#everards ride

[jelotinousblog]

Just discovered that my secondhand copy of Everard's Ride is signed 😻 Now I can say I have an autograph from my all time favorite author!

[deborahocarroll]

March Magics 2023

I love March. It’s the beginning of spring . . . it’s my birthday month . . . and for the last several years it’s been March Magics, a celebration of the works of Diana Wynne Jones and Terry Pratchett. DWJ being one of my top-favorite authors (alongside J.R.R. Tolkien), of course this brings me great joy, and I enjoy indulging in a Pratchett from time to time as well. So March has long been a…

[penny-anna]

Guess what my library had!

hot damn!! is that Everard's Ride? if so i think that's the rarer of the 2 collections its in so good find!

the title story and 'dragon reserve, home 8' are both highlights!

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Promises Three: Subtle Dreaming

Dark!Morpheus x (female)reader, fantasy/medieval AU, 18+

Master List

Dream of the Endless had been promised a bride.

Chapter track: Rainbow - The Temple of the King - Algal the Bard

It has been... a rough couple weeks. But I'm back! Hope you enjoy! Your comments and questions mean the world! Special thanks to all you lovely rebloggers! I'm still trying to figure out how to respond without essentially reposting half a dozen times, but I see you, you make my week!

Subtle Dreaming

A knock on the door disturbed her work. It was an hour past midnight, when all but the youngest servants and ardent lovers had retired to their beds with heads full of dreams, a time a wandering mice and cat’s work.

But she wasn’t surprised, even less when she opened the door of her windowless chamber to find a young lady in her nightdress, wrapped in a shawl with wary hope in her eyes and a candle in her hand. Alis Everard. The youngest of a large family, and the only child still unmarried – and a child she was, barely thirteen, and of all the reasons the bard hated the king of Meiren, summoning such young suitors for his Endless guest might be the greatest. Her face hadn’t quite lost childhood’s rounded cheeks, and the seams on her nightgown had recently been let out after a growth spurt.

“I see your father is impatient,” the bard said. Wrapped in her own shawl over her own nightgown, she felt more than ever the noble’s equal. After such a long life, she understood better than most how little rank protected one from life and how much a peasant’s child was like a queen’s. She was the girl’s elder by far, but she’d been young once, and what youth didn’t go sneaking down corridors in the dark during their first trip to court?

“He bid me seek your counsel. May I come in?”

Stepping back, she ushered the girl into her sparse little room. “Of course.”

Once the girl was through, she moved to close the door, but a slippered foot darted through the gap to block it. “Not so quicky!”

The foot neatly kicked the door back open as the bard released it, and a young woman – who was, at least, properly a woman – swept by in a dressing gown of satin and a riot of chestnut curls. “I enjoy midnight jaunts, but not being spied on one.”

The bard did her very best not to smile, but failed entirely. She knew this late guest as well. Eilwyn Alder. The third generation in her family the bard had befriended, and she sat next to little Alis on the bed with the casual grace of someone entitled to it.

“My grandmother sent me for your thoughts, though I’m sure she’ll collect them for herself tomorrow. But I am a dutiful granddaughter, so here I am.” She blinked doe eyes as the door finally fell shut, poised and perfect coquettish grace. “So, what news? Or will I lose my beauty sleep for nothing?”

Pulling out a stool from beneath her tiny desk, the bard said, “I haven’t spent an hour in his presence, and I’ve had a long ride, so forgive me if I haven’t yet taken the full measure of the king’s guest and his schemes.”

Alis wriggled on the bed, twisting her hands up in her shawl. Her eyes bounced between shadows, looking for threats like the Dream Lord’s nightmares might crawl out of the walls to exact vengeance for some imagined slight. Not that they couldn’t, but the bard assumed Lord Morpheus had better things to do with his time than torment one overwrought teenager who didn’t want to marry him.

“What if he eats his bride on the wedding night? Like the Lindworm?”

Eilwyn scoffed, and the bard donned a gentle smile, even if she couldn’t keep the laugher from her voice.

“He’s Endless, not a dragon.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means you’d be better off with a dragon.”

The child curled into the corner of the bed, sinking into the blankets with her shawl swallowing the lower half of her face. Looking for comfort where her companions’ mirth had failed. The bard reached over to pat her knee, taking the opportunity to change the subject. “Honestly dragons aren’t so bad. One of my patrons is a dragon, you know. I was attending my yearly visit to his lair when your great, worried, noble parents called for me.”

A whisper of a promised story lured Alis’s eyes away from visions of doom. She glanced at Eilwyn, like she’d confirm the tale. The older girl gladly took up the role of expert.

“Everyone knows that,” she sniffed.

“Is it…” Alis mulled over the idea, confusing herself with her own bevy of questions. “Is it a… nice dragon?”

“These days he is. But he wasn’t always.”

The hook snared Alis’s attention, and her posture softened, though she didn’t leave the corner of the little bed. In fact, she made herself more comfortable, settling like a kitten, and a stab of rage that anyone thought this little girl ought to be considered as a wife seared through the gathering strands of the bard’s story.

She took a blanket and settled it over the child as she began to speak, shielding her from a king’s machinations, a world too big for little hands, and prying eyes.

.O.O.O.

Dream of the Endless retired to the chambers the King set aside for his use, though he had little use for them at all. He would not sleep. He had no intention of entertaining in the parlor, or writing missives at the richly appointed desk. There was no book on the shelves he did not already possess, and he left the food prepared for him to grow cold and stale on the table.

He did sip the wine, and in the darkest hours he found his amusement in wandered the sleeping minds of the castle. Boredom drove him. Cruelty, even. Vengeance called for the king to atone for his wounded pride, and the decade since the human’s error only gave Dream time to image new and wondrous torments. He wanted to watch the king’s schemes crumble in the dread nightmares prowling the would-be suitors’ dreams. He enjoyed the seeds of hate planted in parents’ hearts, the doubt in subjects who’d been nothing but loyal until this gathering.

The king’s story would be a horror, a kind of tragedy that left wounds in his lands and subjects the turn of generations would not heal. These seven days would be the fuse, a prologue to terror and loss. A lesson none would soon forget, lest they bring such punishment on their own loves.

He drifted, savoring the fears he would shape to his own ends. Until words snared his attention. A half-heard tale of a dragon spinning through recent memories of a soft touch and a smile in the face of inescapable dread.

He found a young mind loosely tethered to the Dreaming, caught in the tides running between the conscious and subconscious, where words and images of the Waking cast strange reflections in the fading thoughts before sleep. She led him to a plain, simple room deep in the castle. A place for high-ranking members of staff, perhaps. Utilitarian and uninspiring. Not a place this noble child belonged. But she was not alone, and as she dozed, Dream borrowed her senses.

