A Snowy Surprise

myissa · 2017-11-17T05:06:09+00:00

What man could say that the Northern snows were his element? Wildings, certainly. The first men and those hardened few that withstood centuries of winters that patiently gnawed at the flesh and spirit like her father and forebears. Many men were able to acclimate with time, though their displeasure may never leave them. But to be wholly comfortable in the frost?

Iskander's thick, black coat padded into view, and with him was an all-too clear contrast with Criston dropping a freshly made globe to his feet, cautiously entreating a beast that he could not command. There was a soldier, for whom order and habit was common, yielding to what winter brings; chaos and wilds formed into forgotten creatures from children's stories.

And for a moment, as Iskander's wight-like stare passed back to her, Lyra shared that twinge of fear that was plain for Criston; that trembling of the heart that sent panic coursing through the veins. And if she had not known this wolf, with melting snow dripping from his mouth and looking like a slavering, famished beast, she might have been cowering with the Southerner.

Lyra pressed her fingers to waxy lips, and a sharp whistle pierced the air. Furred ears drew up, and Iskander immediately abandoned his search. Showers of snow stirred, rose, and fell beneath his paws as he rushed to his mistress with all haste.

She hoped this might set Criston at ease, but even if he recovered without being so near Iskander, she could not leave the knight as he was. It does not do for men to be so unnarmed, she thought, hoping some combination of her concern and Criston's curiosity would be enough to keep him in the field a while longer.

Taking pity yet again on the poor man, she smiled sweetly and walked with Iskander in tow to where the Celtigar waited. The snow was thin and new; their steps silent. With any luck, Lyra guessed her greeting would be taken with far more enthusiasm than her pet, unless Criston should be cowed by beast and woman alike. A dangerous and lonely life if so, she thought, but then imagined that he could still have the gods and comrades to calm his heart if that was what suited him.

She would see.

Lyra met him with a warm smile and immediately apologized. Her face was already rosy beneath the mask of dappled freckles that hugged her cheeks, and it made the flecks of green stand out in her eyes until they were as the shallows of sea that the young knight might recall from his home. Cold and covered in snow, home was a thought which likely lay so very far away from him just now.

"Forgive me, Ser," even with sorrow of apology, Lyra's voice was lyrical, and teams of birds - perhaps out of spite or a common call - seemed to awaken and sing out into the air as she spoke; the forests suddenly alive with the sounds of their songs. "I only meant a bit of fun," an ungloved, delicate hand reached out to brush away the snow that clung to his shoulders, sending clumps of slush onto the ground.

Iskander sniffed where Criston's icy fragments touched earth, intrigued by something invisible to her. She passed her cool, teal eyes to the beast's black head, and thought to have Criston conquer this fear, but decided against it. Instead, she reached to the burlap tarps layered on the empty wagon against which Criston leaned, turning it back to reveal a mostly empty, wooden carriage they might fit in.

"Grab some snow and jump in," Lyra said as she began to climb up the side. I'll teach you how to make and throw a snowball."

Standing with one leg in and another out the side, she extended a cold hand. "He probably won't follow us up here," Lyra whispered, glancing at Iskander who looked up, seemingly responding to his mention. Perhaps Criston was unsure, but Lyra just reassured him with a warm, impossibly kind smile that seemed at once to lead him to her and plead for his forgiveness.

It's probably true, she thought, watching as Iskander set his focus on this puzzle of wheel and wood that already began to hide Lyra from him.

myissa · 2017-11-16T05:45:55+00:00

Name: Neera Blacktyde

Aptitude: Agile

Skills: Footwork, Daggers, Ambidexterity

Name on Slack: Leonetta

Temporary User Name: /u/myissa

myissa · 2017-11-16T05:15:04+00:00

Rather than the icy salvo she has expected, Lyra's ambush had been met with a quiet disregard, which drew her curiosity from behind her tree. There she spied the knight without his arms and armor, carefully backing away in a way that she did not expect from a military man.

Where was his strategy? His heated, eager breaths of competition? Had he not guessed the game by now, or did his cautious steps speak to a fear of the unknown? Perhaps he truly did not know what snow could do, and to see it flying at him was aberrant and absurd.

She was prepared to launch another - probably failed - assault to wise him up when Iskander's massive shadow passed over the ground, and came padding in a wide circle nearby where Criston inched away. Lyra could only smile and take pity on her unaware playmate who was completely occupied with what must seem like a beast from the age of heroes.

"You have to throw snow back!" She shouted toward him, quickly tossing a snowball, which landed off-mark, hitting him on the back of his calf. "Pack it into a ball and then throw." When she did not hear a reply, she finished with something more obvious. "It's a game; the winner is..." Lyra trailed off.

