- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Writing Levels
- Give-No-Fucks
- Advanced
- Adaptable
- Genres
- Fantasy, Romance, Medieval, Action, Magic, Sci-fi
**NOTE** At the moment I have a broken finger, so excuse any typos.
This idea is one I have had for a long time. My previous partner and I both went on a hiatus and never picked it back up. Here is the link to the previous thread if you would like to get an idea for the story. Of course, adaptations can be made - I would love to work on this with someone!
My characters will consist of the Northern survivors. Yours will consist of the Southern King, and his three sons. Ideally, the story goes that the last Northern surviviors, who are on the run, are finally taken in somehow by the Southern forces. All in all, I want a romance between my surviving Princess, and the eldest son. I will explain much more in a PM!
The North fell seven years past to an assassin leading barbarian forces. The King, Queen, and son died. Two daughters survived, but only barely. The youngest, Ellara Wittacre, has been on the run with a small entourage consisting of her handmaiden and two men. One, a knight, the other in training. They have been in and out of capture, on the run for seven long years. By some miracle, they finally make it to the South where the Prince takes a liking to Ellara.
However, the King is less than pleased to see the survivor, tensions rise, and secrets of what really happened began to unfold.
Previous Thread
She was running, the handmaiden by the name Maeve cradled a redheaded child in her arms, she being not so old as to see her first days of womanhood. Tears as well as blood streamed down the front of the child's nightclothes. Maeve prayed to every God she knew, starting with those of her country. The Life Giver Daitel, the Life Taker Chale, every other name slipped through her tongue with no great amount of significance. They had nothing to do with the slaughter of innocents, and only life mattered now, so she prayed.
"Hang on my sweet." Maeve cooed the child but only received desperate spouts of gurgled blood from the edges of her lips. Little Ellara Wittacre was dying in her arms and there was nothing she could do to stop the slaughter around them.
"Duncan, get your ass over here, before someone finds us!" Maeve hissed back at a shadow darting just behind her hurried steps. There were four in their party total. One handmaiden, one knight, and two terrified little girls with no imagination left as to what was lurking in the halls of their home.
The man had no reply for the angered handmaiden. He busied himself with another child, older than the first. Her blonde hair was thick with matted blood, her eyes wide in horror, never once did they leave her sister's face. Little Ellara was stunned and bleeding, Catherine could do nothing but watch.
"Miss Maeve, where is Edward?" Catherine asked. "Where is mother, father, why aren't they with us? Who hurt Ellara?"
"Quiet, child, we need to run. No more questions." Duncan, the knight of the group hushed Catherine with a jolt of his hand forward. In his opposite was a great long sword meant for two hands. The one would do, adrenaline left him with great strength. Catherine complained against his grip but didn't ask anything else. The girl was smart enough to figure when to hold her tongue and when to speak, court had taught her that.
Only, this wasn't the court. The Lords and Ladies she was used to speaking with were dead on the steps of the grounds, the lone opposing voice was an arrow in their chest, and it was best Catherine never spoke up unless she wanted to join the popular opinion.
Fire rained down from the sky and set whole rooms ablaze with such ferocity the stone itself began to melt off the high rising spires. This of course, was where the memory and the dream differed. Poor Ellara could barely discern from the truth of the reality and the false memories any longer. In truth, the buildings were never on fire to begin with. There was no mage summoning forth hell to burn their home, only torches to catch to the tapestries around the grounds. Those were more susceptible to the element. Stone didn't burn, wouldn't burn, not unless it was by mythical dragon fire.
Death was at her door, and only wanted to ease the pain with memories which seemed more grand than what lay in ruin around her.
From what Catherine said, as Ellara never remembered, they fled to the main road with nothing more than the very clothes on their backs. For Catherine, it consisted of her pale rose colored nightgown and a pair of mismatched slippers. Her hair was all tousled, but she insisted she'd looked good in her apparel. She feared more for Ellara's safety than what she was wearing, and she always made sure to say so.
The dream only continued in fire until the woods around them were red and distorted. Soldiers screamed after them, wolves sniffed the air to catch a taste of the royal bloodline, eager for the easy kill. None of it was real, the memories weren't there to justify the feeling of pain against her skin. It was burning, hot and cold all at once, the skin at her neck was cut jagged from a would be assassins shot at taking a ten year old girl's life.
He'd failed, to Sir Duncan Kelly's great liking.
