#errol pyralis

[el-michoacano]

Happy Halloween from Errol and Lucio! 😂🧡

Art by the wonderful @sad-arcana-au 🧡

[hydrangeadreamer]

early bday gift for @3rrol 

Hope you like it!

[arcxus-of-altihex]

Bringing you all the daily quarantine mood, ft. Karayan ( @mountain-man-cumeth ), Errol ( @plaguedcount ), Xan ( @slushrottweiler-blog ) and of course, Cassius, Jax and Julian :D 

[azurenikadoodles]

Commission of Errol & Valerius for @3rrol/ @plaguedcount

I loved working on this one! <3 Thank you for commissioning me <3

[ososull]

Errol, Round 2: The Errolning

((Redraw of a portrait that I did of my friend @3rrol’s ever fabulous, ever fiery MC!))

Progress video under the cut!

[[MORE]]

[classlesstulip]

So, You Called for a Handyman?

(A little medly of a day in the life of a ‘handyman’ in the mob. One who doesn’t really take his job too seriously.)

     “*che,* a tall and shadowed figure snorted as he flicked the long blade he held. The wet, viscous sound of blood flying through the air and splattering onto concrete was heard, the whistle of metal short but sharp.  

     Tiberius looked around the room he was in, sharp ears pricked, listening for any of the tell-tale sounds of life: breathing, twitches, the shuddering gasps one gives when in great pain. He was only satisfied when he heard nothing from the collection of bodies spilled around him.

     'There’s a group of Mick’s boys over on 8th and North. Go and fix them.’

Heh, they’re fixed now, alright, Ty thought. Now he just needs to call in Lenore for disposal; he needs to pass over that new fertilizer recipe he’s got, using these mooks may be just what her flowers need.

*****

     Storing his machete in one of the many caches secreted in Sepulveda territory, Ty swapped out his fingerless leather gloves for a new set. A quick check showed that even after all these years he’s still got it; not even one drop of blood on his 3-piece.

     If even ONE of those mooks had spilled on his Armani, he would have rioted. This suite was a gift!

     His internal rant was cut off when his phone chirped. Pulling it out of an inner pocket, he saw a new text from Little Cruzi: seem’s their Apa is done putting up with Jericho. Needs to have the jackass fixed. And-, oh!

     'Apa says make it messy. The wetter the better.’

     Ty can do that. He’s pretty good at getting things wet.

     Oh, that was a good one! He’ll have to try that one on Val; the poor dear’s been wound up tighter than a spring the last few weeks. A good laugh followed by a good fuck should fix that.

*****

     "Hey, Ty? Boss has a new stop for ya!”

     What the fuck? Seriously!? "Uh, Amber? Ya can see I’m currently up to my elbows right now, yeah!?“ The wet squelch and Ty’s grunt as he pulled on Jericho’s lungs rung through the warehouse. It was dark and dusty; the perfect backdrop for a Splash-n-Dash.

     Currently, Ty was bent over a stack of pallets, the beaten corpse of Jericho splayed across them. Scattered on the walls and floors around them were gouges and bullet marks, with streaks of blood interspersed, belying that a scuffle had taken place, the loser of which had his chest cracked open and Ty cleaning the innards like he was preparing a chicken to get roasted over open coals.

     The driver held up their arms, shrugging. "Hey man, I’m just the messenger. Turns out, Jericho was fucking with not just the Sepulveda’s, but the Alnazar’s AND Satrinava’s.” Amber looked a little green at the sound of flesh and ligaments ripping as Ty finished his impromptu vivisection. He went even more green when Ty overhand-hurled his double-handful of offal at one of the far walls with a loud 'YEET!’, the wet splat and fanning of blood from the impact causing Amber to jump back with a heave. “Dude, what the fuck!?” The thick gurgle he swallowed back after his outburst showed just how DONE he was with Ty’s nastiness.

     “Hey, Val says wet and messy, I deliver wet an’ messy! Now keep your pants on and drag over my duffle. My shirt is ruined.”

     Keeping an eye on a blood-soaked Tiberius, Amber did as bid. It took him a few minutes to locate said bag, during which Ty lit-up a cig.

     “Move it, cupcake.”

     “Alright, alright, jeez. Go fuck yourself, asshole.”

     “I HEARD THAT!”

*****

     “Alrighty then,” Ty propped his feet up on the desk in front of him, ignoring the glare Asra shot him. “So, we gots a case of ol’ Jerry boy putting his fingers into too many pies, both literal, figurative, and colloquially. Drugs, rent girls, and laundering, right?” He pulled in a big drag from his cigar, having lighted up the moment he entered Fluff'n'Stuff’s digs.

     With a grunt, Asra pushed the big booted feet off of his NICE mahogany desk. Getting a few smoke-rings blown at him in retribution, he glared at the 'handyman’ sitting across from him, but knew any more fussing on his end would be futile; the only reason Asra isn’t currently a smear on the wall is that Ty thinks he’s adorable AND they go way back.

     That and Val and Asra once had a Thing, but that’s none of his business.

     “Yes,” leaning back, Asra pulled out a thick manila file folder and dropped it onto his desk. The poor thing was only kept together by a single rubber band, and Ty’s surprised it hasn’t snapped already. “These are the places that Jericho’s Number Two and Three have holed up. Taking these two out will cause the whole operation to fall apart.”