Voices. One he recognized. The bard the king so detested. He knew her as he knew all dreamers, and he sensed his sister’s touch upon her.

She spoke of him.

“He’s the Prince of Stories. A bride market is beneath him. This is how political unions for picky lords looking for pretty faces are arranged, not how one of the most powerful creatures to ever live seeks a partner,” the bard said.

She was not wrong, of course. The story weaver spied the loose strings in the tale, the ragged ends that did not match, though she had yet to understand the pattern he wove.

“Whatever he wants, it isn’t love or a warm body in his bed. There’s something else. I just have to figure out if that something is a danger to any of you.”

So, loyalty did grow in the king’s court. Just not to the monarch. Dream felt the peace the bard’s presence brought the dreamer half-snared in her sleep. A quiet, sure thing. The confidence children had in oak trees their parents and grandparents climbed when they were young.

The other voice in the room did not speak as a child. This one was old enough for caution, and it worried for the old oak as well as those who sheltered beneath.

“To us, I should think.”

Did the bard not fear him? Had she stood outside as the storyteller for so long she’d forgotten she could be part of them as well?

“Whatever happens, dear, I’ll survive it.” Her only worry was for those she perceived as in her care. The children of children she’d watched grow. A touch carried through the dreamer’s skin and into their subconscious, a kind voice leading her back to the Waking. “It isn’t time to sleep yet. You must return to your room…”

The fragile link collapsed, and the bridge between the servants’ quarters and the noble guest room dissolved.

Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, sat in his darkened chambers in the court of a damned king, and thought as he sipped from his wine that he would enjoy seeing the bard at work. He must amuse himself for seven days, after all, until the time of the agreement ran out, and she was a surprising creature.

The most surprising he’d seen in some time.

[hannahhook7744]

Disney Descendants: Dragonet hc if you have any ? i'm assuming he and Artie are pretty close !

Dragonet is the youngest child of Merlin and the Lady of the Lake.

He has one older sister named 'Stephanie'.

He grows up to be Artie's royal court jester and a knight but right now he's just Artie's manservant.

His full name is Dragonet William Ambrosius.

He is a year younger than Artie, who is his best friend.

He usually wears brown linen pants, muddy black boots, and an oversized, maroon ubiquitous tunic. As well as a black belt with a clip on holster and pouch.

His weapon of choice is a small, maroon handled dagger that Artie gave him.

Modern technology fascinates him as well but he has a better understanding of it than Artie.

He, like his dad, has magic.

Dragonet is known for being a honorable, loyal jester and honorary knight, as well as being a funny smart ass.

His titles include: The Spawn of the Lady of the Lake, The Only Son of Emrys, Dragonet the Jester, Daguenet the Fool, Daguenet the Coward,  Danguenes the Craven of Carlion, and Royal Jester of Camelot.

He attends Merlin Academy (which is embarrassing considering who his dad is).

His dad has his and his sister's baby pictures plastered all over his office.

He has several nicknames including but not limited to: Dra, Drag, Drago, Dragon, Draggie, Gonet, Nettie, and Net.

Quote of his: "Thou may wear riches like a king, but me thinks that thou is nothing more than a cumberworld churl."

He wants to be a knight or advisor when he grows up.

He's scared of being persecuted because of his magic, being used, disappearing like his sister, having a destiny, fire, and having to kill someone.

His dislikes include: his father being made fun of, himself being made of, people joking about his sister's disappearance, fire, his friends in danger, his family in danger, either of them suffering, being cursed, assassination attempts, destiny, his pranks being halted, people going through his things, and apple cider.

His likes include: juggling, telling jokes, his friends staying out of trouble, reading, climbing trees, learning spells, riding horses, helping people, feeding strays, swimming, pulling pranks, doing magic tricks, horseback riding, and writing comedic poems and plays.

He has a love Interest named Thitis, who's one of nine sisters and witches.

Dragonet will probably die for one of his friends (probably Artie).

He has kind of a 'one track mind'.

He feels guilty for his older sister's disappearance.

Dragonet hates winter.

His favorite animal is dragons and cows.

Dragonet's favorite thing to drink is Goat's milk mixed with meshed up strawberries.

His favorite food is strawberries.

His favorite color is Maroon.

His theme song is "Run Boy Run".

He has a pet cow named Moonamer.

His friends list includes but is not limited to:  Helior, Artie, Everard, Menw, Tom Thumb, Penpingion, Taliesin, Cerdan Jr., Mabon, Gingalain,  Galeholt , etc.

[winters-mistress]

Cirilla's broken heart.

It's Geralt of all people who breaks the silence between them. Ironic, really, that the man of so few words finds them when nobody else can. After all this time, after everything that happened, it falls to him to speak, to comfort, do to something, when nobody else knows how.

Everard! Gwain! Wake up!

His daughter and his brothers had told him she had yelled, throwing the witch's blade as the two witchers shoot up in their beds. His girl, his strong, beautiful, brave girl, had had a few precious moments of lucidity in the midst of her docility, and with it, she had saved them, imprisoning the demon in her mind.

The time between Yennefer's betrayal and the hard, frantic ride to Kaer Morhen do not make sense to the witcher. From the moment he holds his sword to her throat to that where he pushes her off him as he seeks out his girl, time doesn't add up. That's why he's tried so hard to fill in the blanks, why he asked the two of them, and his father, what had occurred in their perspective. They could handle it, they were strong, and his daughter had made sure they had survived the battle, but coming to his daughter to ask what had happened to her was something he wanted to avoid for as long as possible. The last thing Geralt ever wants to do is hurt Ciri.

"Asking how you are is a stupid question," Geralt begins. He hears his daughter inhale, but he cannot see her, she's facing away from him. "so, what are you feeling?" He thinks that's the best way to go, honesty and bluntness.

Everard had told him the ivory-hilted blade had sat in the wall with a satisfying clunk as Ciri had yelled at them to get back, get to Vesemir, get help, before the demon had taken her again, her face falling slack before falling sly, emerald eyes glowing a horrific shade of neon.

His girl, his brave girl, had fought the demon, and she had won, but it had came at a cost. She's only just recovered enough strength from her fainting and vomiting spells she'd had once they returned from the mysterious sphere. She's not strong enough to walk the keep, so she doesn't know about the destruction and the bodies of the basilisks. Geralt hopes they can rid the bodies and scrub the blood and fix the tree and the walls and the tables before his girl is well enough to start her training again. The last thing she needs is more pain.