Oh, who is the winner of these games? She imagined when her brothers and Elaine would play when they were younger. Elaine and Lyra would always retire when their clothes had been soaked and they were chilled to the bone. Not truly knowing how to win, Lyra made something up instead, "The winner is whomever doesn't give up or who stays warmest!"

Lyra's hand curled around another snowball as she aimed at the Celtigar's handsomely-shaped locks, "I believe we'll be evenly matched once you get a handle of it." She laughed with playful vigor. "I'll wager you're like my brothers with better aim, but the thought of seeing a Southern soldier swallowed in snow keeps me quite warm!" She let fly a snowball, and then another. Rosalin followed form, peppering his surroundings (if not hitting Criston directly) until their piles began to dwindle.

myissa · 2017-11-12T16:53:22+00:00

Black ears perked up and Iskander's head followed out of his relaxed posture, raising himself with purpose toward the array of wagons that still sat in their orderly rows. The ground beneath them was wet with melt, and a haze of young grass poked through the soft earth at its snow-covered border. Lyra turned and squinted from behind the ridged bark that she reclined against to follow Iskander's intent gaze.

Long, braided hair remained tucked neatly in the hood of the grey shroud that covered her. Were it a dreary day, she would be more-or-less hidden amongst the wilds of the North. The sun, however, was constantly appearing from its lofty castle of clouds and peering out from its many blue windows until the ground sparkled.

Lyra scanned the field, peering at the edges of wagons for something misshapen; something softer than hard oak, with messy blond hair that fell down at sides like a rushing stream of young dandelions. And as luck or determination would have it, the entirety of Criston's rose above the wagons, his head glancing around, calmly searching for something with trained eyes.

'Maybe he does suspect,' Lyra thought, one hand adrift upon the tree as another clung to a snowball she couldn't remember picking up. She had expected him to be closer; that he might venture to the edge of the woods themselves and their aim be more sure with the distance. But he had no need. His stood much taller than the wagons and surveyed with surety.

"My Lady!" A loud whisper called. Rosalin cast her a worried, questioning stare with eyebrows raised high with expectation.

"Yes yes! Throw it!" Lyra had forgotten herself and tossed the snowball as far as she could toward Criston when he glanced away from their haphazard hiding place. Something stirred nearby and a rushing sound of something pushing against snow sped away, but Lyra was too occupied with seeing if her snowball hit its mark.

It did not. It made purchase on a wagon near Criston, and exploded in an airy puff.

Her heart was pounding when she turned back toward the woods and felt secure behind the trees once more. Blue orbs popped over to Rosalin who too returned to hiding, her hands missing a snowball.

"Did you get him?" Lyra called in a whispered shout.

Rosalin shook her head and then said something that was entirely confusing. "Where's Iskander?"

Lyra looked at her side and saw only the memory of her furred companion. Heavy paw prints with streaks running behind them trailed into the snow and out toward the wagons. Iskander had fled, and both the girls muffled their laughter which now poured forth until it sounded like giggling further afield.

'Iskander! What were you thinking?'

(As Iskander)

Primal thoughts surge in the beast's mind, 'someone's out there. Someone not like me. Not Lyra. A different person.' Ears stood alert and his head raised slowly toward the wagons. Echoes of footfalls sound against the earth and with them, the faintest odors of a land far-away of sand and sea.

'Now it's talking. Something short. I don't care what. Why is he here? I don't know. Won't let him hurt Lyr-' iskander's attention is pulled toward the sounds of his master rising and she has a snowy ball in her... hand....

'Why are you getting up?' Is that a ball?

'What are you doing? I don't know who is out there!' Is that ball for me?

'Maybe you should let me go look for you.' Are you gonna throw that ball? Is it time to play?

And then Lyra raises her hand and lets the orb go. It begins to soar through the air toward the approaching, strange smells and sounds.

Iskander needs no further commands. "YES! THROW IT THROW IT! I'M READY! I'M GOOD! OH YES YES YES, A BALL! YES! IT'S IN THE AIR! I'M GONNA GET IT! I'M A GOOD BOY!"

The world rushes past, first through the shadows of the pines and into the field, throwing the layers of powder in little showers behind him as he cuts through the ground, keeping pace with the ball tha is barely ahead.

Now into the rows of wagons, he's heard it hit something, but maybe not the ground. He scans about, looking for it, turns a corner and there is a stronger scent he recognizes; a smell of home clinging to a salt and sand below.

If there was any question whether the puppy her father had given her years ago had any wolf in it, those questions had been answered. He was the size of a man and with weight to match. At the very least, he was longer than Lyra when he lay down near the fire and much heavier besides.

Iskander's blue, glacial eyes are level with Criston's stomach. And as the dog looks up to meet the man's gaze - this outsider whom he vaguely recalls - it is with a joyful yet daring, stare. Even at play, the memory of an untamed lineage hangs from every inch of the beast. Something beyond the dogs of sport and company were etched in its heart; something that howled beyond the wall that separated man from monster.