     As Asra was speaking, Ty secured his cigar between his molars, propping his jaw open as his fingers started pulling apart the file. Flipping through the first few cover papers, he soon got to the meat and potatoes of the lot. “As you can see, Vinny is in the heart of the Garment District…” Ty stopped paying attention as he looked through everything, Asra’s voice becoming a low, soothing drone. He leaned back in his chair, holding up a few A4-sized photos.

     “Now, Illian was able to-” Asra was cut off at a loud, 'interested’ hum from Tiberius. Seconds later, the handyman turned the papers in his hand’s landscape, and a few sheets accordioned down. A slightly lewd chuckle floated up from behind the papers before Asra snatched at them, Ty letting out a disappointed 'awww’ at the loss of his smut.

     “A-HEM!” Crinkling the purloined pornography in his fist, Asra pinned Ty with A Look. “This is no time to be looking at, at, uh,” he peeped at the rag, “PLAYBOY!”

     “Azzy? That was IN the file. I had nothing to do wi-”

     “REGARDLESS,” tossing the magazine at his wastebin (and making a mental note to speak to his son about leaving his 'reading material’ out and about), Asra huffed. “Just, get out of here and fix 'em. Oh, and…”, rifling through his desk, he pulled out a box. He pushed it across his table, a curious Ty picking it up gingerly, “wear this. We need proof of the job, to be a warning.”

     “A body cam? Shit son, y'all mean business.” Snorting, Ty threw himself out of his chair, tossing the little box in the air before catching it and slipping it into his suitcoat pocket. “Got it. The usual fee to the usual account. Give hugs and kisses to yer fam for me, yeah?”

*****

     Walking down a softly carpeted hall, a slight shadow was seen. Soft curls were piled atop their head, and one hand held a glass of wine while the other pulled their robe tighter. Light filtered through shuttered blinds, car head beams and static lamps fighting the darkness of night. Occasionally, the honk of a horn or the revving of an engine sounded out, despite being muffled by layers of brick and insulation.

     Sipping their wine, they stopped just outside a cracked door. Peeping in, a soft smile curled their lips as they spied one of their little ones (though, being nearly twenty, they are fairly certain that Sol would object to such an endearment). Seeing them softly snoring away, the door was pulled shut. Checking on their other child, Cruz, showed the same result.

     Once satisfied that their children (grown though they may be) were tucked away safely snoozing, Val continued down the hall. A few twists and turns later and they were in their office. Opulently decorated with heavy dark wood pieces and bold colors, it was quite a large and stately room. Near the far wall was their desk, and on the blotter was a thumb drive.

     Knowing that it must have been left by Tiberius, Val plucked it up. Wandering towards the entertainment center, they plugged in the drive, turned on the screen, and got comfortable on the couch, sipping more wine as they navigated menus with the remote.

     “Hey, is this thing on?” The sound of someone tapping a mic was heard before the picture abruptly turned on. A large brown eye was center stage, the corners crinkling briefly before the cam was pulled back, revealing the familiar face of Tiberius. “Alrighty, then! So, the usual drivel: Tiberius working on behalf of Don Valentino of the Sepulveda Family, yadda yadda yadda,” Ty’s eyes rolled, and his body moved like he was waving his hand. “Here to fuck some shit up and make a statement. So here’s,” he tapped the screen, “the mutherfuckin’,” more taps, “TEA,” a final tap. “Vinny’s been baaaaaaaad. Not only,” Ty brandished a finger, waving it around his head like a conductor, “has this bonafide dickfuck fuckface been doin’ Jerry’s dirty work, but this FUCKER has also been bringing in kids. KIDS I TELL YA! Now c'mon, Vinny, baby, ya don’t bring kids into your prostitution ring! Fucker! So, time to clean house! And Val?” Ty winked at the camera, “I’ll have a nice little pressie for ya when you finish this!”

     Some fumbling and cursing later, and Val had a chest-high view of whatever was in front of Ty. Currently, it was the door to what may be a warehouse. The video jumped up and down a few times, and the cocking of a gun was heard. Something very familiar was playing in the background, and it came to a hard beat as Ty kicked in the door-

     “Some-BODY ONCE TOLD ME,” duel-wielding, Ty buried a bullet into the head and gut of the bouncer standing guard as the kicked-in door bounced off of the wall. “THE WORLD WAS GONNA ROLL ME,” two steps down the hallway. “I AIN’T THE SMARTEST TOOL IN THE SHED,” one guy burst out of a room and got pistol-whipped for his stupidity, getting a few slugs to the back as he fell.

Hopping over the new body, Ty continued his song. “SHE WAS LOOKIN’ KINDA DUMB WITH HER FINGER AND HER THUMB,” this time, he peeped around a doorway into a room, squeaking out a startled 'Errol!?’ as a knife buried itself into the wall behind him. A feminine voice started spewing curses as he backpedaled, hands still clutching Glocks up in the air. “Aight, aight, I got it! Sheesh!” Huffing, he continued his journey down the hall, bellowing an 'IN THE SHAPE OF AN L ON 'ER FOREHEAD!’ behind him as he went.

Now Val wants to know what she was doing there. Did Jericho piss off Lucio, as well? They jumped as Ty continued his bit of Musical Mayhem.