Ellara woke with a start. Her hand slapped hard against her neck, only to meet the pink flesh of the botched attempt on her life. Tears started to spring from the corner of her pale blue eyes but good Maeve was there to stifle the familiar cry of pain which she long associated with the nightmare. The handmaiden's soft hands wrapped around the girl's mouth, knowing that a slip of the finger meant revealing their location in the dead of night.
The young girl looked frantically around her. It was dark, the sky above her lit only by the faint twinkling of stars, the moon absent from the blackened night. Her back was sore, and a sudden jolt from their wagon wheel helped to remind herself they had stolen a hay cart for transportation.
Even in disarray she was an image of beauty, no matter how many times she dissented. Her red hair was an uncommon sighting, even among the best bred nobles in the country. She was slender but not for lack of some form to her hips, now that she'd blossomed into a proper young lady. Ellara always compared herself to that of her sister. Tall, blonde, and sociable. They felt like stark opposites despite their relation by blood.
But Catherine wasn't there.
"It has been seven years and yet you still dream." Maeve's accent was slightly reminisce of a Mountain dwelling tribe, her words felt thick, like her tongue didn't have enough room in her own mouth, but it wasn't an unpleasant sound. While cumbersome, it was warm and filled with good intent with each syllable. "Do not weep."
Ellara did her best not to cry, as she did when the nightmare struck. The anniversary was coming closer and the dream only got worse with each passing night. It was the fourth time Maeve had to intervene that very week.
"You are alive, and safe for now, that is all that matters." Maeve removed her hand from the teen's mouth and used it instead to brush her fingers against her soft red hair. Ellara leaned heavily into the touch with her hands still grasping around the wound at her throat. Gently, the maid began to pick bits of hay and grass from Ellara's clothes in an attempt to soothe her worried mind.
"Rest. Arlo and Duncan have the reins, I will not leave you." She cooed. "Do not fear, my Lady Ellara. you have nothing to fear from anyone."
Ellara nodded once more, touching a shivering hand to the black silk around her throat. It was tight, and should've made her want to gasp for another breath of air, but it was the only thing she found comforting. Her scar was shameful. The longer she had to look, the more pain she suffered through memories of the day she'd been forced from her home.
"Ellara." Maeve brushed her hands over the red headed girl's face once more, wiping the sweat from her brow. "You have much to be grateful for. Now sleep. Tomorrow will be a new day."
The handmaiden kissed the top of Ellara's head before wrapping her arms around the younger girl's shoulders. Ellara rested her head on the handmaiden's shoulder and shut her eyes in a vain attempt to sleep. Beneath them, the rickety hay cart jumped and creaked, but somehow the redhead found sleep.
[/fieldbox]
This idea is one I have had for a long time. My previous partner and I both went on a hiatus and never picked it back up. Here is the link to the previous thread if you would like to get an idea for the story. Of course, adaptations can be made - I would love to work on this with someone!
My characters will consist of the Northern survivors. Yours will consist of the Southern King, and his three sons. Ideally, the story goes that the last Northern surviviors, who are on the run, are finally taken in somehow by the Southern forces. All in all, I want a romance between my surviving Princess, and the eldest son. I will explain much more in a PM!
The North fell seven years past to an assassin leading barbarian forces. The King, Queen, and son died. Two daughters survived, but only barely. The youngest, Ellara Wittacre, has been on the run with a small entourage consisting of her handmaiden and two men. One, a knight, the other in training. They have been in and out of capture, on the run for seven long years. By some miracle, they finally make it to the South where the Prince takes a liking to Ellara.
However, the King is less than pleased to see the survivor, tensions rise, and secrets of what really happened began to unfold.
Previous Thread
------------------------
The Wittacre family had long ruled in the North, capturing mountains and valleys alike in a mass construct of fortune to put forth their claim to both Lordship and Kingship. It worked, long in the past when legends seemed truth, and for many a century the famed Wittacre lineage was praised for their mastery of the harsh climates. They moved on from the tall fortresses up in the mountains down to the river valleys at their feet, and build a stone castle of the greatest mankind had seen for many a millennium. Great Kaehr of the North, the Mountain Fortress some called.
Many families wanted to marry off into the line, knowing that whomever they sent would be in good hands until the day they died. Others were jealous, and sought to steal what the family had earned through their ancestors' bravery and strength.