"I-" Ciri's voice is tired and soft, it doesn't speak of thirst or gritty like she'd swallowed sandpaper. Geralt had heard her speak in many ways, loud and relieved when they'd met in the forest, monotone and untrustworthy before Nivillen, tearful and shaky once they'd left, strong and stubborn when they would train and spar, angry and bitter when Geralt had denied her the mutations. But never like this, defeated and exhausted, it chills him. "I don't know," she pauses, pushing a lock of hair from her face. It's undone and falls in curls and waves, she hardly ever wears it down, it makes her look younger and more like the Princess she is, especially with the clean white linen tunic she wears. "I don't know what to feel, what to say." Now, Cirilla turns towards him, her legs folding up behind her.

"I understand." But he really doesn't, he doesn't understand it all. He so wants to, he wants to take that pain he sees in his daughter's eyes, he wants to hold her against his chest the same way he felt when they reunited in Cintra. Will she smile if he gives her a few of her favourite strawberry jam cookies? Or will a blade do it? Will she allow him to come closer, hold her and protect her from a world that hunts her for reasons neither of them understand?

By the time Vesemir had came to Everard's room, Ciri -was she still? Or would it be more accurate to call her Voleth?- had gone. She was on her way to the medallion tree by then. Was he there then? Going up the mountain, coming into the courtyard?

Trapped within her own mind, Geralt doesn't know what she was forced to see, and it startles him. No, it scares him. His daughter is so strong, so brave, whatever that demon had forced into her mind had hit below the belt. Ciri had survived the Cintran slaughter and weeks on the run, her night with the beast and the vampire, months with unruly witchers and the betrayal of Yennefer, she had survived it, and had never reacted as such.

"How many?" She looks up at him, eyes tired, but set, as if she's resigned herself to a horrible fate.

"What?" He frowns.

"How many did I kill?"

Ah. He supposes she wouldn't know what she did after the last monster was taken down by Coën.

He knows what it is to be resigned here. Just days ago, Geralt had walked cautiously around the keep, thinking that this next turn would be the one where he would find his girl on the ground, used and eliminated due to the demon's influence. Maybe Yennefer would have gotten to her again, lead her by the hand to her death in exchange for chaos.

Geralt's fist clenches. He's so furious with Yennefer. How dare she. How dare she do that to him? To them?

The battle had begun after Voleth had refused his offer of himself as a sacrifice to save his child. Witchers crowded around her, swords at the ready, after Jaskier had ran inside the room and told them about what Yennefer had done, about how her deal with the demon had lead to Ciri being possessed, and of how the girl clearly didn't want to do them any harm, with how she had broken out of her trance and yelled to alert the witchers of the danger.

Thankfully, all the swords were pointed at Voleth, and not Cirilla. He didn't know what he would have done if Ciri hadn't saved his brothers, and the vengeance had been turned upon her instead.

Ciri had had moments of lucidity, where she had managed to push the demon to the back of her mind, enough to ask him to help her, to warn a brother of an incoming attack, or a weakness in the basilisk, but he didn't know what the girl had been through in the moments where her body was not her own. When she herself had been locked inside her own mind like a bluebird in a golden cage, he had been too busy trying to figure out a way to free his girl.

He cringes as he steps forward, watching her neck as she moves her hair. He remembered the sick crunch when she had been forced into submission, when it looked like a black, shadowy hand had grabbed her hair and forced her back. Vesemir and Gwain had heard too, for they took a moment to stop fighting their shared monster to see the source of the noise, before coming back to reality.

"None." Geralt comes back to earth, realising that she was still waiting for an answer, loathe to leave her waiting for words like he had in those first couple weeks on the winter road. "Do you not remember what happened, after Yennefer?"

"No." she whispers, fiddling with her fingers, looking down in shame. "I don't remember much from being on the road until I fell into you." Ciri pauses, licking her lips, looking up. She meets his eyes, and she looks tired. "I only remember parts of the fighting."

"Would you like to know?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well, after Yennefer came into the room, she tried to give you a potion, clear the demon from you that way. All the monsters were dead by then, my brothers all coming over to see what she was doing."

"And?"

"It didn't work, clearly." Geralt walks towards her, and takes her weight as he sits beside her, his girl leaning upon his shoulder. He holds her steady, holds her strong, he will be strong so she can be weak, so she can be vulnerable and upset and frightened. Lord knows she must not have had the chance much since the slaughter. "Then she had an idea, cut her wrist and let the demon come to her instead, leave you alone."

"And that didn't work as well."

"No. It was a foolish plan. All that happened was that she fainted from blood loss quite quickly after."

Ciri chuckled humourlessly. "Sorceresses are always self centered like that."

"Indeed. I don't know what you said, what you did, but you whispered something, and then there was a loud noise. Horrid, really, even for a witcher." He nods. "A large, black figure appeared in front of you, it was shadowy, as if it was a ghost. You looked over at the room, yiur eyes were black, like all the other witchers, and suddenly you woke them all up. Even Marek, with his lack of face-" he notes that Ciri winces as if she was struck. "And Timron, with his no legs, Roose and Lukas, you brought them all back. Even Eskel and Remus, several others, too. They just appeared out of thin air, from boots to head. You brought them back."

"What? How? They weren't there." Ciri is surprised.

"You don't tend to obey the laws of the world, sweet girl. The word impossible doesn't seem to hold weight with you."

Ciri chuckles, her eyes filling with tears. She sniffles, burying her face into his shoulder.

He holds her, calms her, runs his fingers through her knotted blonde hair.

"Thank you, little wolf," Geralt says, once she's pulled back. He's lay a hand upon her cheek, comforting her as much as he is cleaning her cheek of tears.

"For what?"

"Bringing my brothers back. Thank you."

"It seems rather undeserved, when you consider I had no idea or no control over it."

"Even still. Thank you."

Ciri closes her eyes, hiding back in his hair.

"Then what happened?"

"You looked back at the shape, and it disappeared. You fainted into my arms. We thought everything was okay when you woke up, because Yennefer was healed, too, and you were free, before all the doors and windows slammed closed. Fires burned out, the lot."

"Yeah, I remember." She settles into his shoulder. "She came back for me, and I portaled us to-" she sighs. "somewhere."

"Yeah," he shuffles. He wishes he could say something to comfort her about the wraiths, what they said to her, but he finds none. "Yennefer's fine, by the way, you healed her when you healed us."

"And her magic, is that back?"

"No." He whispers, "she still knows all her spells, but she tried to light the fires and couldn't. She was upset, but she's not the priority anymore."

"What'll happen to her?"

"I don't think I can let her go with the knowledge she has, about you and about here."

"What?" Ciri pulls back quickly. Geralt's shoulder is cold, he wishes she was still where she was. Her eyes are wide, disbelieving, bright emeralds in a sea of coal. "Are you kidding? You're letting her stay?"

