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Congratulations, ALLI! You’ve been accepted for the role of SEVEN OF SWORDS with the faceclaim of CILLIAN MURPHY. Canis is certainly a fucking concept, whom I adore to no end. He’s got a tenacious and willful sort of attitude about him, the kind of incredulous charm and wit that lends itself to an air of villainy and danger, and I think that he fits into the Seven of Swords like one fits into a well-made boot or glove. In spite of remaining leashed like a dog, he’s got no small amount of fire in him, and I’m eager to see what (or who!) he sinks his teeth into during gameplay. You’ve brought me a real gift, dropped it on my doorstep, and I am grateful.

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— APPLICATION

OOC

NAME: alli PRONOUNS: she / her AGE: twenty - one TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: cst / i am currently on summer break and have the ability to be really active , but sometimes things do come up ! i definitely have plenty of time to be on the dash with several posts within activity limit and when my muse is high ( i’ll be honest i’m a hoe for high fantasy ) my activity is also super up ! ANYTHING ELSE?: what’s the mead sis…….. the wenches are squabbling …….

IN CHARACTER

SKELETON: seven of swords NAME: efferus aubenet / “canis” & “the dog” efferus - of latin meaning , “wild , savage , cruel , barbarous” . a name canis has long since abandoned , preferring even the subtle jab of “the dog” given to him by opponents of his crew and the highborn that look down on him . he finds it just about as cutting as a bread knife . no one except those closest to him ( ie . the pack ) even know this name exists . canis - latin for “ dog ” , though also the scientific genus for all canines , including wolves and coyotes . meant to symbolize canis as the leader of his pack of wild dogs , and a sign of respect , a nickname earned on the streets and not given to him in tyrholm . the dog - a nickname received while working under king septimus , by those that see the second fangs as dirty , unruly , savages . also by revolters who see canis as a dog blindly following the orders of a tyrannical king. in any case , he still prefers this to efferus . sometimes he even barks in response . FACECLAIM: cillian murphy , michiel huisman ( he / him pronouns , cis male ) AGE: thirty - nine , born on the twenty - seventh day of the twelfth month

DETAILS: i always find myself drawn to underdog characters , muses that have overcome more than most others could even imagine to find themselves in their present position . i believe there is so much depth to backgrounds like canis’s . no family so he created his own , nothing to his name so he created his own legacy . a moral compass that tries it’s best to always point north . that fails , because the muse is so painfully human . the irony of a sellsword who wants more for himself ? incredible . when i was skimming the skeletons , it was his that startled practically writing itself , this street urchin turned warrior figure , so i spent a lot of time picking apart the biography until i was left with canis . i did a bit of research on the seventh of swords tarot card , but let me tell you .. i was so pleasantly surprised and intrigued when i did . on one hand , when upright , seven of swords means scheming , resourcefulness , cunning , and lies , all traits that have gotten canis to where he is today , however negative , the legacy he’s forged for himself and all deeply tied to his work . however , when reversed , the seven of swords can mean confession , conscience , regret , and maliciousness , which i think lend beautifully to this character’s private struggles . there is a very heavy mix of negative and positive attributes leant towards seven of sword’s core character , someone who wants to do right by themselves at great cost . when interpreting the tarot as canis , i was drawn to the maliciousness and the regret ( in sometimes equal measure ) of the reversed card . i believe there is so much more to this character than just his web of scheming and lies , that canis’s true self comes from somewhere within , and i’m really excited to explore his inner conflicts. this man has so many issues that he’s buried and i think the possibility of him becoming a part of the revolution? impeccable. my muse for this skeleton ? through the roof .