     “WELLLLLLLLL THE YEARS START COMIN’ AND THEY DON’T STOP COMING!” At some point, the handyman had swapped out his handguns for a combat shotgun, opening up rounds into the chests of three forgettable thugs in beat to the last three words of his stanza. “FED TO THE RULES AND I HIT THE GROUND RUNNIN’!” Coming to the end of the hall, Ty blasted through the door, revealing the large, empty space typical to warehouses was replaced with a sort of hotel-like setup. An open-air lobby, with staircases spiraling up, leading to floors with open walkways. It looked like someone tried to recreate the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria, but it just went up and up, with each floor being closer to a balcony than a full floor. All of the open space allowed for the panicked cries and screams of the brothel inhabitants to echo in upon themselves.

     There were also a LOT of fine rugs, marble, and gilt furniture. How long has this operation been going on, and how did fucking JERICHO of all people get this set-up on the DL?

     “DIDN’T MAKE SENSE NOT TO LIVE FOR FUN,” *boom!**boom!**boom!*; a rapid release of shots into a group of mobsters as they tried to rush Tiberius, giving Val a front-row seat to the amount of kick a combat-class shotgun has as one man went flying, streamers of blood shooting from the stump that used to hold his head. “YOUR BRAIN GETS SMART BUT YER HEAD GETS DUMB! HAHA, FUCKER!” Ty’s voice was starting to get difficult to hear over the amount of sheer NOISE in the background.

     “SO MUCH TO DO!” *blam!* “SO MUCH TO SEE!” *blamblam!* “SO WHAT’S WRONG WITH TAKIN’ THE BACKSTREETS!?” The bodycam started shaking at Ty charged over to a staircase, plowing shoulder-first into a group of people storming down it while waving their guns. The picture blacked out and the muffled scratch of fabric rubbing over the built-in mic took up a few seconds of footage before a bright light cut through. Val had to squint their own eyes, and everything came back into focus just in time to see Ty hurl a middle-aged, half-dressed wanna-be mafioso over one of the balcony floors, singing out 'YOU’LL NEVER KNOW! IF YOU DON’T GO!’ as the man plummeted. He landed with a rubbery thump.

     “YOU’LL NEVER SHINE IF YOU DON’T GLOW,” more singing/screeching from Ty as he tossed a grenade down another balcony/hall. As it erupted, it covered the huddled gangsters in liquid fire. “HEY NOW! YOU’RE AN ALL-STAR! GET YOUR GAME ON! GO PLAYEEEEE! C'MON ASSHOLES! YOU WANTED TO BE A ROCKSTAR! HOW NOW! YOU’RE A ROCK STAR! GET THE SHOW ON! GET PAIIIIIIIIIIID! HA HAHAHAAA!”

     Val made a quiet note to themselves that Ty, while very funny, can also be downright sinister.

     “AND ALL THAT GLITTERS IS GO~OOOLLLLLLD!” And that Ty should also never attempt a falsetto that high ever. AGAIN.

     “ONLY SHOOTING STAAAAAAAAAARS BREAK THE MO-OLLLLLLD!” Another flame-spewing grenade was thrown, this time hitting what looked to be a fire extinguisher. Seconds later, foam started jetting out of the damaged, high-pressure steel canister, turning what was once a life-saving device into a literal missile, which shot off and plowed into the chest of a woman in Jericho’s colors, launching her airborne before the canister exploded, spreading shrapnel and viscera into a mist.

     Smothering their face with their hand, Val let out a disbelieving laugh as Ty continued to wreak unholy havoc on the hideout to the tune of an upbeat, mid-aughties pop-rock song. Knives were thrown, bullets buried in brains, and it all came to a crescendo as Ty unloaded a stereotypical tommy-gun down into a group of wannabe gangsters that had jimmied themselves into the lobby. The last note to the song was capped off with a tossed Molotov, the ring of shattering glass pairing well to the last guitar chord.

     Chuckling in satisfaction, Val finished their wine before shutting off the television. Wandering out of their office, they refilled their wineglass before heading toward their bedroom. Humming in pleasure after taking a fresh sip of chilled wine, they gently opened their door, stopping in the doorway before raising a sculpted brow. “So,” they queried. “Is this my 'pressie’?”

     It’s quite a nice present, Val thought. Tiberius was lounging on Val’s obscenely large bed, on his side and completely nude. If not for a strategically-placed pile of rose petals, the fit man would be putting on quite the show. As it was, Tiberius decided to take a page out of every cheesy romance novel/movie and had bedecked the bedroom in dozens of low-burning candles and scattered roses, capping-off the trope with a single rose clenched between pearly whites. It’s something the Valentino of twenty-some years ago would have swooned over.

     Although, the Valentino of now is feeling quite swoon-y, now. "Heh,“ they chuckled as Ty wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "I’ve got to say, this is a nice surprise, viejo amigo.” Quietly shutting the door behind them, they leaned against the slab of wood-encased steel and gave their 'present’ a heated stare. “What gives?”

     “Eh, nothing much.” Pulling the rose out of his mouth, Ty tossed it aside with a flick of the wrist. “Just, ah, you wanted a job wet and messy, and I decided that you could use a little 'wet 'n messy’ yourself.”

     Val barked out a laugh. “Oh, but that was horrible!” Wandering closer to the bed, they held out a hand, gently cupping a warm cheek. “What am I going to do with you- MERDA!”

     Yanking Val towards him, Ty rolled them, stopping on his back with Val perched on top. “Well, first things first! Let’s fuck!”

