
The clicking pen dropped onto the dated oak desk with a clunk.
“W-what, sir?” Isaiah Schneider stuttered, a slight sheen on his brow. The young man (‘Though I loathe to call him that…’) was a new acquisition for the Advisory Offices, and was looking to gain experience in office administration before graduating the following year. The young man is average at best, and inept at worst; average grades, less than stellar record of attendance, and – according to the office gossip – only got the Admin Assistant role due to his father’s position in the University. Personally, Theodore thought he was weak-willed and ill-witted, and entirely unsuitable to even be in the junior year of Business Administration, let alone in the highly important Advisory Offices. It also didn’t help that Isaiah was a privileged Ignis Magikal who believed he should have everything handed to him on a silver platter. Theodore was glad he didn’t have to deal with him on a regular basis, until, well, this.
“The pens,” Theodore repeated demurely. “They’re made of silver.”
“Okay?”
“They’re quite… robust.”
“… Okay?”
“They’re also quite expensive.”
“… ?”
“So,” Theodore finally looked up at the student, a saccharine smile on his face. “If you do not want to learn the first of a hundred ways to kill someone with a ballpoint pen, I would suggest you stand up, walk out of this office, and don’t come back until you’ve learnt how to not irritate me with every miniscule action you take.”
“There’s not a hundred ways to kill someone with a ballpoint pen.”
Theodore’s lips twitched.
“Do you want to be my newest test subject?”
Silence.
“Have a lovely day, Mr. Schneider. I will see you next week."
“But—”
“I will see you next week, Mr. Schneider.”
There was some incoherent spluttering for a moment, before the man gathered his wits (or what few he had, at least) and hurriedly left the room, thankfully leaving the pen behind.
Theodore sighed.
‘Finally, silence prevails.’
But alas, time waits for no man. After the short breath of air, Theodore returned to work. The office was finally blissfully quiet. The windows, thankfully soundproofed by a grateful Penteos Magikal he had helped the year before with her career prospects, let through the last beams of daylight. He let them flicker across the room freely, enjoying the golden hue while it lasted. It was blissfully cool despite the warm light, and as such he found it relaxing to be able to work. He always did work better alone, with no one to disturb his tranquility. No clicking pens, no more appointments, no emergencies imminent. Just himself, the sun, and the paperwork in front of him. Peace and quiet.
A small spark flickered at the back of his mind, and Theodore paused.
‘… Well, weayfel.’
✦ company: isaiah schneider -> alone | location: advisory offices | mood: peaceful | outfit ✦
citron trees
Beloved Star
- . . . . .margaret ✦ MCLEOD
- she/her | playlist
The main post will be inserted here. "Speech will look like this." 'Thoughts will look like this.'
- From: Agent Aym
- A text message will look like this.
The main post will resume.
- Subject: Emails
To: Agent Aym
- Emails will look like this.
The main post will resume again.
- ✦ company | location | mood | outfit ✦
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x x x
𖦹 ▒ x_xI CAN'T FORGET* I CAN'T FORGIVE ࿐࿔ YOU
𖦹─────────────────────────────────────────
- x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_x_xc a u s e xx n o w xx i ' m xx s c a r e d xx t h a t xx e v e r y o n e xx i xx l o v e xx w i l l xx l e a v e xx m e
- “Fal?”
“What is it, Lance?”
“What do I do if I lose you?”
“Lose me? Who said anything about losing me?”
“I’m just… scared. What if you disappear one day? Or I get lost when we land on an island? I don’t want to lose you.”
“You’re never going to lose me, Lance.”
“But what if I do?”
“Then you hold onto hope that you’ll find me again.”
“Hope? What is hope?”
“You don’t know what hope is? Hope is the greatest thing a person can have.”
“It is? What does it look like?”
“Hope is when the sea air caresses your hair, when the great sun kisses your skin, when the ocean tickles your shins. Hope is like coming home after a hard day, and like seeing your family after a long time. Hope is that untouchable feeling that anyone can have, so long as they keep it close to their heart. Never lose hope, little albatross; one day, it will carry you home like it is a winged beast returning to its nest. Your wings will carry you home, over great seas and small. Over immense mountains and desolate plains. No matter where you are, you will hold onto hope, and return to the verdant shores of our home.”
“What if I can’t make it home? What if I lose hope?”