BACKGROUND

I . O’ ROMULUS AND REMUS , CASTOR AND POLLUX , WHAT IS ONE WITHOUT THE OTHER ? a twin , you were told , though it feels like something you should never be permitted to forget. you’ve never felt him there , not like a phantom limb or a guiding whisper. just a story , when you’re feeling ungrateful for your lot in this realm , that there is only one where there once was two. born in the dead of winter -- the one that bit at the napes of even the most fur cloaked nobility of markholm , that anyone unlucky enough to live through it can still recall as “ceaseless” -- and childbirth takes your mother as it goes. two children , born sickly , cold. so you are dubbed efferus , a savage beast who can claw his way into life , barely holding onto breath , already having taken a life. it takes a village to raise motherless boys. sometimes it takes more than that. your brother doesn’t make it past the winter , but you keep growing , getting stronger by the day , and finally spring flowers bloom forth from hard soil. the goat farmer next door tells your father you are a resilient one , that the undying smiled upon him. another miracle , that your life could be a blessing and not a curse. as long as you knew him , your father kept steadfast in deep religion , devout , praying over the crops. the cattle. the harvest. even your birth , a story he recants so mystically it’s hard to imagine you were there. “we all bled fer you ,” he always starts , like it’s your fault , “my son , my son. let all else be damned fer ‘im.” two lives for the price of one , he reminds you , and you’re just a boy , but you still find it all absurd. there’s never been a rhyme or reason to suffering. “you make a deal with the undying and you get what you paid fer.” sometimes it seems a compliment. others .. you aren’t so sure. your father hath no mercy for the weak or spineless , though he wasn’t an inherently evil man either , at least not in the figments you can conjure of him. you plow the fields , with hands so rough with calluses you can’t feel the hilt of the axe you use to cut the firewood. you milk the cows , so gentle with great beasts you start to forget your name. you’re skin and bone and beating heart , not much to look at , but just the blessing your father asked for all the same. a good boy , in that you were capable and healthy and strong. a bad seed , in that you cared for little and didn’t always do as you were told. it’s your tenth winter when frostbitten tendrils take first your farm , and then your father. you make a deal with the undying and you get what you paid for , you remember , and it almost makes you laugh. perhaps it’s not so funny that you mourn very little the life you lost. perhaps still it is a testament to your strength , a boy of only ten who shoulders already a lifetime of death and decay. who makes it look a load easy to bear. who are you , efferus aubenet? and who will you become?

II . A MIRRORED MIDAS , IF EVERYTHING HE HAD TOUCHED TURNED TO DEATH AND ROT . a street urchin with no farm , no family , and most prominently no coin. winters slip away like sand through an hourglass , and it’s all you can do to keep track of the time that folds beneath you. one year , and you’re frail and quiet and know only to keep to yourself. three years and you’ve developed a taste for fighting , scrappy as you are. it’s just a game , in the beginning , one the other coinless children keep telling you you’re too good at , “it’s no fun fighting a hungry dog.” five years and you’re taller , more meat to your bones. you’re better at sneaking things out of the market , extra to feed your friends. you learned the hard way what happens if you don’t bring back enough , if you turn a blind eye to people who call out your name. you hear it when you dream , half awake in chilled darkness. “i’m so hungry, efferus. i’m so hungry.” you start going by canis. it makes it easier to sleep. six , seven years and you’re so good