*****

     The room stunk of sex, and all of the candles had burned themselves out. Entwined under a thin sheet, a sticky but satiated couple cuddled. Bite marks and hickeys decorated soft skin, and Val laid with their head tucked under Ty’s chin, one set of fingers lazily tracing circles over the larger man’s lower back.

“So,” Val lazily purred. “Aside from the cam footage, did you learn anything else?”

Ty hummed. “You may want to speak to Head in the Clouds.”

“…about?”

     A hoarse chuckle. “Seem’s someone’s son has a little crush on our Cruzi. A Playboy got mixed into my briefing file, and a VERY well-worn page had a model that looked startlingly like our bambino was on it.”

     “…really?” Ty hissed as sharp nails dug into his back, relaxing when Val apologetically rubbed them. “I’ll need to set-up a meeting. But, that can wait until tomorrow.”

     The last thing Ty thought as they both dropped off to sleep was that he was glad he didn’t let on that he’s pretty sure Lucky and Cruz have a thing.

     But he’s not sorry for telling Cruz’s Apa. Serves the little brat right for shitting all over him as a baby and giving him heart attacks every week since they learned how to walk.

     HA!

@agent-darkbootie @thraxbaby @lazyvoyager @magicianapprenticelyra @plaguedcount

[vargatheapprentice]

A quick drabble featuring my Varga and @3rrol

Varga wasn’t sure how it happened. When stiff, awkward exchanges had melted into passion stolen in bushes and in hidden corners of corridors. Tangled legs and longing sighs, fingers threaded in ruby hair, celestite eyes fluttering shut.

He found himself looking like a mess more often than not these days. Bits of Errol’s lipstick peeking from behind his shirt collar, curls mussed into unruly tufts. He even found her distracting enough to pull him from his studies, a mischievous glint in her eye was all it took to lose his focus.

Somehow she’d always managed to look more put together than he did, despite their heated antics. Where he’d managed to look like nothing other than a love-dizzy fool, she still held herself with the air of importance, a power that always seemed to fizzle around her, crackling like electricity.

And it drove Varga crazy.

He was shy at first, unbelievably nervous as she careened him into secret spaces where they could share intimacy. Soon, however, he became comfortable and the fire within blazed, with him tugging her away as often as he could.

He supposed by now half the people in the Vesuvia had heard them, one way or another. He wasn’t exactly good at being quiet, but found himself surprisingly not caring. Errol was intoxicating, nothing else mattered when she was near. Not other people, not his research, not even the library.

To be so bewitched, there had to be some explanation of the thunderous roar of his heartbeat at the timbre of her voice.

Maybe it was the spring.

Maybe it was the gold of her eyes, her amused laugh as he pulled her into yet another deserted hallway, aching to kiss her again. (And again. And again. And again...)

Masterlist

[apprenticeofcups]

Hello, Handsome [The Arcana ☁]

I was inspired by this post by @3rrol (hope you don’t mind me writing for your girl! I promise I did my research.)

Most people treat themselves to a spa day, a shopping spree, a decadent dessert. Lucio treats himself to statues.

Pairings: Errol/Lucio (Lucio/F!Apprentice) Words: 1022

The Palace halls, the gardens, the polished vermilion cobblestones of Red Street and any street corner wide enough to fit a white marble pedestal were decorated with his effigies - wicked claws, switchback brows, and fierce penetrating eyes immortalized in solid gold. The Palace’s collection was mostly busts (and one nude that was not where she’d expected), while those peppered throughout the gardens and the streets were all manner of poses, some with horse, some without, some with arms and armor, and one in Goldgrave with a menacing, demonic-looking skull half-crushed in his gauntlet, but always, always cast in gold.

Despite the sheer number of them, the statues weren’t found all over the city - outside the central districts, they tended to come to...harm. The only golden cavalier ever erected in South End was dismantled in less than a day, and the horse had never been found. As stubborn as he was, Lucio couldn’t bear to see his beloved likenesses vandalized, so while he didn’t take it well, he got the message. The collection was painstakingly maintained, with any statue sporting so much as a scratch or a bird dropping promptly removed and returned in pristine condition. 

That is, except one.

Smaller than his war statues (which is to say, life-size), the sculpture in the Town Square was also missing the hard lines and sharp edges of his gauntlet. It was a monument to his coronation, simple and sophisticated, from a time before his loud, flashy, extravagant image was fully-cultivated. The golden reproductions of his metal fingers rested lightly and reverently on the lion-headed coronet shining on his chest, the other hand held flat at his waist, with a single blooming rosebud in the palm. It needed a good cleaning, but the Count refused to order it, because the golden boots, cuffs, and outstretched palm were oily and crusted with layers and layers...of lipstick.

Kissing the feet of the charming young Count was a lucky-in-love charm the single of Vesuvia couldn’t resist. And the statue’s reputation wasn’t limited to the city walls - Vesuvia had become a surprisingly popular honeymoon location for neighboring cities, and even visiting dignitaries made a detour for a kiss. Now, almost twelve years into his rule, Lucio’s coronation statue was such a phenomenon, it was the most popular spot in the central districts to propose, take a first date, and reunite tearfully with a star-crossed lover after years and years apart. 

And the cafés in the Town Square with a good view of it made a fucking killing.

Naturally, Lucio owned one, a small but extravagant tea shop on the district line, and he did owe her a date. It didn’t take much for Errol to convince him to play hooky - one glimpse of her peeking into his Court, those firey eyes with a mischievous gleam, and he was out the door before the Milovan ambassador could blink. 