It is here the story begins, when the intimidating Great Kaehr was assaulted by a group of unnamed men. Assassins, they said, sent by a nameless master. The slaughter was endless. The Wittacre family was thought to be lost, but there was hope yet in the two daughters who outlived their father, mother, and brother. Catherine and Ellara Wittacre were the hope of the future. In time, they would reclaim the lost Great Kaehr Castle their bloodlines had built before them. They would rise from the ash of their failures and crush the force who dared to smite them.
If only they knew who.
If only they knew how.
On the run for seven long years, it is time for more than survival for the sake of living. The Southern King and his sons hold promise for safety, and maybe a chance at taking back the North.
The Wittacre family had long ruled in the North, capturing mountains and valleys alike in a mass construct of fortune to put forth their claim to both Lordship and Kingship. It worked, long in the past when legends seemed truth, and for many a century the famed Wittacre lineage was praised for their mastery of the harsh climates. They moved on from the tall fortresses up in the mountains down to the river valleys at their feet, and build a stone castle of the greatest mankind had seen for many a millennium. Great Kaehr of the North, the Mountain Fortress some called.
Many families wanted to marry off into the line, knowing that whomever they sent would be in good hands until the day they died. Others were jealous, and sought to steal what the family had earned through their ancestors' bravery and strength.
It is here the story begins, when the intimidating Great Kaehr was assaulted by a group of unnamed men. Assassins, they said, sent by a nameless master. The slaughter was endless. The Wittacre family was thought to be lost, but there was hope yet in the two daughters who outlived their father, mother, and brother. Catherine and Ellara Wittacre were the hope of the future. In time, they would reclaim the lost Great Kaehr Castle their bloodlines had built before them. They would rise from the ash of their failures and crush the force who dared to smite them.
If only they knew who.
If only they knew how.
On the run for seven long years, it is time for more than survival for the sake of living. The Southern King and his sons hold promise for safety, and maybe a chance at taking back the North.
------------------------
What you can expect from me:
- I post whenever I can, and love to do so daily! I do not expect this from my partners, however.
- Moderately lengthy posts (4+ paragraphs)
- Cooperative story creation, I will PM you with ideas and hope you will help me work on them. I don't like non-responsive partners.
- I like to use coding and character banners, but we don't have to
- I will be a little slow for another week or two due to my finger, I am so sorry :(
- Weekly post
- Decent post size. No one liners!
- Proper spelling and grammar. I'm not expecting every partner I have to be a beautiful wordsmith, but I appreciate partners who take the time to preview posts
------------------------
And now, here is a post to give you an idea of the story! Please enjoy, and comment if interested!
------------------------
[fieldbox="Just A Dream, #b84265, solid, 10"]A cry pierced the night like a sword against the throat of a mortal man. All manner of beast and human ran scrambling from the innermost heart of the royal palace, but not one made it past the entryway steps. One by one the collaborated screaming trickled to a sole voice among the masses. Soldiers waited with tall pikes in hand, backed by rows of archers ready to take aim. The sounds died out, the hollow ringing of fear left a stain deep against the black canvas of the sky, everything else stained red with the blood of the house Attacre. The cry was there, and all at once silenced by an unnamed hand.And now, here is a post to give you an idea of the story! Please enjoy, and comment if interested!
------------------------
She was running, the handmaiden by the name Maeve cradled a redheaded child in her arms, she being not so old as to see her first days of womanhood. Tears as well as blood streamed down the front of the child's nightclothes. Maeve prayed to every God she knew, starting with those of her country. The Life Giver Daitel, the Life Taker Chale, every other name slipped through her tongue with no great amount of significance. They had nothing to do with the slaughter of innocents, and only life mattered now, so she prayed.
"Hang on my sweet." Maeve cooed the child but only received desperate spouts of gurgled blood from the edges of her lips. Little Ellara Wittacre was dying in her arms and there was nothing she could do to stop the slaughter around them.
"Duncan, get your ass over here, before someone finds us!" Maeve hissed back at a shadow darting just behind her hurried steps. There were four in their party total. One handmaiden, one knight, and two terrified little girls with no imagination left as to what was lurking in the halls of their home.
The man had no reply for the angered handmaiden. He busied himself with another child, older than the first. Her blonde hair was thick with matted blood, her eyes wide in horror, never once did they leave her sister's face. Little Ellara was stunned and bleeding, Catherine could do nothing but watch.
"Miss Maeve, where is Edward?" Catherine asked. "Where is mother, father, why aren't they with us? Who hurt Ellara?"