at fighting that your pockets start to feel heavy. cobbled streets whisper canis when you cross. bruised fists and a bloody conscience , not all soldiers make it out of battle alive. it dawns on you , slowly but with all the force of a crack of lightning , why the others like to call you dog. maybe it’s because you were born from death , or because you know loss so well it colors your eyelids when you blink , but it seems all you’re good for. you discover a rage within you , one which you’re sure ( you hope , foolish as it is ) any man is capable of , if pushed too far. but it’s directionless , vile in the way it sits inside your chambered heart. there is nothing more universal than pain. nothing more isolating than anger. a boy with a taste for blood. so blind to the way you snap , like branch under boot , when you push too hard. what place is there for you in an unforgiving world , wracked with hardship? at whose table do you dine? you knew love once , it felt like sharing bread and blankets and tales of woe. like years on the streets relying only on wit and steadfast determination to survive. like knowing a person fully , inside and out , as you’d always known yourself. that too would be taken from you , like everything else. for the price of just a single coin , you watched your love take their last breath , watched the thief make off with their blood money , felt truly and terribly powerless. worse than losing your father to deep winter chill you lost your first love to a blade. and in the end , it meant nothing. the sons of argos could not undo what you’d done , what had been done to you , but maybe you could give back tenfold. it starts small , at a table in your favorite tavern , as all great plots tended to do. an invitation to join a company you’d heard about only in whispers. you saw espace , penance where others saw a home , but that would always be enough for you. it was intended to be permanent , a family you couldn’t lose , under a friend who would lay down their life for the men , women , and children under their protection. a life of adventure to call your own and you didn’t need to suffer anymore. you had but one skill , it seemed , beyond tending to the herd and trimming too tall crops , and your father once taught you that skill fed fortune ( though the money , you’d find , would come later ) . you don’t think the sons is quite what your dearly departed had in mind , and this makes your smile widen. you’ve always found humor in odd places. what follows is a career far short of extravagant , fighting crime like a bunch of vigilanties , tied to a city state that knows little of its own streets. you hunger for travel , to sink your teeth into shores unseen , land untended. to make a real name for yourself and anyone who followed suit. “mind your place , mutt,” you hear more than once , and you want to swat the others away like flies buzzing in swelling ears. but there’s something sharp , too , like a cut that just won’t heal. your voice is too loud amongst the rest , your name -- the name you paid for in blood -- nothing next to strength’s. the captain you were meant to worship turned to dust in your heavy fist , the family you forged alongside them never yours to call your own. you tell yourself they betrayed you , like everything else in this life they gave you nothing to hold onto save for the back of their coattails , but in truth you were never meant to stay. minding your place felt a lot like digging six feet down to lay rest. it’s like waking from a dream , one you push down when it returns to you in the night , leaving the sons for good. four winters you slept under their tents , ate at their table , and still you feel nothing when you pack what’s yours ( and maybe some of what isn’t , but who would dare come looking for it? ) and go. no one follows , no one even pleads your case , and when you see them playing knights on the docks the fire in you swells. it’s all rot now.

