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CASSIUS AMBROSE 21 AECOR
[ duke of aecor + water wielder ]
❝ tell the wolves i'm home. ❞
(view spoiler)
devil's child ── ORION AURUM
XX ── heaven's advocate
R A S A V A S D A ❝ from underneath the rubble,
crownprince sing a rebel's
basilisk leader song. ❞
fire & shadow (view spoiler)
DOMINIC VALENTIN WINCHESTER
❝ might be a sinner, might be a saint but this holy ground burns my feet and this sour wine tastes bittersweet. dulce et decorum est pro patri mori. it is sweet and fitting to die for one's country. yet i breathe when others cannot. ❞
──────────────────────────────────────── twenty-three
crown princeDominic hated the throne. Or perhaps, he just hated the man that sat on it. He hated how he never had a choice to take control of his own life. He hated how the responsibility put on him since he first opened his eyes. He was to be the perfect prince, the perfect heir, the perfect brother, the perfect son. And the funny thing is he was. He excelled at every aspect of his life, possessing a predisposition for greatness, a mind that was told to rival that of the famed Greek philosophers of old and a charm that woed the masses. Dominic, in every way was a king in the making - a king that had the potential to make history, a testament to the principles and noble values the House of Winchester prided themselves on. Things came far too easily for him both because of his status in society and his natural talent.
But where there is light, there is always darkness.
Just like everything else, lying was another thing he was far too good at. After the war, Dominic began chasing a life of scandal, using that pristine immaculate reputation as a cover for his more scandalous lifestyle, that definitely could taint his public image. Being the crown prince was more of a role in a play. He put on a pretty smile and fooled others into believing that he was every bit of a saint when he was anything but. He was tired of the security that being a royal gave him and he was tired of having to carry the weight of England’s future on his shoulders. And most of all, he hated playing into his father’s desires. Of course, he wanted the throne. There was no question that he loved England. But he wanted it in his terms where he didn’t have to restrain his own desires and wants in order to get it. Maybe his way of thinking was selfish. It was entirely possible.
But at the end of the day, he didn’t care. He just wanted to have as much fun as possible before God Save the King was directed towards him.
▶ record #1
to be or not to be
浬 KAIRI ─────────────────── HADES
XXI ────────────────── 勇夜 IZAYA
❝ taste the melancholia on my lips ❞
(view spoiler)
KAIRI 勇夜浬 IZAYA
─────────────────────────────────────────────── hades
❝ not yet corpses. still we rot. ❞ 21
(view spoiler)
jude argent ───────────────────── 22
⌜rasavasda
shadow ⌟Jude had a secret - he was spiralling.
It didn’t show, hidden under the facade of learnt etiquette and charming smiles that bleed into the atmosphere of the room. Jude shone like gold, not silver, and his biting insecurity was only known by him. At some point in his life, he was unable to show it, unable to keep it from seeping into his bones. He was able to live life without a care in the world, untainted by the poisonous corruption that resided in the world. But it came for him. Just like it came for his father.
Now, in the midst of nobility, he didn’t know who to trust or who was worth trusting. He didn’t know when it was okay for him to finally relax and stop trying to prove he wasn’t the disgrace that others felt the need to gossip about or look down upon. Jude was never born to be scorned. He wasn’t brought up only to be handed a legacy of betrayal after his father drew his last breath on this earth. His father was innocent and Jude was innocently naive. Despite the shadows that came to his beck and call, he was anything but dark. Anything but malicious. Anything but scheming. Anything but vengeful. It wasn’t what he believed in - it wasn’t who he was.
But, seeing your father on the executioner’s block, pleading the words of an innocent, really snuffs out even the brightest stars.