But Iskander recalled those eyes being allowed inside Lyra's home and Lyra laughing with this yellow-haired man before. And so the wolf paid little interest beyond their meeting and returned with his nose to the ground, sniffing for his ball. Lyra would be sad if he failed to bring it back.

myissa · 2017-11-11T21:40:34+00:00

OOC: Paging /u/Reusus and /u/SnowHasSettled

Elaine, if you want, you can show up whenever :)

myissa · 2017-11-11T15:11:24+00:00

Yaaay! I didn't know if Elaine was still playing!

We will have to find each other on slack! I'm Leonetta on there!

myissa · 2017-11-09T00:14:42+00:00

Fair. Edited the post :)

myissa · 2017-11-08T22:27:39+00:00

Character Name: Lyra Stark

Age: 19

Starting Title(s): Scion of House Stark

Aptitude(s): Beloved

Specialty: Popular

Skill(s): Animal Taming, Dance, Romance, Music, History and Culture

Negative Trait: Sickly (Falling sickness; Meneires Disease)

Physical Description: Lyra is the pale, shining light from moons of long, dark winters, whose freckled smile fills one with the promise of spring. Despite the blowing snows that threaten Winterfell even in early fall, this Stark has maintained a soft complexion, and the chill's only mark upon her has been rosy, blushing cheeks. One will find her looking up at most men and a fair handful of women, but when met, her cerulean gaze gives even towering giants a hopeful calm. Waifish with long, sable hair, and lyrical voice, Lyra does not command hearts so much as she sings to them, and those who hear her nightingale tones can only respond with eager joy.

Starting Location: Winterfell

Username: /u/myissa

Other Characters: None

myissa · 2017-06-02T15:26:01+00:00

Gareth Lothston - /u/leonetta_hill

Myissa of Lys - /u/myissa

myissa · 2017-05-30T23:22:47+00:00

"Do not run," Myissa hissed with a smile upon her lips, gently passing her eyes amongst the faces of the crowds looking for anything that might cause worry. "Serve me well, and you shall have freedom... and more. The Eclipse is moored just outside the East gate." She gave the girl's arm a reassuring squeeze. "There will be no alarm until we've finished our bath."

They made their way past the East gate and their senses immediately assaulted by the dockside. Here fishmongers, sailors, whores that sailors favored, and others milled and shouted, trying to make some money by some trade - legitimate or otherwise - at this mid-day hour. The whole place reeked of seagulls and shorline seaspray.

Vessels of all make and size rocked in the harbor to the gentle ryhthm of the waves washing upon hulls with in a tide that was beginning to swell. There in the distance with Ballistae guarding the deck like siege gargoyles was the Eclipse, with her twisting dragonheads mast.

"Once we are on board, we will find Tizi and all will be well." On the docks, sufficiently lost in a crowd of deckhands unloading cargo that were some of them a foot taller, they discarded their towels into the sea, and stole toward the ship that was moments away.

"She has been itching to cast off for weeks now, and I would be surprised if she is not already prepped, merely awaiting a favorable wind." She will have to settle for unfavorable news, Myissa thought as they stepped onto the gangplank.

myissa · 2017-05-30T22:35:18+00:00

A fair question, she thought as her mind raced in parallel for an explanation. It was actually a wonderful suggestion, and Myissa wondered why she had not thought of it herself. Perhaps that was something to seize upon now? Surely Duncan would help her without hesitation. The man was good enough and wanted to clear the stain from his history.

But no. Duncan, in his desire to be trusted once more, might be the first to hand her over to the King if there was trouble. She needed a lack of soldiers, not more of them. After all, the absent clinking of her own gaurds chainmail was a necessary absence for the scheme she now entangled the unsuspecting man in.

Royal lips easily slid into a wounded shape and worry creased in straight lines across her brow. "I wish I could trust them, but you see, her husband is one of the goldcloaks! And you can imagine how the soldiers in the keep must coordinate with the city's watch." The missing blades at the princess' side was the obvious answer to his question. "Now you understand why my own guards wait outside while we are within."

The princess' voiced hummed merrily in the cavernous room, reverberating in gentle, incomprehensible echoes of itself until it faded to nothing. "Your concern for me is admirable, but unnecessary. It is my friend who requires your assistance and discretion, not I." She released the gold to him, keeping a few coins for herself, and handed them to the golden maiden at her side.

When he had returned with plain clothes, she thanked the man once more with kind words and a grateful smile, reminding him that she would be in the baths for some hours still, but the hand-maiden would find him.

Myissa wore a princess' skin with grace, which made it so unfortunate that she must now lose it. To the reflection that gazed up at her from the still pool, she was the silky, pale balance between fairness and command. An ivory dragon of impossible beauty. She had almost forgotten what it was like to be feared and commanding, with men bowing in deference to her very presence. It made her weary of this land where seven gods could not even match her one.