III . WHERE WOULD ICARUS BE NOW , IF SOMEONE WISE HAD CLIPPED CURSED WINGS? iriebury is the stank of unwashed flesh , the heat of southern sun , something to conquer. the citizens are mean and the crime meaner. it makes tyrholm look a lot like playing pretend , the sons seem like a group of toy soldiers. to survive in iriebury you need your bark , you need your bite. naturally , you thrive. it takes just one winter , one warm southern winter , before you have something to call a crew of your very own. the second fangs , a handful of beaten down , nearly finished off mutts that think you look like a future. you’ll find one day , when you’ve turned to face the wrong end of a sword , these dogs’ loyalty knows no bounds. and maybe you do have a family after all. they don’t look like warriors born for battle , but they’re sharp on every edge and speak of you like you hung the moon. like a prophecy spun from the undying herself. the queen of iriebury’s no different , when you flash her a smile and run a sword through her guard. this is your destiny. with work and full bellies , the second fangs grow , picking up more men and women the rest of markholm cast aside , giving them all purpose. leadership becomes you , you’re kind in places other captains breathe fire. your men adore you , and maybe this is why it’s easy to lose yourself a bit. you’ve always been looking for him , that voice inside of you that has guided every confident step , and you really start to believe you’ve found him at the end of a blade. what you do isn’t pretty like life in a castle , it isn’t gentle like the farm or humble like a temple , but it suits you. you find company at the bottom of a bottle , family inside the taverns and brothels , atop dirty cobblestone. it all feels a lot like honor , like duty. you’re known for your loyalty and cunning among burdened skill. work lends to virtue or some mirrored image of the sort. the second fangs take the jobs you approve , not the ones the queen hands you , nails stained with blood , and who knew a mercenary crew with such an eye for morality? bastards that comb the streets but speak with love fresh on their lips. you’re a heathen with heart , of that not even the fiercest opponents can dispute. maybe there is a place in this world for nameless , coinless men with a hunger for something more. you give back to your beloved pack what they give to you ; everything , everything and then some. a life that means more than scraping the bottom of the barrel. you can’t carry on like this forever and survive , and it’s only a matter of time before real gold starts knocking. a steady job , you’re promised. a lifetime of stability , peace. you know more of the king of tyrholm than you let on , and maybe you are naive to trust the word of a woman who did not raise herself , but when you look at your company’s worn faces and tired smiles , weathered from southern strife , it’s never been easier to bend a knee. some odd winters , some odd springs , lived with modest lavesty. septimus is an arse of a man that whispers corroded bidding into your graceless ear. no one but the second fangs knows how much you shake , when the job is done and you’re safe at home. how much weight you shoulder , for yourself , for your men , for the lives you’ve taken. the lives you will take. your crew was never meant to become a rebellion. the glory feels lost , you’re a knight without chivalry , a wolf without teeth. you hear dog more than your own name and you bite back bile when you look in a mirror , but still , you think , you would do it all over again. the second fangs are a happy crew , well fed and housed and nothing like the orphans you sheltered so many moons ago. when it starts to feel like you have your own sons of argos you shelf the thought. your pack looks at you , strong and fit and still just a bit withered , and laugh and cheer. “yer getting old, canis,” they jest , when you stumble into bed. “hunch - backed from all that gold in yer pockets.” you’ve always been wiser than most of them , something raw in your heart that keeps it beating steadfast. better you than them , you know. most men would crack at what you’d seen. what you know. there’s good to be found , once you learn how to look , like the devotion of judgement , a beauty in worship that reminds you of all your father’s useless praying. peaceful in all it’s absurdity. there’s friendship in odd places , with the empress you serve. you find it hard to trust in tyrholm , unaccustomed to the politics of a ruling class , the society that never once smiled down on a farm boy and his widowed father. you want to be wise and cunning , still sometimes you feel inadequate next to those raised in education , but the queen saw your potential before anyone else in the whole retched kingdom , and that has to mean something. there’s the fool , a real dog you sometimes think , who mirrors your old captain so much it makes your skin crawl. they aren’t so bad , but it’s hard for you to look up at someone who serves at the hand of the king. you wonder if others think the same of you. fools , the whole lot of them. you know what the queen expects of you , your word is your livelihood , but these things take time. for now , you’re comfortable ; your cup is full. there’s always been something about wars to come that feels like home , ragged and battle scarred thing that you are. and besides , it’s easier to put out a fire that burns inside your ribs than one that swallows an entire kingdom , of this you are certain.

