The year is 286 AC. King Jaehaerys II has just passed, leaving the throne without a rightful ruler. While his three children fight for the crown, Winter creeps closer, and unimaginable darkness looms.
Not all alliances will be so typical this time. In fact, many people have a crucial effect on the way this story is told. As for the ending, we only hope there are enough people left alive to tell it after its passed.
Events
Join us for our first event, the wake of recently deceased King Jaehaerys II.
Updates
AUG. 19: So we are now officially open to the public. We have a mini-event flashback thread going on, and our main event just began. Feel free to make a second canon if you can keep both of them active enough.
Don't hesitate in pestering staff with questions; it's what we're here for! Let's raise a glass and make a cheer toward a successful launch of Winds of Winter.
Ah, yet another tourney. Hans Tully certainly loved to spend money he didn't have, and spread merriment he could never make himself.
Cayn had lost Cass in the throng some time ago. Not that it mattered much. They had stopped being conjoined at the hip since small children, but one should never mistake their own wanderings as the loss of bond. Cayn was ever-present, ever-watchful, his boots heavy and clanking on the dirt with their adornments while his long russet fur cloak trailed behind and men and women alike turned to stare at the tall, purposeful figure with a head of fire stalking through the tents. It was impossible to miss him. He would have thought it impossible to miss Cass, too, but somehow his twin managed to slip by with such skill that Cayn could never hope or bother learn. Which was fine by him. Another pair of eyes for where he couldn't see, and he certainly enjoyed the spotlight.
But he did see plenty: notable names, notable information, though most were of knights and their people. And he was no knight nor did he have any interest in what they stood for; armed and honorable combat was not his thing. He preferred to knock men off their horses when they weren't looking and draw slender blades from his person when least expected, but that didn't mean he squandered the opportunity to learn about people as they gathered at his doorstep.
Case in point with the blond man who chanced upon him, and of nearly equal stature, too. For truly, if one could ever scream the theme of their house it would be Tybalt Lannister. Cayn would halt in his tracks to appraise the man and greet him. "White Lion." A small smile would curl on his lips as he recalled the man tango with his half-siblings. "Did you find the Tully twins to your liking?"
Post by Tybalt Lannister on Jul 9, 2015 23:47:00 GMT
[attr="class","foreign"]
[attr="class","dust"]
[attr="class","gold"]@riverfolk
[attr="class","gold"]466
[attr="class","gold"]--
ulla
[attr="class","sun"]Hear Me Roar
When Tybalt Lannister wasn’t actively participating in the events at a tourney he rarely found himself enjoying the main event. Watching his fellow knights meet blade and lance on the field, whilst entertaining, always made the young knight feel anxious, always so restless. He wanted to leap from his seat, take his sword in hand and join in with the scrap. That restlessness always boiled over in to frustration and so Tybalt had learned to take whatever time he had to himself during these events as an opportunity to eat as much as was humanly possible.
The knight had consumed at least four whole chickens since midday as his stomach, just like the rest of him, was remarkably large. By the end of the day he’d probably consume four more and burn it all off during the melee. Still so, he lingered by the tables and flicked a silver coin or two towards the servants for each plate of white meat they brought out for him to indulge himself in. He was content to continue standing here, eating alone and uninterrupted until an unknown voice called out his legend.
He turned with languid pause, dropping his half-eaten chicken leg to the platter before him to get a good look at the voice’s owner. He was a tall man, red-haired and almost definitely a Tully. Which Tully, exactly, was a total unknown to Tybalt. A cousin of a cousin? A bastard, perhaps? No matter, Tybalt took his cloak in hand and use to rather inelegantly to wipe off the remaining chicken grease from his mouth before swallowing his food and replying to the man.
”Who wishes to know, stranger?” Tybalt wouldn’t offer a hand to whoever this man was and his usual Cheshire grin remained merely as a contented smile. It didn’t take him long to figure out that he didn’t much like the fellow. The way he held himself, the very sound of his voice, it all stank of snakes and spies.
Tybalt’s hand instinctively rested at his hip, where it lay dormant upon the pommel of his sword. Not a threatening gesture, merely one of comfort to his own conscience. His eyes rolled over the tall figure and his rather beaten looking outfit and the knight’s small smile grew by a quarter of an inch as the gears in his head clicked and grasped at the stranger’s identity.
”Ah, you must be one of bastards? I’d heard about you but never had the pleasure!” Though his voice was of genuine warmth, Tybalt’s hand remained at his blade: still not extended despite the friendliness of his voice. His gut told him that this man was likely of ill repute and he had no idea as to why he wanted to meddle in his affairs, it felt best that he keep this meeting brief.
