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firejay1

The Phoenix
DONATING MEMBER
Roleplay Invitations
Not Taking RP Invites at this Time
Posting Speed
Several Posts a Day, A Few Posts A Day, One Post a Day, A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week
My Usual Online Time
My times are pretty erratic, but it's only really rare to see me PST 3-11am. I'm on most of the time.
Writing Levels
Intermediate, Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Female
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Fine doing both! Sometimes I end up aggressive, if no one else is contributing to plot, or if there's one person I feel like is taking over, but if everyone's contributing equally to the pool of ideas, I just let them go ahead and do it.
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Slice-of-Life, Modern.
Genre You DON'T Like
Horror, Psychedelic, Gory (gore I can handle as long as it's not gore for gore's sake).
#1
Six years old was young to be witness to a crime. Apparently too young for anyone to listen when you told them that your dad had been killed protecting you from a man who hadn't had a head. His eyes had been set into his chest, and he'd been looking at them through a cloak, which she thought was rather inconvenient for him, which was why she'd remembered it so clearly, but not a soul believed her. Standing at his funeral, not knowing what was about to happen next, Bellanca shivered and looked around her at the small gathering who had made it. Even as small as she was, a heavy lump of guilt was stuck in her throat, knowing that it was somehow her fault that there were only six people there. The reason they'd had to move over and over again, the reason nobody liked them, and the reason he was dead, all of it was because there was something wrong with her.

A great fat tear rolled down her cheek and she hiccupped slightly, scrubbing her face with her free hand. She tried to pull her other hand free of the grip of the social worker who was going to decide where she was going to live next, but they were holding on to her as if afraid she was planning a dastardly escape. The little girl screwed up her face and took a long sniff, and that was when she noticed the other girl.

Leaning against a tree several graves away was an older girl with jet black hair and the most striking blue eyes. She wouldn't have paid the girl much attention, but the other child's plump pink lips were pursed tightly, her freaky blue eyes spearing Bellanca with what was most definitely an intense scowl. She didn't know what she'd done to deserve so much animosity from someone she knew she'd never met before, but it startled her into abruptly stopping her tears, peering around to make sure the girl wasn't staring at anyone else.

When she looked back to the tree, however, the girl was gone. The girl was just another in a long series of strange people who had plagued her her whole life, so Bellanca tried to cast her from her mind when she was whisked away from the funeral by the social worker, kicking her feet in the car as she focused on her memories of her father, holding on to them like a lifeline. Damen had been a kind man, at least to her. With his big stature, long dark hair pulled back into a thin ponytail, and the chiseled set of his jaws, he cut a menacing figure, but he'd always stoutly defended her when the other kids had picked on her for being stupid, and he'd had this sudden mischievous grin that would burst out on occasion, lighting his features up in a way that would make all the bad things go away.

She gave another loud hiccup and the social worker looked back at her for just a moment, looking rather upset to Bellanca, though she wasn't sure why. "Bell-" the social worker started.

Bellanca jerked upwards, eyes wide, and screamed, "Look out!" It was too late. At the exact moment the social worker turned back to the front, the car slammed into a huge man… the man had one eye. They hadn't been going very fast, but they'd certainly been going fast enough to at least mildly injure someone they hit. Except, apparently, for this one-eyed dude, who was still standing perfectly fine, the car having a hard dent in it. Bellanca reached a shaky hand out towards the social worker, but the airbags had exploded into action, and the woman had been knocked unconscious.

The one-eyed man walked over to Bellanca's side door, and the six year old hastily unbuckled herself, scrambling backwards in her seat. He ripped the door off its hinges with a growl and reached for her, arm feeling impossibly long, and not seeming to care that she had made her way to the other end of the car. Seeing nothing else to do, Bellanca opened her mouth and shrieked with all her might. It didn't seem to faze the cyclops, who just laughed.

The little girl fumbled with the door handle behind her, but had the sinking feeling that she was well and truly toast. "Oh no you don't." A sharp girl's voice said, as if she had heard the thought.

There was a resounding THWACK and then a ripping sound, and the cyclops bellowed and burst into yellow dust. Bellanca stared open-mouthed at her rescuer: it was the girl, swinging a shining bronze bat in her hand comfortably. The girl was dressed in a little leather jacket and had three piercings in her right ear, a barbell in her left, but despite these little-gangster embellishments, her style came off as cool, rather than threatening or goth. She couldn't have been more than ten years old, but most anyone could see that she was going to grow up to be drop-dead gorgeous. The bat in her right hand had several thick, long spikes popping out towards the tip, and as Bellanca watched with eyes round as dinner plates, those spikes shrank back into the surface of the bat.

"Mom was right." The girl said in something that was most definitely not Greek, though somehow Bellanca understood it anyways. "You need help."

"W-what?" Bellanca asked in her native language, but the girl just stared at her blankly.