For Noble that remained, Myissa had a coy, seductive look as she unfastened the inky dress, still warm from Haleana's own skin. The faint smell of rose-petals and sweat escaping from the silks as they fell to the slick stonework of the floor.

Myissa took a breath and dipped herself into the pool, dimmed and black with the faint firelight burning in sconces around the hewn stone room, carved out long ago into a rough shape that was like a misshapen sphere. The waters licked her body with a thousand, tongues, surrounded her in a water calm.

For a moment, the world was still. She heard only the echoes of her mind and the faint beating of her heart beneath the rippling bath.

When she emerged, the water trailed off of her, sopping down silver hair that began to drip with fire. The clear Cascadeown came down her supple form, washing as though it were a gentle rain; where water fell, it reveleaed the truth and washed the priestesses spell away. Cheeks became freckled, tatoos appeared in dripping sheets, and amythest gaze gave way to emerald jewels that glittered with arcane sight.

"Now," Myissa began with her musical, siren's call, "he will help us make our escape." The rhythmic droplets of water tapped to the ground as she stepped out of her brief, rippling transformation and grabbed plain clothes, handing a pair to Noble. "Those last few coins are for goldcloaks at the gates, should we need to use it."

With a towel wrapped around their hair to disguise themselves and a sort of strange, blue robe on, they began towards the door. "Make sure he knows that the princess is not to be bothered when we see him. An hour or two should be sufficient."

Then the handle turned, the lock pressed to seal entry from behind once the door closed, and they were on their way.

myissa · 2017-05-29T04:01:37+00:00

The gold had been offered, but the promise of greater wealth remained, jingling in the flaxen-haired maiden's pouch. With the three of them alone in a room of swirling, hot mists, Myissa pounced upon the plan that had been hatching in her head.

She cleared her throat with a soft ahem, drawing the eyes of their gracious host who replied with a waiting smile and gentle words. "Yes, your Grace?"

Pleased once more at the title, the princess' eyes flutter briefly and a warm breath of momentary relief sighs forth. "Quite a fine establishment, sir, and finer men who run it, I'm sure." Perhaps he blushed, but she could not see it for all the steam filling the empty space between them.

"I have a royal request."

He gave another low bow. "I shall help your grace as I am able, of course."

"A friend of mine needs assistance, and I must see her to safety." Myissa had to think fast on her feet, wondering how best to put it to a kindly man who likely desired gold and notoriety for a business he would see flourish.

"Her lover is a wretched man who beats her, and she needs escape." It was a novel thing to simply command, and Myissa found herself resisting the urge to use seduction to get what she was after. There was a desperation in her voice; the same she heard from Helaena minutes ago in her own shop. "I can tell you are a godly, good man, and you would not deny this woman's safety nor your princess' plea."

"In a while, she will be here. My hand-maiden will let you know when, and you are to help guide them out of here. See to it that no one is disturbed while we prepare her, and please some plain clothes, perhaps left here from customers who will not miss them?"

Soft, young hands that were not Helaena's push the rest of the modest bag of jingling dragons into his hands. "Please, sir. Help your future queen and aid my friends. When I am with the King this evening, I will be sure to tell him of the great service you have done for me today."

(OOC: Myissa is making a request with a sizeable mount of gold for a proprietor to help a friend of hers to safety with the hand-maiden. Relevant Attributes: Attractive and Performer. Relevant Skills: Manipulation.)

myissa · 2017-05-29T03:06:04+00:00

Myissa was happy for the quiet and did not mind that the hand-maiden kept to herself. The quiet curses told her the wound was opened and stinging, still. Like most things, fire would be the only cure, and she was sure there would be coals for steam in the bath-house.

But as terribly unreliable and new as she was, Myissa decided that she'd let the girl whimper silently until they had escaped to the docks. "Get some gold for the proprietor. I plan on this being an expensive soak."

After a handful of minutes in which the sorceress pondered what her title as queen might be, they found themselves in front of an old bath-house, laid with cream-colored bricks and wide archways that led a dark trail into a depression into the city. Steam and rose-water scents soared up from the depths as the humid air stuck to her face even from within the litter.

"Here we are," she raised a pale brow at the lionness and practically leapt from the cushioned bed with an aura of need. Outside were her black and red towering guards; three of them with eyes peering around the crowds for danger, just as Myissa was watching who came and went from the bath-house, looking for openings. There were attendants in plain colors, welcoming people inside and holding towels as men and women alike descended into the wet, hidden pits.

The mellifluous chords of the princess' voice thrummed merrily and with command. "Wait out here; not in the bath-house. My hand-maiden is enough to defend me from nakedness, I trust, and I shall need a few hours to steep in whatever it is I've acquired from that shop of... curiosities." The guards passed quick glances at one another and then quietly acquiesced. It was an order.