"She told me she helped you make a portal in Nenneke's."

Ciri hung her head. "About what happened there-"

"Shh, it doesn't matter." Geralt soothes, bringing a hand back to her face. "She took you from me, but we are together now."

She sniffles.

"When did you speak?"

"When you were asleep, two days ago."

"And that's that, then? She's staying here?" Ciri sounds nervous.

"To be no more than a tutor to you. I don't trust her, you don't trust her, my brothers don't trust her, but she told me that she helped you with a portal, and that's more than what Triss ever did. I'm told a portal I'd complex magic, too."

"But-" she starts. "You can't-"

He frowns. "What's wrong?"

"You don't understand what happened. When she took me away, we ended up at Goldencheek's house, you remember, the wife that saved me? The husband that saved you?"

He nods.

"Geralt, the fire man-" she swallows thickly. "the fire man got them. Got them all, her, her husband, and the two boys." Cirilla reveals.

Geralt allows himself a moment of grief for four lives so needlessly wasted. For the two boys who were all in all innocent, yes, he knows one of them caused his girl a bit of bother, but children should never die in their parents' war. He grieves for a woman so kind to open her heart to Ciri for no other reason than that she wanted to. And he will grieve for a long while a man who was so generous and honourable that he qiuld save a lowly witcher and put up with his sharpness and hostility just because he felt it was the right thing to do.

"After I found them, Yennefer-" Ciri takes a calming breath, sniffling as more tears come to her eyes. "Yennefer told me they were keeping you hostage in Cintra. Hurting you. Torturing you, because of me." she reveals.

Geralt says nothing, just stares at this child. This sweet, beautiful, vulnerable child who had been betrayed by everybody in her world apart from a sweet farmyard mother and a handful of mutated witchers holed up in a crumbling castle.

By the gods, how could he be so blind? How could he have fallen for Yennefer's charms so easily that she could disarm him and illusion him into thinking she had his child's best interest at heart? Surely it was because Yennefer's one mission since he had known her was motherhood, and now she had an opportunity, she does this?

As he looks at her now, all he feels is rage for the woman. Her deception aches in his bones, the depths of it startling him. He knew she had trapped Ciri and was going to lead her by the hand to the demon, but somehow this -as small of a sin as it was in comparison to that- was worse. Yennefer had messed with Ciri's mind, told her that he was in danger because of her, manipulated her and deceived her. All for what? Nothing, in the end.

"Ciri," he starts. But he finds that he doesn't know how to finish the sentence.

It seems like he doesn't have to.

The girl sniffles and wipes her tears, a fruitless task as more simply streak her cheeks, before crawling over to him and placing herself into his lap, curling into his chest and neck. His arms bound around her, warming her and keeping her safe.

"I don't want her to be with us." she sniffles. "She betrayed us, everybody always does."

"You have me, Ciri. And my brothers and Vesemir and Jaskier, you should know that I'm not going to forget this. What she's done, to us and you. I promise, I won't forget this. And I will keep you safe from her if she tries anything."

"Where is she now?"

"Infirmary. Jaskier took her there after you healed her. Stitches."

"So, you promise not to fall to your knees to her if she flutters her lashes again?"

He chuckles. Ciri bites a grin, looking so conflicted with her red eyes and her wet cheeks.

"Promise. Me and you against the world, pup. I'll keep you safe. From monsters and men and mages alike."

Ciri smiles.

"I don't want her to be with us, but if you think it's best, then you need to play bodyguard. I won't trust her again, you do understand that?"

"Of course." He wipes her cheeks again. And thankfully, they stay dry.

Ciri cuddles into him. "Rest some more, sweet girl. When you feel up to it, you can come downstairs and meet the brothers you helped."

"As long as they're not all like Lambert." Ciri yawned. "Can't handle another arse in this place."

Geralt laughs. "You can see Remus throwing him off a snowplough if you like."

Ciri smiles. And closes her eyes.

"You'll be here when I wake up?"

"I will, little one. Rest now."

[nicht-alles-gold]

Tagged by @very-grownup to share 3 facts and I am also profoundly boring and will also not do self-deprecation I promise :( so instead I am treating it like 3 boring things on purpose

1. I only got 2 wisdom teeth (my dad had none). unfortunately for humanity I will not be passing this gene on. too bad suckers!!! you all can suffer!!!

2. I have the collector's spirit and love everything but pretty much the only "complete" thing I have is all of diana wynne jones's books. yeah even everard's ride.

3. my snake is older than my sister. this may not sound impressive because I'm not saying her age but it's pretty old.

I won't tag anyone because it's always hard to know who goes here anymore lol but if anyone wants to, do it!

[corleonewrites]

Non ducor, duco

AU: Game of Thrones (2011–2019)

main pairing: Edmure Tully x Original Female Character fanfic.

additional pairing: Jaime Lannister x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: Being forced to take the homeland under the ruling, young Lady Isolde Meverell learned how to lead, how to make decisions with cold heart and mind, how to speak for her own people and how to protect her land. She knew how to hide her emotions from everyone due to protect herself from others. "The Ice Lady" she was famously called. Without having time to take care of her own feelings, young Lady began her own prudent game of thrones, where the future of herself, her homeland and her relationships are at stake.

Chapter 1. Sic infit*

*So it begins

______________________________________________________________

From the book of The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms

Elric Meverell, first of his name, born to Lord Everard Meverell and Lady Genevieve Meverell, at Shieldville in the 247th year after Aegon's Landing. Brown of hair, grey-green of eye, fair complected. Wed to Virgilia of House Stark at the Great Sept of Sigrid in Shieldville. Died in massacre during The Red Wedding in his fifty third year.

Virgilia Meverell, first of her name, born to Lord Wolf Stark and Lady Eira Stark, at Winterfell, in the 250th year after Aegon's Landing. Dark-brown of hair, blue of eye, fair complected. Wed in her nineteenth year to Lord Elric Meverell, he of House Meverell at the Great Sept of Sigrid in Shieldville. Died in massacre during The Red Wedding in her fiftieth year.

Isolde Meverell, first of her name, born to Lord Elric Meverell and Lady Virgilia Meverell at Shieldville in the 277th year after Aegon's Landing. Grey-green of eye, brown of hair, fair complected, scar on the right cheek.

______________________________________________________________

The sun was at its zenith when my horse was on her way to The Red Keep. Four guards from the army of my House were riding their horses. My sword which was made out of valyrian steel together with bow and arrows were close to me so I could protect myself at any second if someone wanted to harm me.

“People from North are never safe in King’s Landing” my father once told me, not so long ago. I always remembered it and never forgot. I never wanted to visit King’s Landing, never wanted to be the queen there, never wanted to leave my home. And the reason for my arrival to King’s Landing was just one: to have revenge for my family.