It was a beautiful, crisp, sunny afternoon, and the Heart District was quiet but lively as they passed through. There were none of the dour, downturned faces of South End, or the wet, musty stink that clung to the Shopping District when the canals rose, only the gentle bubbling of water in the aqueducts high above, the clean smell of spring flowers, and Lucio whining when his heels caught on the cobblestones.

“Shouldn’t wear them if you can’t walk in them,” she teased, taking his arm to steady him, under the guise of letting him escort her. 

“It’s not the heels,” he snapped, turning up his nose. “Damn street’s uneven. I could do a backflip in these.” Scowling, he scuffed one boot on the ground where the pinkish stones of the Heart District turned to Center-City-white, the houses and storefronts opening up to the Square. 

“Oh, really?” She laughed. “I’d pay to see that.” 

“For you, gorgeous?” He smirked, kissing his fingers and touching her hand on his arm. “Half-price.”

She was about to reply when a shriek rang out, and a thin slip of a teenager in pastel silks toppled off the coronation statue’s pedestal and fell into the fountain. There was a gaggle of them around the base, plus a handful of young adults, carrying shopping bags and taking turns planting kisses on the statue’s feet. While the kid’s friends pulled them, soaked and embarrassed, from the fountain, Lucio cackled. “Serves them right. That’s not a toy.”

“They must need a lot of luck.” Rolling her eyes, Errol tried to steer him away from the statue, but he was a cockatiel with a mirror. “Trying to kiss the cheek.”

“Cheek?” He was only half-listening, looking over the sculpture proudly. “What for?”

She shrugged, biting back laughter at the preening, fawning way he regarded his own likeness. “Kissing the cheek is a trend now. It’s harder, because the statue’s wet from the fountain spray, and - ” Arching one chestnut brow, she nodded to the stiff, attentive guards posted around the Square. “ - it’s highly disrespectful to climb on His Excellency’s statue.” 

A smaller, frecklier teen hopped up on another’s shoulders and planted a bright-pink lipstick-mark on the statue’s cheek. Their friends cheered.

“I’ll say,” Lucio muttered.

Squeezing his arm, Errol laughed. “They say if you can make it, it’s not just good luck - your true love will confess their feelings to you.”

“...Really?” After a moment, he tore his gaze away from the statue, studying her with a dangerous sparkle in his eye.

She cocked an eyebrow. “Wh - ”

He kissed her, hard and messy, much more so than he ever had in public, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other running featherlight over her hip. They both came away panting, her brilliant gold lipstick smeared across his mouth.

She narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

With a crooked grin, he very gently unfolded her hand from his arm - and took off running toward the statue, calling over his shoulder. “Can’t wait to hear your confession!”

Waving off the guards with a smile, she started after him, pulling up her gloves and preparing to pull him out of the fountain.

[vampiresuns]

The Snake And The Moon

The Queen is not yet fallen if her allies are still standing, and he is not fallen until he’s done. Sometimes, the smallest of men can cast the largest of shadows.

The aftermath of the Battle of Brindlewood, a fic for @starryskylullaby‘s asoiaf au.

The only thing he feels is rage.

“You,” he hisses, turning towards to Lucerys and Asra. “She’s dead because of you.”

At first, both Lucerys and Asra stare at him in shock. In normal situations, he wouldn’t blame them, he would even find their reactions amusing, say some ominous or riddle-like acerbic comment about how he’s a never ending well of surprises.

Instead he thinks good.

“Do you think I wanted this?” the King snaps back at him. “Do you think I wanted this, you snake?”

“Well, you certainly did not do anything to prevent it, Your Grace,” he says mockingly. Lucerys is several inches taller than him, as Anatole is uncharacteristically short at his 5′4, but that doesn’t deter him. That has never deterred him. “You never deserved her—”

“Watch your tongue,” Lucerys commands him, grabbing his arm with his gauntlet.

“Get out of my way, Lucerys,” Anatole hisses back at him, pulling his arm away, and shouldering his way past him.

He’s mildly aware someone puts their hand on his shoulder, trying to pull him back, he doesn’t care, and it all descends into chaos as Lucerys pulls him back. Later on, he won’t remember much of it, he will only remember some bone corrosive grief as he yelled back at the King of the Seven Kingdoms everything he ever wanted to tell him, everything his job never allowed him to tell him. If this is what glory demands, then he doesn’t want glory any more.

“You two man children only ever cared about your idiotic rivalry while not a single problem in Westeros got solved, you absolute amateurs, let GO of me Julian,” he hisses. “I will see Astaeria and you will have to burn me with dragon fire to stop me.”

“Why?” He hears Valerius ask. It’s the first time he speaks, and his voice is hollow. “No, Lucerys let him explain.”

Surprisingly, Lucerys abides.

“No one in their right minds shoots an arrow to a dragonrider, it’s useless. So whomever did it, knew they were going to be successful, and that,” he says, squaring up as he gets closer to Astaeria’s dead body, “is not ordinary arrow. That’s a crossbow arrow.”

“You’re telling me nothing, I know it is,” Lucerys said.

“I’ve made it abundantly clear you were never fit to wear the crown, but I never said you were stupid.”

As silence follows, Anatole speaks again: “Only an enemy of her could’ve murdered her, that much is obvious. What you’re all overlooking is why would anyone have a crossbow in a battle like this. We have no bow forces, Asra has no bow forces. So it was clearly someone you pledged to you, Your Grace.”