"Try French." She said again, in the unfamiliar tongue. "Or no, I'll have to teach you how to use it. Now hurry up, we've got to go."

"But-" The little brunette protested, as the black-haired girl crawled in and physically hauled her out of the car, dragging her down the street to where a motorcycle that was definitely too big for them was sitting. With very little ceremony, she was plunked down into the back seat, a helmet slapped roughly on her head and cinched tight. "Wait!" She tried again, and this time it came out in French. "Who are you?"

The girl didn't seem surprised by the sudden switch to her own native tongue, grinning back at her instead. "I'm Vedette, and I'm your sister. You're a daughter of Aphrodite, just like me." With a surprising amount of ease, she kicked the vehicle into gear, swiping the kickstand up with her gleaming metal bat, then rode like a Fury out of Hades down the street, leaving Bellanca struggling to find anything to say at all.
 

firejay1

The Phoenix
DONATING MEMBER
Roleplay Invitations
Not Taking RP Invites at this Time
Posting Speed
Several Posts a Day, A Few Posts A Day, One Post a Day, A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week
My Usual Online Time
My times are pretty erratic, but it's only really rare to see me PST 3-11am. I'm on most of the time.
Writing Levels
Intermediate, Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Female
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Fine doing both! Sometimes I end up aggressive, if no one else is contributing to plot, or if there's one person I feel like is taking over, but if everyone's contributing equally to the pool of ideas, I just let them go ahead and do it.
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Slice-of-Life, Modern.
Genre You DON'T Like
Horror, Psychedelic, Gory (gore I can handle as long as it's not gore for gore's sake).
#2
“What’s your name, little boy?” The policewoman crouching in front of Caelan was smiling at him, but it was a fake smile. Caelan was good at reading faces.

“I’m Caelan.” He said, shortly, expression utterly calm.

“Well, Caelan. You don’t have to worry about a thing. We’re going to take good care of you and your brother, okay?”

The eight-year-old wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be worried about, but he said, “Okay,” anyways, and left it at that. Mother had never liked it when he’d asked too many questions. Mother was dead, but who knew, maybe this lady would be just like her. He held the hand of his twin tightly. James was sitting there next to him on the side walk as people rushed in and out of their house, lights blaring, their landlady’s hysterical voice explaining loudly how she’d come home to find the body of her second-floor tenant lying in the living room with a broken bottle and the kitchen knife by her side, and several shards of glass sticking out of her back. No one had seen the confrontation. There were no leads as to who could have done it, as the only prints found on the bottle were that of the woman and her two sons. The police assumed the perpetrator had been a guest wearing gloves, since there were two cups on the table, and no signs of forced entry. Besides, the neighbors suddenly seemed to remember that the lady often entertained unsavory people, and signs of shouting weren’t unusual from the household. The poor woman’s two kids were such quiet children. It was a relief nothing had happened to them.

Caelan didn’t know any of this, nor did he care. All he cared about was that he and James would be sent off to a nice person’s home now. That was what they all said happened when you became an orphan. Besides, she’d almost killed James today for accidentally breaking that bottle. He had done a good thing, and he and James were going to be together and be happy.

He didn’t let go of his brother’s hand all through the ride to the police station, nor when they sat together with a nice lady and a tired looking police man and got asked a lot of questions. The man asked them both a lot about what had happened, though nobody asked directly who had killed their mother. “Do you remember a man coming by your house that day?” Neither of them were sure. “Did your mother get into an argument with someone.” Probably. She usually did. “Did your mother seem afraid of anybody?” Mother was afraid of everybody and nobody. “Where is your father?” Up in the sky somewhere. “Who is your father? Can he come pick you up?” Well, maybe he could. His name was Cupid. Caelan wasn’t sure what the word “drug dealer” was supposed to be, but it was a weird name, and their father was supposed to be a weird guy, so perhaps it wasn’t odd that the title passed from adults’ lips with a shared glance when they heard the identity of his father.

But nobody asked how their mother had gotten hurt. Nobody asked if either of them was responsible, so Caelan never told them that he was. He would have, but nobody ever asked. James said nothing at all, just went on holding his hand through it all. That was alright by Cae. His brother needed him. That was the way things were supposed to be.

And then, after what felt like hours, the nice lady came to crouch down in front of him again, telling him that everything was going to be fine, and they were going to stay with a nice family for a while. That was good. That was according to plan.

For a while, they stayed with the nice family. But the nice family had a lot of other kids, and Caelan heard that they couldn’t keep the boys forever. He, in fact, heard a lot of things, sitting at the top of the stairs, above the kitchen at 6 in the morning, when their new parents thought they were all asleep. And there was one thing he heard that he did not like at all.

“Well, yes, I’ve looked around and it seems like other foster homes will be able to take them. I think one is even willing to adopt one of them.” Said the lady who had sat with them in the police room, who still stopped by here and there. “But not together. Please, these boys just lost their mother. They’re twins, too. Surely, you can house them a little longer while I look for a place so they can stay together.”