______________________________________________________________

“I believe that it is the ideal plan if we want to have North secured with our own blood. Marriage is the one and only way that we can do this now without so that not a single drop of blood of our soldier is spilled”, Cersei looked at Jaime and Tyrion waiting for their approval of her plan. But both brothers were confused and not sure as they had their own opinion about Lady Isolde of House Meverell, despite the fact that they’ve seen her only once, many moons ago.

“Of course, I’ve heard about her looks and beauty that, my dear sister, you forgot to mention”, Jaime looked at Cersei, but she just turned her gaze away from him, “But I wasn’t planning to marry The Ice Lady, even for the sake of our land”

“You must do what is right for our family, and this is a perfect marriage alliance for Lannisters”, Cersei turned to Jaime looking irritated.

“I’ve also heard that she was betrothed to one lord…don’t remember to whom exactly”, Tyrion was trying to unsuccessfully recall the name of that lord and shook his head in protest, “This is a bad idea and I don’t agree for it”, Cersei wanted to reply something to her brother, when Jaime moved closer to his sister and asked:

“How can you know, my dear sister, that she will agree for this?” Jaime smirked, looking at the figure of a young woman on a black horse, which was slowly getting closer and closer to The Red Keep, “She’s known as The Ice Lady for a reason and you know it perfectly well”

Cersei pretended she didn’t hear her brother, when Tyrion also pointed out:

“Besides, her uncle Ned was executed and her parents were killed because of our affairs. Don’t you think that she could possibly make a revenge for destroying her family and relatives?”

“She doesn’t have allies at King’s Landing, and Shieldville is too far, her army will be late for saving their dear Lady Meverell”, Cersei smiled with the tips of her lips, glanced at the figure once again, then softly touched Jaime’s shoulder, “Go down and meet our dear noble guest.”

______________________________________________________________

The gates of The Red Keep opened and I saw the man riding towards me on his white horse. With every step our horses were riding towards each other I recognized Jaime Lannister, who was smiling at me, but, of course, I knew that it was a smile of great pretender.

“Lady Isolde, welcome to King’s Landing”, he greeted me, trying to move closer, when my guards didn’t let him do it, “I hope your brave soldiers don’t think that I can harm you, you’re arriving as our guest for the wedding of King Joffrey and Lady Margaery.”, Jaime pointed out, but I just nodded to them stay close to me.

I never liked Lannisters. I didn’t hate them in the way of how I hated Tullys, of course, I just didn’t like their attitudes towards their exclusiveness. But the Red Wedding changed everything. After what they’ve done to my family none of them could possibly live.

“They’re taking precautions, Ser Jaime”, I replied dryly, but with a small smile on my face. It was my time to pretend, “Even the wedding can turn out as bloody massacre”

The smile disappeared from Jaime’s face. I wondered if he knew that his family was responsible to the death of my family.

“Please receive my great condolences…I didn’t know your parents very well, but I’ve heard about their bravery and nobility…”

We were coming closer and closer to The Red Keep, where King Joffrey and his future Queen Lady Margaery were waiting to greet me, but there was still time for me and Jaime to have a talk. I knew that Joffrey was his son, that, probably, Cersei was planning to wed Jaime to me, as I was one of the keys to North as Shieldville situated in the middle between Winterfell and Riverrun. Just how Sansa, my cousin, was the key to Winterfell. And I knew that the marriage between Jaime and me would never happen.

“Wisdom and bravery” are the motto of my land, Ser Jaime”, I coldly looked at him, “Of course, they were noble. Only they didn’t know that they would be killed during the wedding”

“I hope that you and your guards will see that you’re safe here, Lady Isolde”, Jaime gave up trying to move closer to me and my horse when we finally arrived to the great castle of The Red Keep, where the greeting ceremony was waiting for me.

______________________________________________________________

“Lady Isolde, we are grateful that you’ve accepted the invitation to attend the wedding,”, Joffrey looked at me, when I greeted him with curtsy, “Both me and Lady Margaery are happy to have you here as a representative of the North and we believe that we remain in good senses and I would be the good king for the North as well”, he smirked and glanced at Sansa.

“My dear cousin, you’ll be free soon”, I thought to myself, looking at Sansa, who I haven’t seen for many moons since she lest Winterfell with my uncle Ned Stark and my other cousin Arya. I wondered where she was now but I believed that she’s alive, no matter what everyone else thought

“Thank you for the invitation, your Grace”, I looked at the boy again, thinking how he was so young and already a king but then I recalled that I was forced to rule my own land, Shieldville, at the age of twenty-three, “I believe that the house of Meverell can build right relationships with every noble house, which doesn’t want to harm my land”

“I’m glad to hear it, Lady Isolde”, Joffrey smiled again, but then Lady Margaery Tyrell whom I knew from the talks of others and never saw in real life before said ot me: “We hope that you’ll enjoy your stay at King’s Landing and the wedding ceremony. Our servants will guide you to your room”

“Lady Margaery, can I say hello to my dear cousin, Lady Sansa first?”, I looked at Sansa again, when she looked at me with hope and a little fear. What did these people do to her I wondered. I hugged her tight and didn’t want to release: I recalled my uncle Ned, my parents. All of them were gone and both Sansa and I knew and understood each other’s endless grief with which we had to live for the rest of our lives.

“Thank you”, she whispered to my ear. I hugged her once again and then I was ready to leave the Great Hall to my chamber, glancing at Joffrey, then to Cersei, Tyrion and Jaime. My glance froze on Jaime, who was looking directly at me, as if he was trying to read my emotions. He would never know them. I was called The Iron Lady for a great reason and I always knew it.

______________________________________________________________

It was a very quiet and very warm night, I never got used to such warm nights, we didn’t have such hot nights at Shieldville even though we always had warm summers. I was combing my hair with a brush when I heard the wings of an owl, approaching the balcony: my polar owl, Amela, a gift from my uncle Ned, arrived with a note attached to her leg:

“We should meet at the gardens of The Red Keep in the morning. I have been waiting for your arrival.” It was signed with a rose – a symbol of House Tyrell.

I stroked Amela’s soft feathers and quickly burned the note in the remains of the fire in the fireplace. No one must see this note, none should know about its existence and about the meeting. No one except for me and Lady Olenna Tyrell.

The candles were finally extinguished and I put my head on a soft pillow, turning my head towards the sofa where I put my sword and bow with arrows. I sighed and closed my eyes. Let my revenge begin.