Lucery’s mouth goes agape. “They would not, they would never.”

“I know someone who might. I can bring you the responsible, I can find the responsible, you know I can Lucerys. You damn well know I can.”

                             _____________________________________

This is the only time he thinks his working relationship with Lucerys is this smooth, because for the first time since they’ve known each other they’re working towards the same goal. The King and him were fundamentally different people. Still, the affair runs smoothly.

If anyone were to ask him, he knows no one will but if someone were to, he’d simply say there are three rules he follows to be such a successful spymaster.

Number one, nobility does not notice commonfolk. No one notices commonfolk, so it makes them perfect to have a network of spies. Lords and other so called important people vomit verbose wanks of self importance to prostitutes, bar tenders and squires, while keeping the wheel which subjugates him. Anatole alone cannot break that wheel. But he can buy freedoms, grant houses, give opportunities. He’s had a way with them all his life: while he lived in High Garden, he knew the names of most of the towns people, of the commoners, made friends regardless of origin and it scandalised his mother to no avail. He has not changed, he has only weaponised it.

Number two, all people have a price. He remembers telling someone who Lucerys once needed... removed that power is a curious thing. It resides where men believe it resides. It’s a trick, a shadow on the wall. It’s all a matter of knowing enough, and being better at the big chess game of life than the rest of your opponents. A very simple way to do that was to find out where power resided for them. He still lives by these words.

Number three, the more honest to yourself you are, the more you are willing to look at the nasty bits of life in the face, the more successful you’ll be. Don’t lie to yourself, lie to everyone if you must, trick everyone if you have to, but never lie and trick yourself. You’ll sink.

If anyone were to ask him how he keeps afloat, not that he’d be asked about this either, he’d simply say that when troubles were incessant, the only thing he did was to become more incandescent. The bigger his light, the larger his shadow.

He doesn’t remember who first called him The Snake of Westeros, but he does remember he was called such a thing to mock him. Small, slithery, queer.

And smarter and more connected than all of them.

Now, someone will ask him how he came to his conclusions, and this is what he’ll say: he will not mention the sorrow, the grief, the bitterness, the sleepless nights, the meals skipped, the deals dealt. Instead he will talk about how the first thing he did was make a list of all legions who used bows, of whatever type. That way you reduce three different armies into a handful of legions. That’s easier.

The snake circling its prey.

Secondly, you locate all of your spies who might have interacted with the potential guilty party, not that he doesn’t have his suspicions on whom it was. He’s had them from the very beginning. However, everyone can make accusations, words are fickle little things to those who know how to appreciate them and use them right. He’s not everyone. He’s the youngest appointed Master of Whisperers in the history of Westeros, he was educated to be a Statesman, and he has been the Crown’s spymaster for a good while. Everyone can make accusations, but spymasters can bring in witnesses.

The snake constricting around its prey.

Thirdly, you reap what you sow. There’s only one person who has been actively seen with a crossbow, with a known dislike for the Queen, who has made public denouncing of the Queen, who had claimed the Queen to be a Liability. Only one person whose Anatole’s spies had strong evidence against, with a certain crossbow that matched the arrow. More than that, one person who had the power to aim correctly at such a distance.

He told Lucerys he’d find him not a responsible, but the responsible, but he didn’t do this for Lucerys. He did it for Valerius, for Ilya, for himself, for Astaeria.

When the snake kills the prey, the prey is revealed to be Aaraushi, the Red Priestess of Myr. 

                         _____________________________________

“Aaraushi,” Anatole says, standing to the left of King Lucerys. “You’re arrested under the charge of treason, for the assassination of Queen Astaeria Sweetstar, of Houses Stark and Targaryen.”

He’s never seen the Red Priestess like this, wild eyes, circled. She still looks defiant, but she also looks afraid. “A traitor, accusing me of treason! You can’t believe him Lucerys, he betrayed you,” Aaraushi says.

Anatole only snorts.

"So did you when you killed her. Do you deny it?” Lucerys asks, his anger pouring in his words. “Do you deny it?”

She does not.

[el-michoacano]

I was going through my folder of Errol art, and this is still very much one of my favorites! It captures her true essence! 😍🧡

Art by @serpxntium! 🧡

[hydrangeadreamer]

@plaguedcount // @3rrol

Happy B-Day to an amazing apprentice~

[julian-thirstposting]

This is my apprentice, Errol Pyralis: The fiery apprentice who values her freedom above all else. Her magic is based around fire and light casting, and the many uses of crystals. She’s also quite the artist, and has several sketchbooks filled with drawings of Asra and Faust, and one that was burned with her body at the Lazaret, which contained rather graphic illustrations of the effects of the Red Plague.

Errol herself is the stubborn, fiery sort. She hates being told what to do, and has a very strong sense of justice, though she can be quite selfish at times. She has a habit of doing the right thing for the wrong reason.

She’s very superstitious, carrying a little baggie of salt and crystals at her hip and wearing a golden bell around her neck. Errol is terrified of the dark, and as a result, sought to learn fire and light magic, in addition to the crystal healing her aunt taught her. She’s quite gifted, but also rather reckless, and the hems of most of her clothes are stained with soot or singed or both.

i love her. and i love her clothes. and also…. 