“Then we’ll bring you home, little albatross. No matter where in this world, we will search until we find you and bring you back to our hearth. To our family. Until we do, however, keep your wings steady, little chick, and keep the horizon in sight. But you must have hope. Without holding onto steadfast hope, how can you ever fly?”
“I’ll fly, Fal! If I ever lose you, I’ll keep flying until I find you again!”
“I know you will, my son.”
But Lance has been flightless for a long, long time.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
The red haired pyromaniacal menace has keys, Lance thinks to himself absently. He briefly wonders what good having the keys will be considering they’re on a ship in the middle of the sea with no way to escape or even commandeer the vessel they’re on. They have no weapons, only the new and ill-fitting clothes on their backs, so what good is a set of keys going to do? Lance wonders all this, and then remembers that none of it matters, for they are being led to their execution. What else could it be? They had been detained in that prison for five years with no apparent purpose except to satisfy the old warden’s sick and twisted ideas of fun, so why would the Thaylens take them from their cages now if not to string them up in the gallows in some form of great entertainment for the Emperor and his sycophantic citizens. Clearly, he isn’t the only one to think this however, based on the solemn, forlorn faces of his fellow prisoners.
His fellow prisoners. Both new and old faces, and only a couple friendly. It had been strange, Lance muses. When he had first arrived in Mair Prison, his awareness had been hazy at best. A blood red mist had settled over him for months, and even now he battles it in his mind. It had taken some time to realise he had his brother’s… something… in the cell next to him, his old friend a couple of cells away, a young girl in the cell in front, and the Admiral himself in the furthest cell, isolated from the other inhabitants of their new ‘home’. It hadn’t taken long after that to realise that there was something horribly, terribly wrong with this place. After all, having one of his oldest friends looking at him like he’s prey to devour, and someone he looked up to ignore him entirely was strange; what had he done? Why would they forsake him? What had happened for them to be locked up in this place? What had happened to him to end up here?
It didn’t take long to figure out, in the end. That old warden sneered and snarled his accusations as he wiped his injured nose after Lance’s first escape attempt. He had crowed his falsehoods as those Thaylen dogs chained him to the wall and beat him bloody. He got his own hit in and left with nary a care as that echo of a false betrayal hung on the spring breeze. It was no wonder Neoklis stared at him in horrified fury. It was no wonder Admiral von Remington disregarded his existence. They both thought him to be the worst of creatures. A monster who would betray his family, and slaughter the Seventh King for… what, greed? In some ways, Lance felt rage rise in him; how dare they believe the worst of him? How dare they think he would be a turncoat to his family? But then the anger dies when he remembers that in some ways, it was him who betrayed his family; after all, didn’t he ignore his brothers’ warnings not to meet his sister? Didn’t he trust her too much? Didn’t he thrust a sword through her in retaliation for her transgressions against Fallow? In one fateful decision, one fateful meeting, he betrayed both of his families and earned their ire. He wished he hadn’t trusted her. He wished that he had been perceptive enough to know that a message after years of silence is an obvious trap. There’s only one regret that he didn’t have from that day, and that is how he enacted his revenge on Abigail Morley. He had been the adjudicator, and judged her guilty without a trial, it is true. However, he had watched his father, the one who chose him, bleed out and be treated with disrespect. Abigail had forfeited her life in that moment.
The aftermath was not as clear. He didn’t remember leaving the decrepit building, nor did he remember the alarmed looks of the Beclonites he passed on the streets of Salthelm. He didn’t even remember pitching face first in a cobbled back alley or being hauled away by the usurper’s men while saturated with the blood of his father, ‘sister’ and her ingratiating followers. All he had were the backhanded comments of the Thaylens, the staunch accusations from their accursed mouths, and the telltale signs of wrath and fear on his fellow prisoners’ faces. The old warden, the one who emulated his tyrant Emperor so well in his sadistic and blood-thirsty ways, did not help matters. It was only when he was gone, and the famed General Hearst and his crew arrived, that his fellow captives stopped looking at him with abject terror and hatred. After all, his infamous rages had tapered out with the deal he made with the General, and he no longer presented as much like a wild animal as he had been in the first four years of living in his dank cage. Instead of fear now, it was disinterest. It was apathy. It was still disgust at his perceived crime, but no longer did they take such interest in him, for he was silent for the most part. Except for Neoklis, and his brother’s hanger-on, he was nothing to them. Just a turncoat who was turned upon in turn. Neoklis still looked at him with all the world’s pain and fury, and his brother’s whatever-it-is still tried to interest him through the shared bars of their cells, but for the most part he was ignored. He wasn’t sure he liked it or not. It had been a long time since he was truly nothing and not cared for. He wasn’t sure he could go back to being the empty shell he had been before his mother sold him to Fallow. But alas, wasn’t he already?