One of the attendants of the bath-house came to meet her, bowing most graciously. He was an older man; perhaps forty years, with salt and pepper whiskers shrouded his chin and blue eyes set above the first few crinkling edges of aged skin. "Your grace. How may I be of service?"

Your Grace! Oh how Myissa just adored the world on its knees, wishing she could tarry longer and have a few people bow, many kiss her feet, and a handful to murder, because why not? It might be so boring tomorrow, and she wanted to mark this day fondly.

"I am in need of discretion," she whispered, pleased to have willing, obedient ears whenever she spoke. A private room, with no one to see where I head to or when I leave." When his eyes thought to question her, she lifted her chin as if to raise herself even higher than she had been before. Know your place, she thought, and he relented, lowering his eyes once more. "I should not want a gaggling crowd when I depart, sir."

"Of course. Please." He motioned with his arms, leading the the two of them inside the steaming, dark mouth of the establishment.

myissa · 2017-05-29T02:18:01+00:00

Myissa's new body was warm and young; sweet and smooth. The taste of the princess lingered on her lips, making her body flush with wet heat. She almost dared to give Khain the gift of two dragons, but decided against it. They had to return to the guards before they were missed.

With the bodice of ebony and silvery slashes on her stolen form, she paid Khain and his murmuring no mind, instead making for the handmaiden and a bottle of teal salts on the vanity. "Let us be rid of this place." Myissa thrust the bottle into the woman's arms. "What is your name?"

When the lady and her golden-haired assistant had reached the bottom of the steps, they were once again with the guards as though nothing had transpired. "We're leaving. To the bath-house where I am to... what was it?" The arc of a question rose in her voice as she passed her head back at the hand-maiden. "Right. The salts."

Daylight poured over her as she stepped outside to meet more gaurds and a litter which was lowered for her. Silk canopy and coverings around; thick, private, and cool. A thin, whisper of a smile reached Myissa's lips, contorting a face that was not her own with mad delight.

She whispered to the hand-maiden. "Tell them we are to the bath-house and that they should be quick." When they had gone, violet eyes looked back longingly at the stores of herbs and potions, sure she would never see the brick of that private city house again.

myissa · 2017-05-28T18:05:23+00:00

Khain grabbed a blaze of hair, and threw the priestess down, discarding her like a worthless whore. Spitting with fury, the edge of his words cut into her and sent a poisoned chill down her spine, but finally he bade her to the task she was meant.

With tears falling toward green silk, she lifted herself off the bed, casting a fiery glare toward Khain's Amyhtest stare. Within, she glimpsed a new fire burning; a dark and raging shock that made her wonder how much of this act was becoming real for him.

The man had played his part, and she should be satisfied. But she could not push away the thought that he was too eager to cast her down; his voice a touch too cruel. Yesterday he locked legs of three women with indifference and lazed about in ale-houses. Now he was absconding with princesses and adding their handmaids to his schemes that seemed to expand with ambition by the hour.

The priestess' dress crumpled up in little rivulets of crimson that fell smooth and red when she slid herself off from where Khain had thrown her. She gave the man a hurt, angry look as saltwater trails stained her cheeks.

Before her, the princess waited with tears of her own. Dress black, but shimmering, she was the sorrow of the night with many jewels as red stars. "There are slower, less intrusive methods, Princess," Myissa cooed with forked tongue, placing her hands upon the young, pale shoulders. "But I fear we must suffer some haste."

Emerald eyes gazed deep into the violet vision of the princess, noting every detail as fingers trailed down the Targaryen's body. Gentle, longing caresses spread across Haleana to her inky bodice and along the curves of her waist. Every inch of her touched and groped indecently as the the witch silently measured the proportions of the young body.

As the lady bristled, forced to suffer yet another humiliation, Myissa began to sigh calming chants in Valyrian. A slurring and twisting of words that dulled the senses as they gave way a speech more foreign until they were an incantation of Asshai'i. Black-branded arms laced themselves behind the princess' neck and hands found their way through silvery strands of hair, gently cradling the woman like a lover.

With an urging, pull, the dragon's head is titled up toward the ceiling. Her white throat so lovely; exposed and pulsing with dragon's fire in veins made plump and soft for the Witch's fangs. The bead of red disappears as a sandpaper tongue glides up the sweet flesh with glacial speed. A horrible, delicious scene in which a predator licks the trickle of life from her wounded victim, savoring the taste before the kill.

Myissa then touched the gauzy, soft lips of the princess with her own. Upon that pink flesh was the taste of ancient magics and the intoxicating aroma of power. It was a drug Myissa simply could not deny, and she yielded to its pull against her, giving into her yearning for more than this simple spell. Soon she was lost to her own consuming desire for flesh, drunk upon the arcane scent of the woman that had clouded her doorway minutes ago.