______________________________________________________________

Non ducor, duco masterlist

[oh-saints]

Can you write for Ben White? I know it's like a lot to ask since he's not that much of a popular demand around here but since you're an Arsenal fan and all..

of course, nonny! i hope this satisfies you!

safe

with ben’s consistent business trip, he just wants you to be safe while he’s away.

ben white x you

word count:

tw: mention of sarah everard’s case

note: happy valentine’s day, lovelies! <3 taking a little break from the plentiful of rúben’s request. but as usual, i happen to write at dawn so this is yet to be proof-read.

“have a safe trip, honey.”

and as soon as ben ties up his shoelace, he walks back to the woman he loves, the axis to his presence, the epicentrum to his life. he pecks you one last time before snuggling his way to your neck, burying himself in your smell once more before Qatar deprives him of you.

“please take care of yourself, too.”

ben’s laugh is muffled by his hoodie you always wear whenever he goes for away matches, and the combination of his hoodie and your shampoo dizzies ben in the head because he knows he misses you already, despite still having you in his arms.

“please take care of yourself, too, my love,” he mumbles, before his nose makes his way towards the side of your neck, the back of your ears, and he feels you trembling at his slightest touch. oh how much he’s going to miss that… “but i really need to go.”

you laugh at his words because wasn’t it him that comes back crawling to you just seconds ago?

“and i need you to promise me something.”

ben isn’t a stranger to the word promise, he’d promised you so many things as long as he’s capable of. but this time, his sentence startles you, for he asks you to do something for him. it’s nearly unheard of in your relationship with ben.

“what is it?”

“i want you to use my car everywhere you go.”

now you’re stunned. because it certainly is a big favour to ask, coming from him. because he knows you’re not into this whole concept of driving—you proclaim you’re the worst driver in London and that supposedly says a lot, for you can’t save your patience for the crazy cyclists and those cowboy drivers.

“why?”

“i want you to be safe.”

“but the tube’s sa—”

“no, not that. i’m actually not worried about you riding the tube or buses or else,” ben says, and while doing so he stares you down. he means business, you realise. he only shows that face twice; a) when he’s playing on the field and someone tries to bring him down, b) once when you were harassed in the club. “i’m more worried at the fact you have to walk from the station or bus stop to here. somebody could’ve done unimaginable things to you while walking and i’d be fucked if something happens to you just because i can’t prevent it from happening.”

the reality dawns on you at that moment.

days ago, when you and ben stumbles upon the news of a woman reported lost and found killed at the hands of the police who couldn’t take a no for life, ben couldn’t believe his eyes. he had to ask you the question of which the answer he dreaded for—“have you been in that position? where a man can’t take your no?” “what do you think i carry those pepper spray for?”—and now it seems like the news have been bugging his consciousness.

he just wants you to be safe when you go somewhere and when you come back home. no one in this world deserves that kind of feeling when you’re scared of what happens when you say yes but more frightened at the thought of what might happen if you say no.

“i can’t let anything happen to you,” ben shakes his head at his own intrusive thoughts. “and i won’t. not when i’m still breathing.”

ben white surely loves his cars but he definitely and absolutely loves you more.

[handeaux]

For Poetry Month, We Salute 18 Renowned Cincinnati Poets From Days Gone By

Each April, the Academy of American Poets sponsors National Poetry Month. In recognition of Cincinnati’s extensive contributions to that genre, here is a collection of local poets who achieved distinction. If living poets were included, this list could easily triple in length.

A Careless Poet Soon Forgotten Among the earliest poets writing in Cincinnati was Charles A. Jones (1815-1851). He built a career publishing verse narratives about the Indians and outlaws of the western country. Between the years 1836 and 1839 he wrote frequently for the Cincinnati Mirror, and in 1840 contributed several poems to the Cincinnati Message, but paltry payments for these efforts led him to take up the law as his main career. A critic, William Turner Coggeshall, writing in 1860, admired Jones’ imagination and energy, but deplored his slapdash compositional habits and his aversion to revision: “The hasty production of an hour was sent to the press with all its sins upon its head.”

His Poem No Longer Memorized, Even The Plaque Is Gone Generations of American schoolchildren were compelled to read and memorize a Civil War poem by Thomas Buchanan Read (1822-1872) titled “Sheridan’s Ride.” The poem celebrated General Philip Sheridan’s rallying his soldiers to victory at the 1864 Battle of Cedar Creek in Virginia. It was so popular that newspapers often parodied it to skewer other topics. For many years, a plaque was mounted on the wall opposite the Public Library on Eighth Street commemorating the address at which Read wrote the famous poem. Read was popular and prolific; his poetry was collected in 1867 in a set of three volumes. In addition to poetry, Read was an accomplished painter. Several of his works, notably “The Harp of Erin” are displayed at the Cincinnati Art Museum.

Lawyer By Trade, Hero By Aspiration Although William Haines Lytle (1826-1863) studied law, he preferred the life of a soldier and composed poetry to celebrate his own heroic exploits. Lytle came from an honored line of military heroes. He fought in the Mexican War as a captain and achieved the rank of brigadier general during the Civil War. His verses were popular on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. When a sniper’s bullet found him at Chickamauga in 1863, the rebel soldiers recognized Lytle and posted a guard around his body until it could be sent back to Cincinnati. As they stood watch, the Confederates quietly recited Lytle’s poems. Lytle Park in Cincinnati was his family’s estate.

An Inveterate Revisionist Coates Kinney (1826-1904) was not a Cincinnati native, but he relocated to the Queen City at an early age. Kinney served in the Union Army during the Civil War and in the Ohio General Assembly afterwards while also practicing law and working as a journalist. He was just 23 when he wrote his most famous poem, “Rain on the Roof,” which was reprinted, collected, set to music, pirated, misattributed and celebrated throughout his life. Much of the confusion derived from Kinney’s incessant tinkering with the poem. Over his lifetime, he declared at least three different versions to be definitive.

The Piatts Helped Save Harrison’s Tomb Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt (1836-1919) and John James Piatt (1835-1917) were Cincinnati’s answer to England’s Brownings (Robert and Elizabeth Barrett). A married couple, each earned a reputation as a poet. James Piatt was a scion of the wealthy Piatt family, though he never had much money himself. Sarah, known as Sallie, was related to orator and politician William Jennings Bryan. The couple, who lived just outside North Bend when they weren’t posted to one of John’s political appointments in Washington or Ireland, worked to preserve the tomb of William Henry Harrison. In life, John’s reputation eclipsed his wife’s. In recent years, new critical appraisals agree that Sarah was, by far, the better and more innovative poet.

Newspapers Led Everard Appleton To Poetry Everard Jack Appleton (1872-1931) started out as a newspaperman, with stints at Cincinnati’s Tribune, Commercial Gazette and Times-Star, earning a slot as a columnist known for humorous items in verse and prose. He also contributed stories and poems to national publications. He left behind a half-dozen volumes of poetry of which the best-known is probably “The Quiet Courage.” Appleton lived on Forest Avenue in Avondale.