“We would love to, Ms. Waters, but we just can’t. There just isn’t enough room. If you’ve found a better place for them, it’s better to have them go. We’ve got too many as it is. We can’t care for them properly here.”

There was more arguing, but Caelan heard the gist of it. They were going to split them up. They were going to take his brother away. They weren’t allowed to do that. His brother needed him. He would have to prove that to them.

James came to join him on the stairs, not long after, taking his hand as if it were natural and starting down the stairs for breakfast. Caelan paused, looking down at the stairs. It was a long way down. There was a granny who had lived next door to them who had fallen down her stairs, and her daughter and grandchildren had had to come live with her to take care of her. Maybe the same thing would happen. Maybe they would have to stay together.

Cael yanked his hand out of his brother’s grasp, and pushed.

Hours later, James woke up in a hospital bed. He had a bandage around his head from where he’d cut it, and one of his wrists was sprained slightly, but the doctors said it seemed like he’d recover without too bad of a concussion. He looked at the doctor explaining this to him, and said, “I can’t tell what you’re saying.” In fact, it turned out, he couldn’t tell what anyone was saying. People kept talking to him, but the words sounded wrong, pieces of sounds missing, nothing anyone said made any sense. So he burst into tears and asked for the one person who always made sense for him. “Where’s Caelan? I want Caelan.” His twin had been waiting for him to wake up, but had fallen asleep and been taken back home.

When their foster parents gently shook him awake and told him that his brother wanted him, and they were going to the hospital, he nodded as if it was the only right thing in the world. Right before they walked into the hospital room, the boy looked up at the two, a sort of imperiousness in his gaze, and told them, “My brother needs me.” And with a strange sort of self-satisfaction, he waltzed into the hospital room. He listened to the doctor carefully, and his only response to the dumbed-down version of his brother’s condition was that phrase again, “My brother needs me.” And if it was up to Cael, he always would.
 

firejay1

The Phoenix
DONATING MEMBER
Roleplay Invitations
Not Taking RP Invites at this Time
Posting Speed
Several Posts a Day, A Few Posts A Day, One Post a Day, A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week
My Usual Online Time
My times are pretty erratic, but it's only really rare to see me PST 3-11am. I'm on most of the time.
Writing Levels
Intermediate, Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Female
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Fine doing both! Sometimes I end up aggressive, if no one else is contributing to plot, or if there's one person I feel like is taking over, but if everyone's contributing equally to the pool of ideas, I just let them go ahead and do it.
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Slice-of-Life, Modern.
Genre You DON'T Like
Horror, Psychedelic, Gory (gore I can handle as long as it's not gore for gore's sake).
#3
Aumrienok’s mother practically broke down the door to his chambers, fury radiating from her claws to the tips of her horns. His servants glared at her disapprovingly. The servants were probably from better families than she was and they let her know it whenever she came by. She was nothing to them without her noble son. “Where is he?” She demanded from them.

“The prince has not been seen all day.” One servant said stiffly, looking down his nose at her, as if it was her fault that he was constantly missing and ignoring his duties as a prince of Hell. They probably thought it was.

“And you did not see fit to try and find him?” She sneered right back.

The servant sighed, adopting the tone one might use with a petulant child, “His Highness is quite impossible to find if he does not wish to be found, ma’am. No one can be spared to embark upon an impossible task. He shall surely return before the full moon rises, as is his custom.”

Ri’s mother gritted her teeth, but thought better of making an angry outburst, knowing it would not do much good. She turned to leave, but then the servant continued, “His Highness left a letter addressed to madam, however.”

She whirled around and roared, “WHY DIDN’T YOU START WITH THAT?” The servant wiped his face as if removing some spittle from it, and withdrew the letter, offering it to her in casual disrespect.

She snatched it from him and tore it open right there. With every word she read, she shook a little harder, until she was nearly literally breathing fire, her leathery black skin glowing slightly red.

“To my dearest and most honorable mother, bearer of my life, hundred and something’th mother of the nation, venerated concubine of the King of Hell with no equal except for the hundred and something other more important concubines,

It brings me great pain, I suppose, to address you now. It is my great shame to now realize that I have been the most unfilial of sons. Always has my lord father been the truest vision of a matchless King of Hell, and you, my lady mother, the humblest of his gentle brides. I have met such virtue with thoughtless scorn and disobedience. My eyes have been opened to the error of my ways, and even as a prince of Hell, I can no longer face the weight of my wrongs. I sojourn now from the comforts of home to seek a higher purpose, that through more virtuous actions I may be redeemed for my unconscionable behavior to such caring, thoughtful, and noble parents. I shall return in a millennium, a more honorable man than left this place. EVER SHALL I THINK OF YOU, MY BELOVED PRIMOGENITOR, MATRIARCH OF MY LIFE.

Your most esteemed son,
Aumrienok, 9th Prince of Hell.