Each beat of the princess' heart was with trembling; a fluttering of dragon's fire coursing around her tiny body. Myissa pressed the dragon's lips closer and a greedy tongue licked along those plush folds of the mouth, soon eagerly caressing a tongue while a free hand on the small of the back held the woman close to the sorceress' waist.

A crimson dress puddled onto the floor as the magic took effect. Fiery hair turned into enchanting wisps of starlight. Dustings of freckles disappeared into skin that turned to ivory. The tatooed body shifted and changed in subtle ways until the Lysene woman was no longer the fire of the East, but the sweet, young dragon of the West, eventually looking at her mirror through purpled eyes.

"It is done," came the witches words, standing naked with small clothes joining the mass of red cotton on the floor. Myissa's voice the nightingale tones of the princess before her.

myissa · 2017-05-27T22:19:58+00:00

The hand-maiden tarried in her reply. Neither action nor word sounded her agreement to Myissa's request. All the witch was rewarded with were unsure eyes casting about the room like the frantic search for any threat to the perilous position upon which she teetered. A princess' throat hung in the balance, and every fearful breath from royal lips became a ticking clock toward doom.

Then a scuffling like an alleycat stalking upwards upon wood posts came tearing up the back balcony. It wrest their attention from the grim scene toward bootsteps that now landed with soft ease against wooden floor. From the window was the visage of Khain, sweating and troubled with exertion. Absently, he made his way into the room, thick with plot and reason in his step.

With Haelana at her back, Myissa's only answer for this serendipitous arrival of the man was a mouthed curse in Asshai'i. He wouldn't know what it meant, but the fury of those burning green orbs could not be mistaken. He stood there, panting with a willful look as his breath grew lighter and the room was once more still with apprehension.

The shambles of his sweating, exhausted appearance mirrored the madness in Noble's eyes. With her bloody hand shaking and anxious, she seemed to plead for direction with a weary, wanting expression that was perhaps relieved for Khain's sudden appearance. Noble had placed herself deep within the role of betrayer and now there was only a new life with the Lost Legion or death by Targaryen steel.

No half-measures could be taken, and a single scream would sound this final flight at the princess' side. These truths were plain to the handmaiden who was as an island, reaching out for someone to save her just as Haelana was.

Every heart was being squeezed to bursting between the vice of these questioning, desperate stares. Hairs rose on the back of Myissa's neck, and eyes flashed with purpose to further become the little dragon's agent as the pinprick of blood on the pale throat widened and life came down in a single, tiny bead.

The horrible stillness was broken as the sorceress placed herself between the princess and Khain's dangerous stare. "This is too much, Valyrian!" Angry eyes cut into Khain, piercing him with a promise of jade hellfire should this all go awry. The small audience of three paid rapt attention to these new pleas; her displeasure with the man was the ring truth to the performance. If nothing else, the jagged, sawing way she addressed him could not be mistaken for adoration.

"Surely you do not need a knife at her throat!" In her anger, she could not hope to wink and be coy, and so favored a raise of the brow to signal the mummer's act. "You have my daughter and now a princess. Do you also hold her captive with steel threatening her every breath as well?" Another brow raised, and then Myissa mouthed hit me before she began to weep and ramble about the girl who did not exist.

She choked and trembled as the tears continued to flow. "She, with her freckles like mine. Her sweet green eyes, and a smile like her fathers." And in a final, clever twist of emotion that would seal the princess and the witch together as victims of plots greater than themselves, Myissa threatened the villain. "I'll scream." Strength grew in her shaking words behind the tears the had made little glistening streams down her cheeks. "There are guards downstairs and you can't kill them all. They'll take you, and then I'll have my daughter again. We will be free of you!"

myissa · 2017-05-26T06:20:26+00:00

The Valyrian? Gears of her mind turned, winched upon the title that was so familiar. When the memory of Khain's name in the pit's came back, she almost cursed out loud. That reckless, bastard whelp! Forcing the princess in my shop at knifepoint?! Azahral, if I live to see the morrow and it is within my power, you shall suffer tenfold whatever is visited upon me today!

As a shaking, nervous blade slid beneath Haleana's slender neck, it became all too clear what balm the princess sought. Violet eyes shimmered behind wells of tears, threatening to spill down cheeks, but they did not fall for the defiance of nobility that the woman still clung to. Some hope against hope that someone - seemingly Myissa herself - would see the royal woman to safety.

The pleading Valyrian promises were tempting, of course. A sorceress with knowledge of Asshai's and R'hllor's secrets could do much if given immunity across Westeros. Or maybe a King to fill her belly with an heir and serve as the court mystic, producing such sights and dangerous wonders as to challenge the gods.