"Quiet, child, we need to run. No more questions." Duncan, the knight of the group hushed Catherine with a jolt of his hand forward. In his opposite was a great long sword meant for two hands. The one would do, adrenaline left him with great strength. Catherine complained against his grip but didn't ask anything else. The girl was smart enough to figure when to hold her tongue and when to speak, court had taught her that.
Only, this wasn't the court. The Lords and Ladies she was used to speaking with were dead on the steps of the grounds, the lone opposing voice was an arrow in their chest, and it was best Catherine never spoke up unless she wanted to join the popular opinion.
Fire rained down from the sky and set whole rooms ablaze with such ferocity the stone itself began to melt off the high rising spires. This of course, was where the memory and the dream differed. Poor Ellara could barely discern from the truth of the reality and the false memories any longer. In truth, the buildings were never on fire to begin with. There was no mage summoning forth hell to burn their home, only torches to catch to the tapestries around the grounds. Those were more susceptible to the element. Stone didn't burn, wouldn't burn, not unless it was by mythical dragon fire.
Death was at her door, and only wanted to ease the pain with memories which seemed more grand than what lay in ruin around her.
From what Catherine said, as Ellara never remembered, they fled to the main road with nothing more than the very clothes on their backs. For Catherine, it consisted of her pale rose colored nightgown and a pair of mismatched slippers. Her hair was all tousled, but she insisted she'd looked good in her apparel. She feared more for Ellara's safety than what she was wearing, and she always made sure to say so.
The dream only continued in fire until the woods around them were red and distorted. Soldiers screamed after them, wolves sniffed the air to catch a taste of the royal bloodline, eager for the easy kill. None of it was real, the memories weren't there to justify the feeling of pain against her skin. It was burning, hot and cold all at once, the skin at her neck was cut jagged from a would be assassins shot at taking a ten year old girl's life.
He'd failed, to Sir Duncan Kelly's great liking.
Ellara woke with a start. Her hand slapped hard against her neck, only to meet the pink flesh of the botched attempt on her life. Tears started to spring from the corner of her pale blue eyes but good Maeve was there to stifle the familiar cry of pain which she long associated with the nightmare. The handmaiden's soft hands wrapped around the girl's mouth, knowing that a slip of the finger meant revealing their location in the dead of night.
The young girl looked frantically around her. It was dark, the sky above her lit only by the faint twinkling of stars, the moon absent from the blackened night. Her back was sore, and a sudden jolt from their wagon wheel helped to remind herself they had stolen a hay cart for transportation.
Even in disarray she was an image of beauty, no matter how many times she dissented. Her red hair was an uncommon sighting, even among the best bred nobles in the country. She was slender but not for lack of some form to her hips, now that she'd blossomed into a proper young lady. Ellara always compared herself to that of her sister. Tall, blonde, and sociable. They felt like stark opposites despite their relation by blood.
But Catherine wasn't there.
"It has been seven years and yet you still dream." Maeve's accent was slightly reminisce of a Mountain dwelling tribe, her words felt thick, like her tongue didn't have enough room in her own mouth, but it wasn't an unpleasant sound. While cumbersome, it was warm and filled with good intent with each syllable. "Do not weep."
Ellara did her best not to cry, as she did when the nightmare struck. The anniversary was coming closer and the dream only got worse with each passing night. It was the fourth time Maeve had to intervene that very week.
"You are alive, and safe for now, that is all that matters." Maeve removed her hand from the teen's mouth and used it instead to brush her fingers against her soft red hair. Ellara leaned heavily into the touch with her hands still grasping around the wound at her throat. Gently, the maid began to pick bits of hay and grass from Ellara's clothes in an attempt to soothe her worried mind.
"Rest. Arlo and Duncan have the reins, I will not leave you." She cooed. "Do not fear, my Lady Ellara. you have nothing to fear from anyone."
Ellara nodded once more, touching a shivering hand to the black silk around her throat. It was tight, and should've made her want to gasp for another breath of air, but it was the only thing she found comforting. Her scar was shameful. The longer she had to look, the more pain she suffered through memories of the day she'd been forced from her home.
"Ellara." Maeve brushed her hands over the red headed girl's face once more, wiping the sweat from her brow. "You have much to be grateful for. Now sleep. Tomorrow will be a new day."
The handmaiden kissed the top of Ellara's head before wrapping her arms around the younger girl's shoulders. Ellara rested her head on the handmaiden's shoulder and shut her eyes in a vain attempt to sleep. Beneath them, the rickety hay cart jumped and creaked, but somehow the redhead found sleep.
[/fieldbox]