L.O.V.E IS JUST ANOTHER WORD I NEVER LEARNED TO PRONOUNCE
Cass possessed a strange pair of eyes. He supposed the most accurate description to place upon them was “amber” – both Cayn and himself were amber of gaze. Yet, Cass had no memory of anyone having actually described them as such. Liquid gold. Honey-gold. Molten fire. Bestial. Yes, bestial too contained an element of truth. The silent manner in which Cass’s gaze prowled his father’s guests held the cold intensity of the wolf sizing up the sheep.
He cared nothing for the stylish lords or ladies. They were little more than background scenery. And the occasional dressed-up bard or commoner among their ranks were even less. That predatory gaze stalled only for the armour-clad knights. Not all were capable warriors, demonstrating strength that stirred the ever restless, ever hungry, mongrel that dwelled beneath Cass’s skin. Some were simply spoiled little shits dressed in expensive tin looking to impress better men. But, to the towering soft-featured beast, it was like bobbing for apples. Perseverance would inevitably provide a sweet enough taste.
To say that it was twin-ly intuition that drew Cass’s gaze to the Lannister knight would have made for an interesting story. Truthly, Cass kept the Lannister in his sight as Cayn advanced upon him, but it was not the familiar face of his twin that Cass had noticed first. Lannisters were almost always attractive to behold, and the knight did not disappoint. He stood almost as tall as the Rivers twins did, all strong capable muscle. A whispery scar trailed from a corner of his upper lip.
Such a pretty brand almost distracted Cass as he approached his brother’s sitting prey from behind, footsteps an almost perfect silence, the hardened leathers that hugged his flesh not betraying his efforts. A trick that men of Cass’s build so often fail at demonstrating.
He stopped, standing just out of the Lannister’s reach, making no effort to draw intention. His leather-clad arms were folded against his torso, but his left hand rested lower, fingers near to touching the handle of the flanged mace that was worn against his left hip and thigh. Easy enough to reach should the Lannister decide to do more than just fondle his sword’s pommel.
His gaze meeting the identical gaze of his brother’s, Cass said nothing, he made no gestures. But Cayn would have been able to understand that silence. He had had years of practice.
Post by DESMUND TULLY on Jul 14, 2015 12:46:34 GMT
CLICK. POW. NINE. THOU. WHAT?
The placement of his hand on the hilt of his blade did not escape Cayn's notice, but he neither paid it any heed nor let his expression slip. Things like the grubby way the lion cleaned his paws or the way he returned greetings likewise did not faze him. Indeed, the man had a glorious smile: a tiny bit self-satisfied, the smallest hint knowing, and all genial except for in the eyes. It amused Cayn so much that his own grin would widen to match, even as his twin slunk from behind to join the lion's shadow and mirror him in action. Of course Cass would show up. He was like that, sprouting up from the woodwork any time the whiff of something interesting would happen.
"How I'd love to hear the things they say," Cayn would sigh, "But separating fact from fiction is something none of us have the time for." They were close already, Cayn hovering just outside of a reasonable personal space to the other man. Truth be told, he was perfectly happy without the handshake Tybalt may have otherwise given. The Rivers twins, well, they were not so much handshake folk.
"I'm Cayn. My twin is Cass. He's the quiet one." Cayn had no intention of pointing out said twin until the lion realized it himself, which surely would not take long considering all his helpful hints. And compared to all the titles everyone else seemed to have around him, their names were blessedly short and plaintive. They were not sers, not lords or lordlings or captains or heirs—though for sure, the last one was a sore in the hide of House Tully.
Cayn would spread his arms out a bit, equally as relaxed, as if showing that he had nothing to conceal with the added function of looking inquisitive. He carried no weapon of his own, not visibly anyway, for a number of reasons including drawing the foolhardy and being the bait to a trap, not necessarily in that order. "But the Tullys: they treat you well? My half-brother is not the most gracious, I know." His words were without malice or even jeer. The statement was just that, a statement, and a frank one for Cayn never lacked things to say about his half-siblings and hardly ever found the need to sugar-coat it.
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Cass possessed a strange pair of eyes. He supposed the most accurate description to place upon them was “amber” – both Cayn and himself were amber of gaze. Yet, Cass had no memory of anyone having actually described them as such. Liquid gold. Honey-gold. Molten fire. Bestial. Yes, bestial too contained an element of truth. The silent manner in which Cass’s gaze prowled his father’s guests held the cold intensity of the wolf sizing up the sheep.