P.S. Just kidding, I’m sick of palace life. See you never. Seriously don’t look for me.”

The ensuing scream of rage at the end of the letter was heard all the way across the many palaces of Hell, to where the king sat chuckling to himself in his throne room, easily guessing its origin.
 

firejay1

The Phoenix
DONATING MEMBER
Roleplay Invitations
Not Taking RP Invites at this Time
Posting Speed
Several Posts a Day, A Few Posts A Day, One Post a Day, A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week
My Usual Online Time
My times are pretty erratic, but it's only really rare to see me PST 3-11am. I'm on most of the time.
Writing Levels
Intermediate, Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Female
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Fine doing both! Sometimes I end up aggressive, if no one else is contributing to plot, or if there's one person I feel like is taking over, but if everyone's contributing equally to the pool of ideas, I just let them go ahead and do it.
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Slice-of-Life, Modern.
Genre You DON'T Like
Horror, Psychedelic, Gory (gore I can handle as long as it's not gore for gore's sake).
#4
“It’s going to be fine, Kassius! They’ll love you. How could they not?” Sillowen had said.

Max had told him to “Just stick it out for a couple years, and they’ll let you come home again, don’t worry.”

“They’ll let you come back before then, too. For special occasions and things, I’m sure.” Danwell hadn’t exactly sounded sure to him.

And of course, his five-year-old little sister Jana had just given him a hug and told him, “I’m going to miss you, Kassi.”


Kassius remembered leaving Highgarden with some bitterness. Even if they were trying to reassure him, his siblings weren’t the ones who had to go to Dorne, of all places. Desert country, away from all that was good and green and beautiful. And of course, his mother and father hadn’t even tried to reassure him that everything was going to be okay. His father had sternly seen him off, but he had heard them last night, while going down the secret staircase to the kitchen, trying to avoid getting caught looking for a midnight snack to calm his nerves.

“Are you sure it’s right to send Kassius?” His mother had asked. “Even if you’d rather not send Max, surely it’d be better to send Danwell. What if Kassius offends them somehow? He’s never been very bright.”

“Might as well,” his father had replied, “He’ll do as much harm there as he will here. Besides, those Dornishmen don’t deserve Danwell.”


His mother had worried that way for the entire week’s worth of preparation. “Remember what I told you to say, Kassius?” “Did you remember what I told you?” “Always be polite.” “Think before you say anything, child. What if you stutter or embarrass yourself in front of the Martells?” “You are representing House Tyrell, now. You can’t keep being…” she never said it, but he knew that sentence ended with “you.”

So of course the moment he stepped across the threshold of the Prince of Dorne’s throne room, he tripped over his own feet, landed in an awkward kneel, and blurted what his mother had pounded into his head with a voice twice as shrill as his normal one. “His Lord Paramount of the Reach Garrothan Tyrell sends his greetings and the least of his sons, as humble as he may be.”

At least he hadn’t stuttered.

He barely remembered a thing about how he had been received after that. He just remembered turning bright red, his ears ringing as he fought the urge to cry just because he was nervous. As he was taken to his chambers, however, he caught sight of a little girl, with the tanned skin and dark hair of the Southerners. She was dressed very finely, but was oddly barefoot and was staring at him with wide eyes. She was small and round and looked to be about Jana’s age, maybe younger. So he took a breath and gave her a shy smile and a little wave, before following his guide around the corner and into his chambers. Maybe he would see her again.
 

firejay1

The Phoenix
DONATING MEMBER
Roleplay Invitations
Not Taking RP Invites at this Time
Posting Speed
Several Posts a Day, A Few Posts A Day, One Post a Day, A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week
My Usual Online Time
My times are pretty erratic, but it's only really rare to see me PST 3-11am. I'm on most of the time.
Writing Levels
Intermediate, Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Female
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Fine doing both! Sometimes I end up aggressive, if no one else is contributing to plot, or if there's one person I feel like is taking over, but if everyone's contributing equally to the pool of ideas, I just let them go ahead and do it.
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Slice-of-Life, Modern.
Genre You DON'T Like
Horror, Psychedelic, Gory (gore I can handle as long as it's not gore for gore's sake).
#5
Three weeks. Kassius was mostly settled now. Dorne was pleasanter than he had expected, but he still felt the most at home in the gardens. After he'd gotten over his initial nervousness, he'd actually come to appreciate being away from home. Lord Nymeros had been surprisingly kind to him, and had supplied him with anything he had asked for, which had really just been some parchment, charcoal, and paints. He had spent most of his time since then seeking solitude in Sunspear’s pleasure gardens, drawing the birds and flowers he was unfamiliar with. Perhaps he would send some of his artwork to his sisters.

He sat-cross-legged in the grass, ignoring the unpleasant dampness seeping in through his clothes from the lingering morning dew, deft strokes of the brush leaving marks whose purpose only Kassius would be able to tell until it was nearly finished.