A National Reputation Based On Odes To Domesticity Bertye Young Williams (1877-1951) published as B.Y. Williams over a productive career that resulted in a half-dozen books of poetry and appearances in the New York Times, Ladies Home Journal, Good Housekeeping, Saturday Evening Post and other nationally distributed magazines. She founded a poetry magazine and publishing house, Talaria, with fellow poet Annette Patton Cornell. She was president of the Ohio Chapter of the League of American Pen Women and of the Cincinnati Women’s Press Club. A book she co-authored with Annette Patton Cornell, “Garland for a City,” was illustrated by Caroline Williams (no relation).

Cincinnati’s Unsung (But Prolific!) Poet, Horace Williamson Horace G. Williamson (1880-1943) was perhaps the most prolific poet in Cincinnati history. You won’t find him in English class these days, nor in any anthologies. Williamson wrote for money, not for art. In the early 1900s, Williamson built a profitable sideline writing poems for greeting card companies, sometimes ghost-writing love letters on spec. He had a lot of side hustles. While employed as social secretary of the YMCA, Williamson ran a talent agency and also performed in character as the Roman dictator Cincinnatus in quite a few civic celebrations.

Confined To Bed, Raymond Dandridge’s Spirit Soared Although he once achieved fame, Raymond Garfield Dandridge (1883-1930) is sadly forgotten today. His poetry fits comfortably between his predecessor Paul Laurence Dunbar (to whom Dandridge was often compared) and his successor, Langston Hughes, beacon of the Harlem Renaissance. Dandridge was almost totally paralyzed by polio when he was a young man. He spent his entire writing career confined to bed, supporting himself and his mother by taking orders for coal shipments. Eventually, Dandridge’s poetry was collected by his friends into three slim volumes, offered for sale to augment his income as a coal merchant.

George Elliston’s Poetic Legacy Lives On Eccentricity manifested itself in the person of George Elliston (1883-1946). She was a longtime Cincinnati newspaperwoman who lived like a derelict but cultivated a bohemian entourage. At her death, Elliston left behind a few slim volumes and an estate worth a quarter-million dollars, grubbed together over the years by living in cold-water apartments, wearing castoff clothing and mooching meals. She bequeathed all of this to the University of Cincinnati to establish a modern poetry collection. Some of the great poets of the English language, such as Denise Levertov and Robert Frost, have served as Elliston poets-in-residence.

Eloise Robinson Was A Rare Woman War Poet Few Cincinnatians knew that Mrs. Corda Muchmore, wife of a College Hill realtor, was, in fact, Eloise Robinson (1888-1958), one of the finest war poets of America. In 1918, she journeyed to France with the YMCA to hand out refreshments and recite poetry to support the American troops. Her poems inspired by her days at the front, such as “He Had Such Glory In His Closing Eyes” and “War” were published nationally and much admired. She taught verse writing to generations of Cincinnatians through UC’s Evening College.

Postmaster And Poet Samuel Schierloh (1889-1968) followed a colorful road to poetry. Born in Reading, Ohio, he served five years in the Navy during the days when it was known as Teddy Roosevelt’s “Great White Fleet.” After a few years as an apprentice tailor in downtown Cincinnati, he joined the Post Office and eventually became postmaster in Mount Washington. In addition to penning poetry, he was a league bowler, golfer and an amateur painter. His poems mostly debuted in Cincinnati newspapers, but were collected in several volumes including “Down the Bright Seas” in 1958.

Cornell Declined Appointment As Ohio’s Poet Laureate In 1974, Annette Patton Cornell (1897-1986) was named the best Cincinnati writer of the past 50 years by the National Society of American Pen Women. Over a long career, she published five collections of her own poetry and promoted the work of others through a literary magazine, Talaria, she founded with fellow Cincinnati poet B.Y. Williams. Cornell had her own radio show devoted to poetry and other literary topics. An Ohio governor tried to recruit her as the state’s poet laureate, but she declined the invitation as a resident of Fort Mitchell, Kentucky. Her son, Si Cornell, had a long career at the Cincinnati Post.

Lawrence Welk Boosted The Career of Cincinnati’s Greeting Card Poet All of Helen Steiner Rice’s (1900-1981) best-selling books were published by Cincinnati’s Gibson Greeting Card Company. Rice was born in Lorain, Ohio and married a Dayton banker who committed suicide during the Great Depression. After working in publicity and inspirational speaking, she joined Gibson as an editor and worked there for more than 40 years. Her book sales skyrocketed in the 1960s when several of her poems were read on the Lawrence Welk television show.

X-ray Damage Launched A Poet’s Career While still a teenager, Anna M. Tansey (1906-1989) almost died when a doctor exposed her to a nearly fatal dose of X-rays. She lost one lung and part of another. Long an invalid, confined to bed, she devoured piles of books brought by her family from the library. When new antibiotics allowed her to leave her house, she embarked on a career as a poet and an advocate for ecumenical relations among religions. Her poems were often on spiritual themes, as the title of her best-selling poetry collection, “Seven Gifts of the Holy Spirit” illustrates. As arthritis claimed her ability to type, she composed on a dictating machine and had her poems typed out by an assistant.

A Poet Of Great Influence Kenneth Koch (1925-2002) was born in Cincinnati to a fairly well-to-do family. His father sold office furniture and the family had a live-in maid. The family was frequently mentioned in Cincinnati newspaper society columns. After military service during World War II, Koch earned his doctorate and began a long career at Columbia University. Although he published dozens of books and was frequently anthologized, Koch is often remembered more today as a teacher than as a poet. His book on teaching children to write poetry, “Wishes, Lies and Dreams” (1970) was enormously influential.

One Small Poem For A Man . . . The oeuvre of Neil Armstrong (1930-2012), poet, is slight, consisting as it does of only two published stanzas, and that bit of doggerel clouded by controversy. In 1978, the Mini Page, a nationally syndicated children’s section carried in many newspapers, including the Cincinnati Post, asked Armstrong to provide a quote or first-person account of his moon landing. Rather than jotting a few lines of prose, Armstrong, then a professor at the University of Cincinnati, penned eight lines of poetry, clearly aimed at a juvenile audience. Unfortunately, through an editing error, the Mini Page deleted two words from Armstrong’s final line. Armstrong was not happy.

[everarddelanden]

When David had woken up, Everard had sat waiting to greet him with a kiss and had suggested David to wear something comfortable for outside tonight. That he would be away for a little bit, but giving enough time for David to feed, get ready and linger at his leisure.