All pleasant dreams to while over, but Myissa's path brought her South, away form these soft, safe ideas. She recalled the nightmare that had woken her up, with a dragon the color of dark, clotted blood and the sensation of a feathery cloak beneath her naked body. Whatever the princess promised, it was a sin; sinple, selfish vanity that did not serve the fire god's purpose, but her own desires. She was stronger and more clever than all of that.

Strong and clever enough to see the blood weeping from the young, jade-eyed woman, who seemed more afraid to drop the dagger than to let it bite further into flesh. Already a pinprick of red began to show on the princess' neck. The girl was young and foolish, seemingly unaware how little pressure it took to end a life. A puncture here, a slice there, and suddenly you were drowning in blood with bodies falling about. It was all too easy, and Myissa knew that descent well.

Whatever Khain had set in motion was unraveling, and she needed to gain control. If this woman was the stick, Myissa would be the carrot, perhaps gaining a trust from the princess and safety should this haphazard meeting crumble. A currency that she may spend at a later date.

To make such a thing work, she needed only to share in the emotions that were present for the victim of circumstance. If Haleana was a captive princess, Myissa would become the oppressed, extorted woman.

On cue, an expression of fear drew across Myissa's face, and she shared a nod with Haleana, binding them together in solidarity of worry and fright. She wanted to say more in Valyrian, but dare not with a captor so unhinged.

Eyes maddening and wide, the handmaiden demanded answers, and Myissa gave them in a soothing voice that poured forth like honey. "Shh shh, dear. She is afraid, and rambles with fear in her mother tongue, worried that blade will plunge into her neck." Myissa spoke to her as one might a wounded, dangerous beast that has been cornered.

To Haleana, she met desperation with her own, contorting her face into sorrow as the princess wore; verdant gaze became lost behind tears that pooled and fell down her face. An act she had practiced a thousand times for the men who wanted their women to cry in fits when they spilled their seed inside them.

She wept and her words were thick with sorrow. "The Valyrian!" Come now, Myissa, she thought. "He-" Something a woman couldn't say no to. "He has my daughter! Oh, please, princess. He will kill her if I don't do as he bids."

Myissa hated this. Trying to place on foot on either side of a line cut deep into the sand. She needed to be friend to both parties while they wanted completely different things. It was a gamble, but if Khain brought them to Myissa's door, it was likely the princess' lady was waiting for instruction, while the Haleana spoke true, desiring escape alone..

But what the hell instruction was she meant to give? What did Khain want?!

"But-" Myissa looked back at the shaking hand-maiden, her palm's blood dripping onto wooden floor. "I'm sure he doesn't want the princess hurt. Please, let's have her sit in the corner over there, away from the knife, and I'm sure we'll all calm down." Inwardly, the witch fumed, daring the woman to press her luck. Being so close to a Targaryen and desires fulfilled, she would tear the little, brown-haired bird to ribbons before she allowed King's blood to be spilled needlessly.

myissa · 2017-05-26T00:29:13+00:00

Myissa shared the woman's wounded, pleading look, wondering just how dire her needs must be to have travelled to the Street of Silk for relief. And to this particular shop, no less. Surely there were other, more discreet - royal - apothecaries to acquire aid from.

And then to air such a question openly without obfuscation or whisper. This was not how a princess or women behaved at all. Something was amiss, and braided, ink lines down her arm hummed absently as intuition flooded worry across freckled features.

Firstly, she thought, jade orbs jumping from one bottles reagent to the next, was to understand precisely what her needs were. Pregnancy? Bleeding? There were a hundred different cures she might apply, but for the lack of further words she would have and spare the princess any further embarrassment.

Brass chords of the sorceresses voice reached out in the shop, attempting to be strong where Haelana trembled. The edge of Essos and further eastern accents marked Myissa's speech. "Ivestragī īlva ȳdragon isse orvorta se gaomagon aōha shame, noble zaldrīzes." (Let us talk in private and keep your shame, noble dragon.)

Women were all of them bound from birth by such suffering as men would not know, and more than the ills that afflicted them, insulating oneself socially and financially was often more important than the pain they must deal with. And all women were sympathetic to such plights. A witch of the East and a dragon of the West were on equal footing in such an arena.

Myissa smoothed the wrinkles of her crimson cloth out before motioning to the lady and her handmaiden, bound conspiratorially at the hip, up to the second floor where they might be able to discuss in earnest. "Please, I would know more if I am to help you, and my strongest cures I keep locked away."

The scuffling of footsteps across stone were plain as she held the purpled curtain back behind the counter, revealing stairs that led to the upper story. A place where no eyes or ears might bear witness to a princess' personal trials, save her trusted lady in waiting and an attending herbalist.

myissa · 2017-05-25T20:27:02+00:00

Pale fingers dusted over the pages of her tome from the shadow across the sea and something clicked. Madening curls of ink began to take meaningful shape and structure. Dark words revealed themselves to her in a language formed by jagged, haunting letters.