Sunspear wasn’t the only thing the young Tyrell had gotten used to, however. He was very stoutly ignoring the sounds behind him of a little girl making her way through the carefully arranged trees and bushes to find him. She wasn’t loud per se, but he was acutely aware of how the little Princess of Dorne had been following him around. He didn’t mind, though. She still reminded him of Jana, and it was nice to feel wanted.

A small yelp of pain had him whipping his head around to look for her, his drawing temporarily forgotten, but the chubby little girl was just finishing brushing the stray grass from her colorful robes as if nothing had happened. He frowned at her, and lay his parchment and brush aside, about to get up and approach her, but she flounced to his side before he could stand. In this position, they were just about the same height. “Are you o-” he started, but she interrupted him.

“What are you doing, my Lord?” She asked, brightly. That was the other thing. They kept calling him “my Lord.” No one in his family called him that, certainly not Jana, only the servants had. It was the one thing that kept reminding him that he wasn’t at home. Here, he was “Lord Kassius Tyrell.” He didn’t feel like himself.

“Please, just call me Kassius, Princess.” He finally blurted. He’d wanted to say that for over a week, but hadn’t worked up the nerve until now. “I-” He started again, about to answer her question, but then his eyes happened to look down and he noticed that a bit of her robe was stained slightly red. “You’re hurt!” He cried in alarm. “Let me call a servant.”

He was about to stand up and fetch someone, when she grabbed his sleeve. “No, I want to know what you’re drawing.” She insisted. He hesitated, not sure what the right course of action was, but then she plopped herself into his lap and picked up the parchment he’d been painting on, along with the little wooden board he’d been using as a makeshift easel. She frowned at it, puzzled by the seemingly random lines.

Lacking the confidence to be so rude as to dump the three-year-old daughter of his host in the grass while he went to get someone to treat her, he sighed and finally took the parchment from her hands, lowering it slightly from where she had raised it so he could point over at his model. “Look over there.” He said, a little awkwardly. “That red flower, catching the sunlight. Doesn’t it look a little bit like it’s glowing?” He was starting to get into the conversation a bit, remembering what had compelled him to sit down in the first place. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it in Highgarden.” He told her, though he was speaking half to himself. “The sun isn’t quite so strong there.”

A sniffle made him look down at the girl in his lap and he realized with a start that she was crying. “Princess Myria! Are you alright? Does your leg-”

“It’s beautiful.” She said, rubbing her nose with her sleeve. If Kassius had been able to think of a single thing to say to that, he would have, but he gaped at her slightly in confusion, until she demanded, “Keep painting it.” And since he had nothing else to do or say, he did, the little girl’s warmth surprisingly proving a nice companion for his painting he would grow used to over the coming months.
 

firejay1

The Phoenix
DONATING MEMBER
Roleplay Invitations
Not Taking RP Invites at this Time
Posting Speed
Several Posts a Day, A Few Posts A Day, One Post a Day, A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week
My Usual Online Time
My times are pretty erratic, but it's only really rare to see me PST 3-11am. I'm on most of the time.
Writing Levels
Intermediate, Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Female
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Fine doing both! Sometimes I end up aggressive, if no one else is contributing to plot, or if there's one person I feel like is taking over, but if everyone's contributing equally to the pool of ideas, I just let them go ahead and do it.
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Slice-of-Life, Modern.
Genre You DON'T Like
Horror, Psychedelic, Gory (gore I can handle as long as it's not gore for gore's sake).
#6
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

Caelan rolled his eyes at his brother’s question. He should think the answer was obvious, considering it was the third time he’d asked just today. He didn’t respond curtly, though. Even a year into it, Jamie wasn’t taking very well to being homeless. Cae hadn’t expected it to be so hard, either. He had thought it would be simple. Just take some supplies with them and steal whatever little food they might need. How hard could it be? Turned out, very hard.

The first night, they’d slept outside in a deserted alley, and Cae had woken up to find someone rifling through Jamie’s pack with grubby hands and foul breath. They had run out of the food they had brought with them quickly, and a store manager had almost grabbed him as he ran out the door with stolen food. They kept clean using library bathrooms, and he could not count the number of times they had had to lie to adults asking him why he wasn’t in school where his parents were, if they were alright. Since they hadn’t gone far the first month or so, some locals had started to notice them, and more than once they’d almost been ambushed by policemen who must have been told about them. They’d hitchhiked as far away as possible after one had gotten dangerously close to them and seemed to know who they were. Those stupid foster-people must have warned the police to be on the look out for a pair of stray twins.

Since then, they had constantly been on the move, getting around on foot or by hitchhiking, begging for money when they could, occasionally living off of the kindness of some gullible lady who thought they were lost and couldn’t find their mother and just needed a place to sleep for the night. There had been nights they’d almost frozen to death and days they went hungry. The most common place to sleep was inside locked stalls of fast food bathrooms. Jamie had tried to be cheerful about it, but it had taken its toll and Cae could see it. It had taken him three months to figure out the solution.