S T E L L A N A N D E R S
────────── CHAOS ──────────
♚
𝑴 𝑨 𝒁 𝑬 𝑳 𝑨 𝑼 𝑹 𝑰 𝑬 𝑹
──────────────────────
𝗗𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗖𝗧 𝗜𝗜𝗜
𝐌𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐆𝐨𝐝. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲
𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐬
𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐬
𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐥. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫
𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝
𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭 𝟑 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡,
𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡
𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡.
𝐈𝐭 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐤𝐮𝐥𝐥, 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝟏𝟗𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲. 𝐇𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝟐𝟑𝐫𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐬𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐥. 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐩'𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐌𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐜𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐨𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐚 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐫.
𝙓 𝘼 𝙑 𝙄 𝙀 𝙍 𝙂 𝘼 𝙄 𝙇 𝙇 𝙊 𝙏
───────────────────────
𝗗𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗖𝗧 𝗜𝗜
𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐭
𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟. 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐭
𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐬
𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐨𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲. 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡? 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐧
𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨
𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧'𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫
𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞
𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐧. 𝐈𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫, 𝐗𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐆𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐱𝐞𝐝, 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝, 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞, 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐞.
𝐀 𝐓 𝐋 𝐀 𝐒 𝐋 𝐀 𝐔 𝐑 𝐄 𝐍 𝐓
MERAKI X 22 YEARS OLD
───────────────────────
❝
the truly devout do not pray
for forgiveness. they
B L E E D
───────────────────────The day Atlas was left on the doorsteps of the temple, a storm raged at Aecor’s coast, the skies drowning with relentless showers. Swaddled in a blanket, in the hands of one of the priestesses, he thrashed and squirmed, each cry echoing through the hallowed halls, each wail followed by the thunderous response of the storm as if the very gods were provoked by the force of his distress. It was only when the clouds had dispersed and the onslaught of rain ceased did his tears dry up and the tempest nestled in the bright blue of the newborn’s eyes died out. All was quiet in the sacred building as a young Atlas giggled as his caretaker knelt on the ground in front of the altar, mumbling prayers, while Atlas’ hand reached forward, tiny fingers grasping onto the necklace that hung from her neck, grip tight around the symbol of the gods that hung around her neck as if it was a toy, the gold capturing his attention.
It was not surprising that he grew up scoffing in the face of the devout.
The day Atlas became a priest was the day a storm of equal ferocity tormented the temple of Aecor in the form of Atlas’ unforgiving doctrine. Or perhaps it was his boredom. The young priest was tired of so-called gods dictating his every move, he was tired of the clergy who kissed the floor of the altar as if it was hallowed ground and not dirty marble, worshipping gods that were nowhere in sight. He was especially tired of the gods and how weak they were, how forgiving they were towards sinners, how courteous they were with their demands of their followers. So he drove a knife into the heart of it all - the High Priest, his benefactor, the man he was brought up to succeed.
He remembered it - the blood and how it stained the stone floor of the altar, seeping into the cracks and the white linen of his robes. He remembered the sound of the blade sinking into flesh, tearing into the holiest man in the kingdom.The thought had made him laugh, the sound echoing through the room, ricocheting off the walls, thunderous and chilling like the thunder that shook the world outside, accompanied by the bombardment of rain and howling winds. And while the storm raged around him, he grinned in satisfaction, even after the shrieking of a priestess resounded throughout the room, disrupting the chaotic symphony of the raging tempest.
Altas merely stood up, blue eyes gleaming as brightly as the ruby droplets of blood scattered on his face, dagger in hand. And with a tilt of his head and one final laugh, he spoke.
“Ah - my apologies. I made a mess, didn’t I?”
"to thine own self be true"
ENZO SCHREAVE
"all that glitters is not gold"
cismale twenty-two bisexual crown prince
─────────────────────────
V I N C E N T H A N O V E R
PRINCE OF YORK X 26 YEARS OLD
─────────────────────────Vincent had never felt the weight of gravity. Like Icarus, he soared above the clouds, daring to fly so close to the sun. He liked to believe he was different, unburdened and unconcerned by the constant high maintenance life that came with being born amongst the ranks of the nobility. He was Michelangelo reborn, his intellect and charm acting as his chisel and the English society the untouched marble that he had all the freedom in the world to sculpt into whatever his mind envisioned.