THICC THIGHS NO GUYS 

- mod handy (and their sister) 

ask us anything; Fridays at the Rowdy Raven

[mc-apprenticedirectory]

Errol Pyralis: The fiery apprentice who values her freedom above all else. ♐

Zodiac sign: Sagittarius. Favorite food: Venison. Favorite drink: Cinnamon tea. Favorite flower: Red spider lily. Familiar: Apollo, a ginger stoat with a cute face and a fearsome war dance. Sexual orientation: Pansexual. MBTI type: ENFP. Magic: Fire and light casting, and the many uses of crystals. Additional skills: Drawing. She has several sketchbooks filled with drawings of Asra and Faust, and one that was burned with her body at the Lazaret, which contained rather graphic illustrations of the effects of the Red Plague.

General:

Errol herself is the stubborn, fiery sort. She hates being told what to do, and has a very strong sense of justice, though she can be quite selfish at times. She has a habit of doing the right thing for the wrong reason.

She’s very superstitious, carrying a little baggie of salt and crystals at her hip and wearing a golden bell around her neck. She wears a quartz ring on her right hand to help recover her lost memories, but it hasn’t done much but give her headaches.

She speaks very frankly, more concerned with efficiency than with politeness. This has ended up causing her a great deal of trouble, and a time or two, embarrassment, as she often puts her feelings out in words before she can admit them to herself.

Errol is terrified of the dark, and as a result, sought to learn fire and light magic, in addition to the crystal healing her mother taught her. She’s quite gifted, but also rather reckless, and the hems of most of her clothes are stained with soot or singed or both.

I do a bit of roleplaying for her @3rrol!

[apprenticeofcups]

Some Apprentices as Literary Quotes 🖋

can’t draw, want to shout-out some of my favorite MCs, so here we are

Laurel - @i-am-arcana-trash

“Nothing is so strong as gentleness, and nothing is so gentle as true strength.” - Ralph W. Sockman

Grace - @apprentice-grace

“I’m very sane about how crazy I am.” - Carrie Fisher

Daya Firestone - @lesbianarcana

“I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’” - Kurt Vonnegut, Jr

Dion - @izzycle

“Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.” - Iain Thomas

Errol Pyralis - @3rrol / @plaguedcount

“I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good intellects.” - Oscar Wilde

Canis De Mila - @canistheapprentice

“Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius, and it’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.” - Marilyn Monroe

Alejandra - @collective-laugh

“Do what you feel in your heart to be right - for you'll be criticized anyway. You'll be damned if you do, and damned if you don't.” - Eleanor Roosevelt

Verbena Morningstar - @azurenika

“Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell.” - Joan Crawford

Taliesin - @aarcanefool

“Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.” - George Bernard Shaw

Zayn - @fernleavesillustrator

“Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new.” - Albert Einstein

[el-michoacano]

💖!! Ah, thank you! 💖💖💖!!

Flirty lady has me beat 💕💕

@3rrol

[vampiresuns]

The Red Priestess

The last conversation between @plaguedcount​‘s Aarushi and Anatole, for @starryskylullaby’s ASOIAF au.

(I’ve decided to cut the emotional/introspective part of the aftermath of Astaeria’s death in chunks, due to length).

His morning is a little different today. He writes a letter to his mother, something he hasn’t done in far too long, telling her he is well, alive, and not wanted for treason any more: back at the job, as it should be. He can’t bear telling her anything more substantial, though she knows she has too many questions for him, and he doesn’t blame her — specially not with the rumours that have been getting around.

His job never ends.

He wasn’t planning on writing to her, yet explaining Aerion what death was, was probably one of the worst things all of them ever had to do. He’s too young, a mere infant, a defenceless toddler who missed his father and who will lead a life missing his mother as well — and the whole thing makes him think of his own mother, sitting in Highgarden, expecting her son to die. Seeing her boy thread into waters she cannot follow, with the things he’s done. They’re not things he can explain to her.

He’s wearing black too, that also makes this morning different. If he’s honest, all previous mourning he’s had to carry he’s taken as an opportunity so dress in new and interesting ways, and while his all black outfits are certainly not plain, this mourning is different. It has him lost, chasing nothing in a labyrinth he does not know how to navigate, asking questions only to never find the answers.

He hates not knowing things, he hates loose ends and unanswered enquiries; he knows very well there is only one person who can answer his questions right now, but he’s been avoiding her. However, today she dies, so it’s his last chance, and he’s not going to waste it.

He bids good morning to the guards by name (he knows the name of every person who works in the Red Keep) and they let him through, for which he thanks them, in hopes to delay facing her a little more, even if he knows he’s useless.

Right, duty. That pestering little bugger called duty.

Aarushi’s watching the sea out of a very tiny window in her cell when he comes in. He clears his throat, announcing his presence, but she doesn’t turn around. Frankly, he does not mind, he’s not the kind of man who needs people to pay attention to how important his words are, and he didn’t come here to antagonise himself with her. Or well, antagonise himself more than he already is. He did accuse her after all.

She’s not chained or handcuffed, she’s just sitting and watching the sea. He wonders what he would do were he in her place. Watching the sea seems like an option, clearly, he loves the sea, even if he has never gotten to spend much time near it — hearing it while he worked was often consolation enough for him. Still, he doesn’t think he’d be as compliant as Aara has been. Sure, she’s defiant as ever, even her posture is now, and he admires it, her fighting spirit, but her compliance is one of the many mysteries remaining unanswered.