The crunch of the gravel underneath was a sound he had always enjoyed but often forgot about as years passed. But he told himself he would start doing this more often again.

He blew a hard whistle between his fingers for David to come look outside, as Everard sat perched on the tall, chocolate, Hanoverian horse. His riding gear was perhaps designed to old riding fashion, antique even, but as always perfectly tailored to fit his broad shoulders well and nothing but believable as something he would have worn in centuries past.

Next to him he held another Hanoverian, equally as stunning and well behaved as the one he was on. The second animal was saddled up too and waited patiently at Everard's side for David to ride with him.

[deborahocarroll]

Wrapup: #MarchMagics 2022!

Recapping my recent #DianaWynneJones and #TerryPratchett adventures!

Time got away from me (clearly! XD), but it’s time to look back at the Diana Wynne Jones and Pratchett related goodness I got up to in March — and, actually, April as well! I didn’t manage to finish up my March Magics goals during the month since I got crazy busy, so I carried on a bit of the reading in April, which was rather nice, actually. And now that I’m trying to ease back into blogging, I…

[faustofuster918]

RIDE Kitesurfing

RIDE Kitesurfing 1 The Foreshore Opposite Everard Street &, Lady Gowrie Dr, Largs Bay SA 5016 0417858641

[eusebiomeints775]

RIDE Kitesurfing

RIDE Kitesurfing 1 The Foreshore Opposite Everard Street &, Lady Gowrie Dr, Largs Bay SA 5016 0417858641

[hannahhook7744]

Freylin kids info;

BASICS: 

Full name: Stephanie Guinevere Ambrosius.

House: Ambrosius.

Age: 16 years old.

Birth place: Avalon.

Current location: Camelot.

Titles: Daughter of the Lady of the Lake, the Only Daughter of Emrys, and the Lost spawn of Emrys.

Occupation: None.

Known as: Steph, Hanie, 'Ephanie, Stephie, and Ste.

Known for: Assisting Percival in a quest as a young child and disappearing at 14.

ATTIRE:

General outfit: An emerald green, long peasant dress with no shoes.

Weapons/Equipment: A green handled battle axe.

Extra accessories: A dragon hair clip.

PERSONALITY:

Fears: Dying young, not being able to help people, losing her family, losing her friends, being cursed like her mother, bears, etc.

Dreams: She wants to be a Physician.

Likes:  Reading, helping people, reading, horseback riding, doing spells, swimming, healing , etc.

Dislikes: Evil sorcerers, bullies, classit people, her friends in danger, curses, being threatened with curses, etc.

FAVORITES:

Favorite Color: Emerald green.

Favorite Food: Cheesy bread.

Favorite Drink: Apple cider.

Favorite Animal: Cows.

Favorite Season: Winter.

Favorite Weapon: Battle axe.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Friends:  Lucan the Butler, Ywain, Melehan, Duran, Sanddef, Morfydd,and Calogrenant.

Parents: Freya and Merlin.

Siblings: Dragonet Ambrosius.

Love Interest: None.

Children: None.

Animal companion: None.

HISTORY: 

Childhood: Stephanie Guinevere Ambrosius was born in Avalon to Freya and Merlin a few years after the battle of Camlann.

She spent most of her youth helping people on quests and hanging out with her friends. Occasionally helping Giaus and her father in the medical ward before her disappearance.

Life: Eventually disappears at age 14 never to be seen again.

Death: Has not yet happened.

Quote: "Follow me and you will be a step closer to your goal. "

Theme Song: "Losing your memory."

BASICS: 

Full name: Dragonet William Ambrosius.

House: Ambrosius.

Age: 11 years old.

Birth place: Avalon.

Current location: Camelot.

Titles: The Spawn of the Lady of the Lake, The Only Son of Emrys, Dragonet the Jester, Daguenet the Fool, Daguenet the Coward,  Danguenes the Craven of Carlion, and Royal Jester of Camelot.

Occupation: Jester, (unoffical) adviser, and Honorary knight of Camelot.

Known as: Dra, Drag, Drago, Dragon, Draggie, Gonet, Nettie, and Net.

Known for: Being a honorable, loyal jester and honorary knight.

ATTIRE:

General outfit: Brown linen pants, muddy black boots, and an oversized, maroon ubiquitous tunic.

Weapons/Equipment: A small, maroon handled dagger.

Extra accessories: A black belt with a clip on holster and pouch.

PERSONALITY:

Fears: Suffering like his parents did, being persecuted because of his magic, being used, disappearing like his sister, dying like his mother did, being cursed like his mother, having a destiny, fire, having to kill someone, and lamias.

Dreams:  He wants to be an adviser or a knight.

Likes: Juggling, telling jokes, his friends staying out of trouble, reading, climbing trees, learning spells, riding horses, helping people, feeding strays, swimming, pulling pranks, doing magic tricks, horseback riding, and writing comedic poems and plays.

Dislikes: His father being made fun of, himself being made of, people joking about his sister's disappearance, fire, his friends in danger, his family in danger, either of them suffering, being cursed, assassination attempts, destiny, his pranks being halted, Kilgharrah and people going through his things.

FAVORITES:

Favorite Color: Maroon.

Favorite Food: Strawberries.

Favorite Drink: Goat's milk mixed with meshed up strawberries.

Favorite Animal: Dragons.

Favorite Season: Anything but winter.

Favorite Weapon:  Small daggers.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Friends: Helior, Artie, Everard, Menw, Tom Thumb, Penpingion, Taliesin, Cerdan Jr., Mabon,  Galeholt , etc.

Parents: Freya and Merlin.

Siblings: Stephanie Ambrosius.

Love Interest: Thitis.

Children: none as of now.

Animal companion: A cow named Moonamer.

HISTORY: 

Childhood: Dragonet William Ambrosius was born in Avalon to Freya and Merlin nearly a decade after the battle of Camlann.

He spent most of his youth helping out the servants in the castle, going on hunts with The Round Table and Arthur's kids, helping Giaus gather herbs, and doing tricks at feasts.

Being spoiled greatly by his many non official aunts and uncles along the way.

When he wasn't doing any of that he was hanging out with Arthur and the knights' several children, and trying to keep them out of trouble.

Life: Eventually, he becomes a court jester and is made an honorary knight by Arthur. The knights take him along so he can make fun of and play jokes on their enemies, making things much more entertaining.

Death:  Has not occurred yet.

Quote:  "Thou may wear riches like a king, but me thinks that thou is nothing more than a cumberworld churl."

Theme Song: "Run Boy Run."

[donovanmorini271]

RIDE Kitesurfing

RIDE Kitesurfing 1 The Foreshore Opposite Everard Street &, Lady Gowrie Dr, Largs Bay SA 5016 0417858641