Thinking on those Thaylens, Lance’s eyes flicker to the door briefly before returning to the rickety floor of the brig. There must be guards posted nearby, right? They wouldn’t leave their condemned prisoners, even if they were shackled. Some more than most, as the chains and padlocks leading to the bench, the wall and the floor reminds him bitterly. So much for the General’s promise, he moodily thinks. Their agreement seems to have disappeared in the last forty-eight hours, after Lance had been touched and chained yet again. It made him feel only slightly better about his resistance, but he had no doubt that General Hearst would make him regret it later. Maybe Lance’s execution would be especially gruesome. Lance hadn’t trusted the man, but he had been growing a begrudging respect after their agreement. Now, though… All is fair in love and war. Mostly just war in this case.
He flexes in place, being careful of the rat the young girl - Imogen - called Hafwen that is carefully hidden away inside his jacket. Well, he flexes as much as he can considering the five locks and chains restraining him. Around him, there are conversations taking place, but his fellow benchwarmer is strangely silent. Admiral von Remington shares the same despondency as some of the others but is still wilfully ignoring Lance despite them being chained next to each other. Their arms are touching, and for the first time in five years Lance is feeling a touch that he doesn’t mind. The Admiral has always been kind to him in the past before the horror of ‘Bloody Sunday’ as the old warden called it, to the point of giving him training sessions with the sword and treating him whenever he and Fallow met up. He is a kind man, one that Lance looked up to, except now he feels his view of him shift and become tainted thanks to the situation they both find themselves in. His presence is welcome, but uneasy. Lance feels as though he should beg forgiveness. Not for the crime that the General thinks he committed, but for not being able to protect Lance’s King. He shouldn’t have been naïve. He shouldn’t have left the ship. He should have stayed with his family, but instead he played right into their game, and not only caused the death of Fallow, but potentially his own.
He is a flightless bird now, with no hope, and no salvation. He approaches his final day with indifference, and as his eyes remain lowered from Feng’s escape attempt, he thinks on those he loved, those he lost, and those he continues to disappoint and disgust.
He is an empty shell, and he settles back into the bench with a certainty that soon, he’ll see Fallow again.
x x x LANCE MORLEY x x x
the brig | beck + asterris gang | outfit | music
ph: 100% | uninjured | mh: 20% | dazed
the brig | beck + asterris gang | outfit | music
ph: 100% | uninjured | mh: 20% | dazed
citron trees
Beloved Star
citron trees
Beloved Star
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tab tab tab tab Faceclaim⇢ 〣 Samples⇢
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Name: xxx Freyja Heill
Role: xxxMedic
Age: xxx Thirty-three
Gender: xxx Female
Positive Traits: xxx Intelligent | Meticulous | Attentive
Negative Traits: xxx Sadistic | Self-serving | Devious
Main Objective: xxxTo kill General Ross.
▶Details: xxx Freyja loves people. Adores them. She’s always liked seeing how human beings thrive in the most daring and disastrous of circumstances. Being able to pick them apart was appealing, and the Thaylen army enabled that quite readily. Freyja was allowed to experiment and develop new medicine under the watchful eyes of General Ross, and she certainly had her pick of Asterris dogs to test on. She was the forefront medical expert of the Thaylen military, and she thrived on it. It was such a shame when General Ross was reassigned from that entertaining cesspit known as Mair Prison and she had to follow along like a leashed pet, but she managed. There were plenty of other fish in the sea to capture and play with, after all. She went to sleep one night, rocked by the soothing waves, with a smile on her face. She had the best job, the best boss, the best—
She woke up marooned on one of the godforsaken islands ten hours later, with naught but her bag and a note. “Your use has come to an end. Enjoy your life.” She fumed. She raged. She decimated a nearby camp of Thaylen soldiers and used them as her own testing dummies for new medical procedures. It was not enough. She’s been stuck in a cave on this awful island for a year, and she’s ready to exact revenge on that scheming, sick b*****d that broke her heart.
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