At eleven years of age, the son of Cupid had learned how to mug people.

It had taken him some time to perfect it. He’d learned which people were less likely to fight and easier to overpower even if they did. He’d almost gotten them caught by using someone’s credit cards for too long. He’d dropped his knife once and barely escaped a bad beating, but in the end the takeaway was that given the choice between their money and their life, most regular folk chose their life, and that meant a week’s worth of food for the two of them.

Jamie, of course, had no idea, and that was how it was going to stay. They’d gotten into a routine, Jamie scouting out places to sleep and buy food, using the local library’s computers to look up a good next location for them to move on to and a way to get there if they couldn’t hitch a ride. Meanwhile, Cae would go out and “get money.” He told Jamie he got it by begging, and only revealed a little of the cash he’d withdrawn from an ATM each time he returned home. Jamie wasn’t stupid enough to fully believe him, but they needed the money. Goodness knew they needed it, and Jamie wouldn’t have approved of what he was actually doing to get it.

So, every morning, they had this exchange. Jamie would ask, “Do you want me to go with you?” And Cae would give Jamie the best smile he had, pat the swiss army knife in his pocket, and turn his brother down. Most days, he was successful and didn’t have any problems. They’d scream and cry, but hand over their wallets without a fight. Most days.

And then there were days like today, he thought to himself, somewhat regretting his choice of target. The short woman he’d cornered in an alley didn’t look nearly as afraid of him as she should have. She was clutching her little pink, faux-leather purse tightly, eyeing him with what he was fairly certain was annoyance, as if he’d just spilled coffee on her precise little beige heels, instead of threatening her with a knife. “Give me your purse.” He snarled, his high, unbroken voice not sounding particularly threatening.

She frowned at him. “No. Now get out of my way, or I’m going to be late for a meeting.” Yep, this was one of the troublesome ones.

“Give me your purse now or I’ll kill you.” He told her again. She laughed. Oh, a lot of them laughed. He knew he was just a small, pre-pubescent boy too pretty to look like he’d hurt a fly. But then, the ones who laughed always regretted it.

“Yeah right.” She retorted. “With that little pocket knife? I don’t think so, little boy. Go home to your mom and stop playing gangster, or I’m going to call the police.”

She reached for her phone, and that was, of course, when Cae knew negotiations were over. Lurching forward, he stabbed her hard in the arm with his “little pocket knife.” She screamed and tried to pull away, thwacking him on the head with her stupid little pink purse, so he stabbed her again until she let go, grabbed the purse, and dashed away from the alley, leaving the woman screaming after him. If she could still holler like that, she was fine, but she’d gotten blood all over his clothes. He resisted the urge to go back and try to finish her off just for that.

He’d dashed around a corner and stopped for a moment to catch his breath, when a man suddenly appeared in front of him. Literally appeared. Caelan flinched and jerked upwards, holding up his knife warily and at the same time trying to make up an excuse for why there was blood on his jeans, so that he could avoid another fight. The minute he saw the man, however, he knew there was something strange about him. The man looked like something out of an old movie. He was dressed normally, but his eyes were blood red, a bow and a quiver of arrows slung around his shoulders. The harsh planes of his face were somehow both handsome and terrifying, and if Caelan had been anyone else, anyone at all, he knew he would have felt something at seeing it.

But he was himself, so all he felt was the faint echoes of something similar to fear, but a whole lot closer to annoyance. The irony of his own feelings matching that of the woman he’d stabbed just moments ago escaped him entirely. He backed up and turned to leave, but the man commanded, “Stop,” and when he didn’t seem inclined to listen, an arrow whizzed past him and hit the ground, exploding with such force that Cae was knocked backwards, landing on his butt on the disgusting pavement with a thud. No one came running to see what the commotion was.

Cae frowned up at the man. “What?” He asked, rudely.

The man’s red eyes blazed, though with anger or fire, it was hard to tell. “I am Cupid, your father, and it is time for you to join the Roman legion. I will guide you and your brother to Lupa, where you will be tested.”

“No.” Cae said back, interrupting whatever else he might have said, getting up and brushing himself off.

Cupid didn’t react like most adults would. He didn’t frown or ask what the boy had just said or demand he be listened to. His blazing red eyes never changed. “You will go, because it will better teach you to protect James. It will give you both a home to stay in together.”

Caelan narrowed his eyes at his father. “You don’t know anything.”

He should have laughed, like most grown ups did, but he didn’t. “It seems you and your mother are the same boy, always underestimating love. I know, because I am love. What do you think you can do to win against me?”

“I’ll kill you.” Caelan retorted, more matter-of-factly than angrily.