Never was he in one place, travelling across the world on a whim, treating the sights of the world’s wonders as lovers with no strings attached, growing intimately aware of all their secrets just to feed the burning need of his imagination. He drank in everything the world offered with no qualms for the life and people he left back in England. That was all before. All because he journeyed too close to the sun.
Now like a bird in a gilded cage, he remains in England, dwelling amongst the ton at the beckoning of his family. It was the curse of being the eldest son that passed down among the generations and it had finally caught up to him. So now he remains, stationary and washing away a hungry longing and an ailing heart with the small delights he finds in the tip of a painter’s brush against a blank canvas and the familiar faces of family and friends that he had once taken for granted.
He felt gravity more than ever now on the fourth finger of his left hand - but he would try to get used to the weight. And convince himself that he is content with clipping his wings for the woman pulling him down to Earth. Even though the sun he once sought after possesses another name.
─────────────────────────
L U C A R N A U D
DUKE OF NORMANDY X 24 YEARS OLD
─────────────────────────Luc Arnaud only liked himself when he was at the end of a needle or had lips pressed against the end of a pipe.
He only could like it when he didn’t fully have a grasp on reality, numb to all his problems and solely leaving off fumes and the myriad of induced emotions that they brought with them. He was there but he was also not, floating in his false heaven when he was really descending upon the depths of hell. His happiness burned brightly but died out just as quickly as it came, only replenished in the depths of the halls of an opium den tucked in the back alleys of a Parisian road, hidden out of sight away from the prying eyes of the French aristocracy, whose critical eye glanced over him for he was not the eldest son. Hence, he did not matter. Therefore, he didn’t quite learn how to matter to himself, shortening his lifespan with every trip and every inhale of billowing smoke, clouding his mind so that he could obtain the chemical courage to delve into his desires.
Luc only liked himself less on the day his brother died.
He remembered the way his mother cried and his father had grasped his shoulder, passing the torch to him now that his eldest son resided six feet under and his younger son - his only one now - was all that remained. It was an early morning and Luc had not yet made that trip, had not yet filled his lungs with laced smoke. So he felt it all, the guilt, the confusion and the bout of intense self-loathing. It hurt. Everything hurt. It hurt so much because it was all his fault - his mother’s wailing cries, his father’s stern-faced distress and his brother’s death. He had invited death onto their doorstep and welcomed him into their lives.
From that day, Luc has not visited that tucked away opium den. He had to learn to like himself enough to get married. Just enough for that.
𝐓 𝐀 𝐓 𝐄 𝐂 𝐀 𝐑 𝐒 𝐎 𝐍
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22 YEARS OLD
ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴍᴏᴠɪɴɢ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜰᴀꜱᴛ ꜱᴏ ʜᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᴀ ᴡʜᴇᴇʟ.
𝐄 𝐋 𝐈 𝐀 𝐘 𝐎 𝐎 𝐍
─────────────────────
32 YEARS OLD
ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏ ꜱᴇᴛ ʀᴇᴄɪᴘᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪɴɢ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴀꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴏɴᴇ.
𝐉 𝐔 𝐋 𝐈 𝐄 𝐓 𝐈 𝐑 𝐕 𝐈 𝐍 𝐄
─────────────────────
23 YEARS OLD
ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴍɪʟᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴘʟᴀꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇʀ ʟɪꜰᴇ ꜱᴏ ꜱʜᴇ ꜱᴡᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ᴘɪʟʟ.
elijah tremaine ─────────────────── 26
⌜PIRATE CAPTAIN ⌟
non-bender
TAIKI HOSHINO
"all that glitters is not gold"
cismale twenty-two alpha prince water dragon