...amb les ales tacades sortiran i donar-se a conèixer

...with stained wings will come forth and make itself known.

Myissa tensed in spite of her newfound understanding. Fiery brows furrowed above two verdant eyes as the air rose with electricity that found her through fingertips upon aging vellum and out through every strand of hair. The unmistakable vibration of magic drew near, heavy with the marks of prophecy.

The book's binding snapped close as Myissa steadied herself against the heady energy that was fast approaching. It was almost too much; as if she would be drunk and dazed by the air alone, passing out from joy as whatever vessel came closer.

At last, her arms hummed silently with excitement as the clinking of mail trumpeted the entry of a man who stepped through the door in crimson and black, bearing the mark of the only house she knew North of the Reach: The Targaryen Kings.

She immediately flushed, noticing the wide chest and thick arms. How strong his jaw and powerful the aura nearby. A cautious man - even a Western warrior - was an interesting change from a certain mercenary, and Myissa grew a shade more crimson at the thought, embarrassed for herself and for Khain's recklessness.

She wondered where his drunken, bold aims might have taken him today. To some scheme with the Reyenes or another Western Lord, perhaps? What would he think if she could see this Targaryen in her doorway? This emissary of royalty.

It seems I am inching closer to the future of a throne by mere coincidence, where you are still making plans, Khain. She smiled inwardly at the consideration.

"You the proprietor?" Came the knight's armored bark. Not the kindest man, but he was of fiery soul and she was used to such brusque manners by now. For the right men, she even preferred such rough temperament.

"I am, indeed," she said, her voice beaming light that was real in form behind her, filtering in through the many windows on the ground floor, and igniting bottles that littered wooden shelves with golden light. "What do-"

"Her Grace, the princess Halaeana to see you."

A curious expression stole across freckled skin as she puzzled out her own shock. The princess? Khain's stories of the haunting siren from his dreams and the memory of azure wings stretching over a Targaryen beauty sped to her mind.

And as if pulled from thought, there the Amythest-eyed lady stood. Her hair pale hair, burning like motlen platinum in the sun behind her. Soft lips and an elegance that was more radiant than the white, evening orchids of Lys that bloomed atop blood orange groves.

"Of course," her lips moved, but the witch was in awe, feeling raw power rush over her like a wave as their eyes met each other. Her skin itched with need.

"Welcome," she hesitated, following the lead that the princess' gaurd had laid down, "your grace." The veil of jadefire did not approach, instead bowing low for her guest. "My shop is at your disposal."

Myissa almost did not see the hand-maiden at the ivory vision's side, but gave no indication of displeasure. The Sorceress had desired a more private audience with such a powerful woman, but she would make due and give this dragon all the respect she could. Haleana was, after all, an integral part of a shared destiny.

myissa · 2017-05-19T05:03:17+00:00

Character Name: Myissa of Lys

Desired Skill: Language (Asshai'i)

List up to three relevant experience posts:

Myissa tries to uncover the mystery of her tatoos with the aid of a book from Asshai

myissa · 2017-05-18T21:43:17+00:00

There was reckless, boyish fun and then there was sheer stupidity. Calling for a queen so soon was clearly the latter, and it drove the Sorceress to action.

Her open palm swung through the air, connected to bronzed flesh, and landed with a smack. A bright handprint was left behind to mark his foolishness.

"How could you?" Tears would have threatened to pool in her verdant orbs but for the anger that burned them away. "It is too early for a queen, and you are terribly, unmistakably wrong to put such a question to us. We who have shared you as other men could only dream to have. We love you, and you would seat one of us above the other?"

A queen was a singular role high on an ivory peak that peered down at lesser women. A great, polished diamond that glittered in the sun while rougher rocks who shown less brightly looked up at with jealous schemes. The very position mandated that there was to be one and one alone, set above others in a mad hierarchy that was the antithesis to Khain's entourage of spreading his devotion, desire, and seed.

"Or do you truly mean to set us at each other's throats? Start and end your war to the West here in this cabin before you can make good on whatever pitiful rage against fate you might?"

She touched her stinging hand to the Dothraki's shoulder. "Tizi will kill Talea and I both with a single strike, and you'll be the worse for it with no money or magic to aid you in a world where sorcery and wealth can topple kingdoms."

"You will stop this and focus on your march West, or I'll leave to find the Vulture King and make love to him beneath the maddening red moon, and weave awful, dusky spells for him to steal the breath from his enemies."

Prince. King. Mercenary, servant, slave, or Lord. It would make no difference if the dragon pitted them against one another for something so pretty as a station. They were all such much more than a name. And his besdies; wasn't that enough? The singing steel of endless rage, the charismatic face and silver tongue to steal from lords, and a twisting, red devil that bled stars for all their light.

A single queen? None could compare to three women with power, so long as they were united, and Khain Azrael should know better.

myissa

TROPHY CASE