The only thing he fears is getting the answers, and still finding this whole ordeal incomprehensible.

“Have you been treated well?”

“Is that kindness, Milord?”

“Why don’t you call me by my name, and then maybe you’ll get an honest answer out of me.”

When she finally turns to her, she’s got a challenging smile on her face which does not reach her eyes, still she manages to look proud, unrepentant; while Anatole has never particularly liked her (he does not like people he can’t trust very much) he has always respected her.

“I didn’t know you were capable of those.”

“Why don’t you find out?” Anatole replies with a smirk of his own. Silence falls between them as they stare each other out from their opposite corners of Aara’s cell. While does let her stare him down, he doesn’t let anyone do that, but still, he sighs, and asks: “Can I sit next to you? I have no desire to fight with you, I just wanted to talk.”

For once, he half-surrenders. He puts his arms down: he meets her as plainly and as simple as possible.

“What do you want to talk about, Spymaster?”

He takes a moment or two putting his words together, clicking his tongue as he sits closer to her, but still at a safe distance. “I assume you are well aware I have been observing you for years, ever since you first arrived I’ve devoted a slice of my network to you. Do not flatter yourself thinking it was a bigger than the rest portion of it, but still.”

“I wouldn’t, you do your job well, you have always done that.”

“There’s no need to flatter me, Aarushi.”

“I’m not.”

“Still, there’s no need for it, I also assume you deeply resent me.”

It’s Aarushi’s turn to be quiet for a little while before she speaks: “I do. I do not understand why would you choose her over him,” if she sounds a little choked, she does not comment on it, keeping her facade. Anatole doesn’t either. “But I do respect you. You treated me with kindness, when I was with child, and you were honest to the King... most of the time.”

“In that case, thank you for your compliment. You were always quite a smart one... and insightful too. What was that thing you said once? That in the game of thrones you either win, or you die? That was quite right, very eloquent... yet you played, and you didn’t win, and you shall die, just like you said you would when you arrived to King’s Landing.”

“Why are you here?”

“I just want to know why.”

Aara is silent, so Anatole keeps talking. “I know it was not jealousy. I’m sure you were jealous of Astaeria, but your not that much of a simpleton. Hatred, I’m sure you hated her— I’m not here to antagonise myself to you even more... I truly just want to know why.”

“Love,” she replies at last, right when Anatole thought she wouldn’t speak again and he should better leave. “I did it because love is the dead of duty, and she made him weak.”

“Have you thought about how, perhaps, the kind of King you wanted Lucerys to be is not the kind of King Westeros needs? And the kind of King she would’ve made him was?”

“I’ve heard myself you didn’t like him as a King, and that you told him as much.”

Anatole laughs. “No, no I did not think he was a very fit to be King. Lucerys did not wish to be it, and he was not fit for it either. Statesmanship requires... dedication.”

“You’re very dedicated to it.”

“I am.”

Aarushi snorts, looks outside again, and then turns to him. “So that is your God, then, Spymaster: your own competence... tell me then, when you pray to it, what do you pray for?”

He squints at her, studying her. It’s not a malicious comment, she’s bantering with him; it takes him somewhat by surprise, but he doesn’t show it, he only smirks as he ponders what answer to give her, though he does not know why he ponders: Anatole already knows the only answer that suffices is the truth.

He’s never told anyone his true feelings in this regard. Not even to Valerius.

“When I first came here I wanted to see how far I could go. I am not a greedy man like Lord Tyrik, I care little for material goods, even less about money. I care about power—“

“You wanted to be King,” Aarushi states, sounding more baffled than she probably intended to sound.

“I suppose I could’ve been the King. Anyone can be a King, and I’m not anyone. Still, no, the crown is too constrictive, and not necessarily what rules Westeros. More than anything else I wanted glory... I wanted to open the seas with my own palms and be as unavoidable as death itself. Not the King, but the game player: win the game of thrones without wearing the crown, so when I went down into the history books, other people would say ‘behold, that was a great man’. If the Tyrell motto is ‘Growing Strong’, then I wanted to be the strongest.”

“And now? I sense there’s a but there.”

“There is,” Anatole laughs ruefully. “If this is what glory demands, then I am not so sure I want it any more. See, you had your Lucerys, he might have not been the truest lover, but you had him. I have no one, not any more.”

“So that is why you followed her... for love.”

“It was not the same love as your love, however.”

“I know,” Aara says, placing one of her scarred hands on his forearm. He lets her. “Platonic love, friendship is still love.”

“I have only ever held the interests of the Crown before my own,” he says, and he knows he’s contradicting himself a little, but he has to say this, he has to remind himself. “I was where the Crown needed me, and the plan was never to defeat Lucerys, but see him see reason.”

Before the Red Priestess can say anything else, Anatole stands up, straightening his clothes, and bows his head slightly to her. “Thank you for your honesty, I must admit this is the only time I have ever had any pleasure talking to you.”

“A pity,” Aara says, a puckish little smile on her lips which looks out of place for her circumstances. “You were always very entertaining to hear speak.”

“Perhaps in another lifetime.”

“Perhaps— but Spymaster, before you go: have you never been curious if the fire ever told me anything about you?”

He pauses, and smiles. “Honestly? No.”

Aarushi smiles too, and she says her last words to him: “Good bye, Aelius Anatole, of House Tyrell.”

“Good bye, Aarushi.”