The god really should have laughed. He was an immortal god and his little, inconsequential speck of a mortal son was telling him with absolute certainty that he would kill him someday. They always regretted it when they laughed. Instead, the Roman God of Love leaned down towards his son, and in his rumbling voice quietly told him, “Omnia vincit Amor.*” The way he said it, Cae knew that it was a statement of fact, a threat, and a challenge, all rolled into one.

He knew right then that Cupid was right. If only for Jamie’s sake, they were going to go to this Lupa and join whatever lesion their father wanted them to join, if that meant they could get out of this life and still stay together, but that didn’t mean he was defeated. Even as he resolved not to tell Jamie about this meeting, Caelan knew he would keep this moment locked in his brain for long years to come, so that someday he would prove himself right. Defiantly staring right back into his father’s eyes, he responded with words he didn’t even know he could use. “Omnia et Amorem vincet filius Amoris.”

(*Famous quote used to describe Cupid meaning “Love conquers all.” Caelan’s reply is “The son of Love will conquer all and Love.” I know, it sucks. Whatever.)
 

firejay1

The Phoenix
DONATING MEMBER
Roleplay Invitations
Not Taking RP Invites at this Time
Posting Speed
Several Posts a Day, A Few Posts A Day, One Post a Day, A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week
My Usual Online Time
My times are pretty erratic, but it's only really rare to see me PST 3-11am. I'm on most of the time.
Writing Levels
Intermediate, Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Female
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Fine doing both! Sometimes I end up aggressive, if no one else is contributing to plot, or if there's one person I feel like is taking over, but if everyone's contributing equally to the pool of ideas, I just let them go ahead and do it.
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Slice-of-Life, Modern.
Genre You DON'T Like
Horror, Psychedelic, Gory (gore I can handle as long as it's not gore for gore's sake).
#7
Ting stripped off her armor furiously, metal plates hitting the floor of the Third Cohort barracks with a loud series of clangs. Shreya tried to pat her on the arm reassuringly, but her sister threw off her arm. "I hate that guy." The Chinese-American girl said, brushing her short black locks back from her forehead ineffectually, leaving a black grease smudge on her face. "Even when they lose, he has this nasty-" her plumed helmet slammed into the wall and landed on her bed "-smug-" Bang "-little-" Clang "grin on his stupid face. I just want to punch him in the face all the time, but especially on days like this." She threw her leather belt into her bed with all her might.

"Well, you know what they say," came a snide voice from the open doorway, "Omnia vincit Amor." He was leaning against the door frame, as Ting had slammed the door so hard it had bounced slightly open without either of them noticing.

The minute she saw Cae standing there in the purple Camp Jupiter shirt and jeans he'd worn during the chariot race, Ting's face scrunched into a furious scowl. He had barely worn any armor during the race, prevented from falling out of the chariot by nothing more than a rope loosely tying him to a loop in the chariot, and that somehow made their defeat to the Cupid twins even more humiliating. His bow was slung over one shoulder and the leather quiver of arrows was still strapped to his thigh. A hole had been burned into one shoulder from where his shirt had caught fire from a flung fireball, and Ting was rather wishing she had been the one to throw that fireball, since it was the only damage he had sustained. Jamie was a nice kid, but he drove like a demon, and combined with Caelan's ability with a bow and arrow to sabotage others' chariots from a longer range, the Cupid twins had become favorite picks to represent the Fourth Cohort in chariot races.

They had been so close this time. With the two Fortuna girls' good fortune, and a protective spell a son of Trivia had whipped up for their chariot, they had managed to avoid the worst mishaps. Except at the very last turn, Caelan had shot a volley of explosive arrows into the finish line and their horses had reared up. With their good luck, the chariot hadn't tipped over, and the horses had kept moving forward, but it had given them enough time to get just close enough for the asshole to take up a spear and slam it repeatedly into her shield. Shreya had driven grimly on, until Cae had jammed the spear between Ting and the back of the chariot and yanked, sending her tumbling from the vehicle. It had hurt to Pluto, and Shreya had gotten so distracted, she had forced the horse to a stop while the boys pulled right past them to cross the finish line first.

Her blood pressure rising with the memory, she snapped back at him, "Amor can suck Fortuna's dick, bitch. The Chinese say, 有缘千里来相会,无缘对面不相逢. With luck people can meet even separated by a thousand miles, without it they might never meet only one street apart. Fortune is what makes your precious love possible in the first place, you flaming ass."

"Ting..." Shreya said, grabbing her arm, worry and frustration in her eyes. She shook her head, telling her silently to leave it alone.

Ting shrugged her off again roughly, but gave her her full attention. "Doesn't his arrogant behavior bother you? He's just the son of a minor god of love. Not even Venus, but Cupid. You know with the diapers and the cute little heart shaped arrows. What right does he have to go strutting around like a big shot when he's the son of a superfluous sweet little baby god?"

Cae smiled at her, but it wasn't a nice smile, there was not the smallest shred of warmth in it. "It's cute how you think my twisted personality only comes from one side of the family."

She harrumphed and began to take off her leather arm braces, turning away from him as she unlaced them. "It's not like Jamie has a twisted personality."

"Ti-" Shreya said in alarm, and the Asian girl turned back around just in time for the son of Cupid to grab her lapel and pull her close.

He was grinning like a shark as he put his pale lips right next to her ear and said softly, but threateningly, "That's why Jamie needs me, daughter of Fortuna. He is incomplete without me. There wasn't enough sanity between both of our parents to make a full person, so I am his insanity for him." For half a second, Ting was actually scared, but then he thrust her away from him and turned to walk out the door. As he left, he called over his shoulder. "And this is just a warning to you. Cupid is the son of Mars and Venus. He's not so kind as to forgive you for calling him superfluous, so if I were you, I'd watch my back if I ever felt something like love."
 

firejay1

The Phoenix
DONATING MEMBER
Roleplay Invitations
Not Taking RP Invites at this Time
Posting Speed
Several Posts a Day, A Few Posts A Day, One Post a Day, A Few Posts a Week, One Post a Week
My Usual Online Time
My times are pretty erratic, but it's only really rare to see me PST 3-11am. I'm on most of the time.
Writing Levels
Intermediate, Adept, Advanced, Adaptable
Genders You Prefer Playing
Male, Female
Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive
Fine doing both! Sometimes I end up aggressive, if no one else is contributing to plot, or if there's one person I feel like is taking over, but if everyone's contributing equally to the pool of ideas, I just let them go ahead and do it.
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Slice-of-Life, Modern.
Genre You DON'T Like
Horror, Psychedelic, Gory (gore I can handle as long as it's not gore for gore's sake).
#8
“Steady there, my Lord. That’s right. Be quick with your footwork.” At ten years old, Nikolaus was already proving himself to be a strong child. He wasn’t pushing the swordmaster back just yet, but give it a couple years, and the man would have to exert himself to stay on top. Once he reached his manhood, he would doubtless need a new swordmaster to even challenge him.

When they ended the fight, he was breathing hard, sweat soaking into his tunic, but his deep-set violet eyes remained calm and analytical, impossible to read. He wiped the sweat from his brow and went to bathe, his father looking on approvingly.

“Man, don’t you ever smile?” His five-year-old cousin asked brightly, joining him on the way to the bath. “He almost couldn’t keep up with you! I’ve never seen Maester Gamwin have that much trouble with anyone our age!” He waved his arms enthusiastically, but Nikolaus just gave him an empty look.

Jonatan pouted, but let his cousin get to his bath. Afterwards, though, he found the young Lord sitting in his father’s study, reading on his own. He was reading “On the Ailments of the Human Body” which looked ancient and would have put Jonatan to sleep immediately.

“Why do you read things like this?” He asked, scrunching up his nose and peeking over the title at the other boy. “Isn’t it boring?”

“It is my duty.” The other boy said, gravely, though his voice was nowhere near as deep as it one day would be, lacking the dark gravity in tone it would one day come to have.

Jonatan plucked the book from his hands and closed it. “Don’t you do anything fun? Or enjoy it when you’re doing things that are supposed to be fun?” Nikolaus studied him carefully, but didn’t look angry at having had his book taken from him. “Ugh. Or get angry at anyone? You ever feel anything at all?” He waved his hand in front of his cousin’s face. He’d been introduced by his mother as a playmate, but as far as he could tell, he’d never seen anyone who wanted to play less than the Lord Nikolaus Velaryon.

“I do.” He said, calmly, “But the mark of a leader is knowing when to put aside emotions in the service of a greater good, and how would I be able to put them aside when it counts if I cannot control them when it does not?”

Jonatan frowned at him, but then finally said, “You know. I think that’s the longest thing you’ve ever said to me. Does it really matter all that much to you?”

“Does what?” Nikolaus asked back, curiously.

“All that duty stuff. Becoming Lord of the Tides, Master of Driftmark. Don’t you ever think of wanting to become someone else? Or take a day off? You don’t have to study all the time, do you?” He would hate doing that all day. It seemed awfully boring, at least.

Nikolaus leaned forward, and for the first time, Jonatan noticed that the full force of his Lord’s gaze was fixed on him. It was a little bit creepy, but with that much attention on him, he could also for the first time detect a note of emotion in the grey-haired boy. He was curious about him, but also… was that anxiety? It was something similar, anyways. “Why do you believe I don’t think of doing something else? But why should my doubts prevent me from pouring myself into a cause I find worthy?”

Jonatan tilted his head to the side and thought about it. “Are you scaared?”

“No, I’m not!” Nikolaus snapped suddenly, then calmed himself again, and that was when Jonatan saw it.

He grinned. “You’re weird, but cool.” He punched his future Lord in the shoulder and plopped the book back in his hands before heading out of the library. “If you ever do want to play, just ask me, okay? Even if it’s just once. Momma says I’m always fun.”