PLOT IDEAS

STRENGTH: oh boy oh man. canis can’t hold his tongue with distaste even if he tried , and he definitely doesn’t try with them. his anger often gets the better of him and i believe he would try to confront strength every chance he gets. he sees this skeleton as nothing more than the king’s right hand ( literally so exciting to me that strength is also a revolter and i’m sure neither of them know they’re destined to work on the same side again?? ) and i think he reflects a lot of his own inadequacies onto this skeleton , a lot of his failure. with such a tension relationship i’d like to see fights break out .. maybe even between their own respective men that they’d have to quell. far down the line even settling their differences and working together as the military leaders of a revolution because who is better suited for the job than them? but it would take a big blow to canis’s pride to share such a job , to ever work alongside this skeleton instead of against them like he always has. so all around? here for it all. NINE OF WANDS: canis looks at them and sees passion he once was sure he felt , the sharp thing in his gut that once spurred him to forge his own path in a world that never once showed him kindness. his scars are internal , but they wear their scar like a badge of honor , at least that’s how canis sees it. he’d love to not have to kill the king himself , even if he would never admit it. it means a safer life for his men , it means being done with tyrholm and a life of ease and travel , everything he’s always wanted and never seemed to be able to grasp. i wonder if them growing closer through sparring and their ability to provide him the best weapons he’s ever seen could change his opinion on wanting them to kill the king in a fit of rage?? i could see canis wanted to strategize with them , in the end , once he’s done poking the bear. love this gift of a connection a lot !!!! THE EMPRESS: definite ass kissing going on here. canis is more than grateful he was hired by her and not the king , though i do think he might resent them a little for the work the king makes his company do. he prefers to take jobs from them , when ordered , though i feel their relationship at this point goes beyond just work like it does with septimus. he trusts them and it does help him to sleep at night thinking he could be serving their hand and not septimus’s. also entirely possibly they call him the dog but with them it doesn’t feel like malice. he would never dare disrespect the queen , especially one he sees goodness in , sees his entire future in. would be really interesting if canis even is a little too friendly with them , giving them a hard time where maybe no one else would dare to do , an annoying prick in her side that she NEEDS to get what she wants. THE HERMIT: i think he has a lot of respect for the hermit. in ways that his pride keeps him from seeing his similarities with strength , he sees so much of who he once was in them. young , making their own way , maybe even some of the same rage , though canis has no place to put his own. i feel like if the respect was mutual they could have a friendly relationship , canis even pushing advice onto them they might not want or need. if a revolution came he would back them. somewhere , he probably even sees them as something of a good king. canis doesn’t trust them fully , but he could drink with them , knows the second fangs would treat them kindly as well. THE HIGH PRIESTESS: canis is scared of little , but he’s scared shitless of them. he avoids them at all costs , looks the other way when they’re brought to the same space. he doesn’t talk kindly of necromancers , though maybe there is some envy there he needs to address. he’s sure this doesn’t go unnoticed , not with all their years of wisdom. i think it could be really interesting though if one of his closest friends is killed on a job and they bring them back as he watches , sees this power first hand , feels even a debt is owed though none of the fear is gone. a lot of possibilities , i could see the second fangs might be dying a lot more often pretty soon ... JUSTICE: the world calls canis the dog because they see him as filth , as something mangey that feeds from table scraps of the king , but canis sees that justice is the real dog. and he pities him for it. there’s little glory in the work of a bodyguard , and maybe canis wonders how justice would fair in his own company. never the less , i think they could butt heads just as easily as they could share a pint. maybe they’ve even fought in some of the same battles , know each other from war torn lives and have a bond because of this. lots of potential for both malice and comradery , no matter what line of the revolution they tread. THE LOVERS: canis sees himself and more in them. he doesn’t pity easily , has an ability to find the strength in even the smallest mouse , but he pities the lovers. in some ways , i think he wants what they have , longs for something as fulfilling as love , and doesn’t want to see this squashed. every day he gets closer to telling them of the war to come. i really wonder how long he can go without letting anything slip , especially if they look at him with gentleness or show him great kindness. he feels they need to prepare , like he is , for a future of destruction. THE MOON: okay okay .. i have two different paths that i think might be interesting with this skeleton depending on what gets plotted out. BUT .. i could imagine canis stumbles into their office after being badly injured on the job , probably requesting some random herb because it HURTS and he’s WEAK and he needs it to be DONE WITH. one path would lead to the moon healing canis , and once he discovers this ability he probably begs and bribes ( heavily. the man is too wealthy for his own good now , and what else is he going to buy? new boots? his work just fine. ) them to start visiting the second fangs around the city to heal them in secret. he’ll do anything for their ensured safety. the other path works quite the same , only with no healing , just plants , and he’d be very dependent on this muse either way because of the miracles they’re able to work with his men. really really excited for the possibilities of plots with this skeleton. THE TOWER: a backstory plot for these muses is calling my name?? like maybe the tower and canis had a deal where the second fangs would assist them and their men on voyages and pillages for a cut of the treasure when all was said and done , back when the second fangs were fresher and poorer and in desperate need of work. and maybe one of the two betrayed the other on one of these trips , with greed for treasure or something of the like? things could be tense between them now , at each other’s throats. OR there could have never been a betrayal and they’re actually quite good friends who know a little too much about each other’s pasts , and canis offers the tower company amongst the pack knowing he’s lived through canis’s own worst nightmare. the terrifying ordeal of being known. canis could definitely trust them more than he should. this one has me really excited i won’t lie.

CHARACTER DEATH: canis would quite literally volunteer for this so that’s a big yes from me.

WRITING SAMPLE

THE SELF PARA: the tent is warm and the burn of the lamplight casts shadows across familiar faces. the second fangs. his pack, he always calls them, like they’re puppies and not vicious mercenaries. canis is most comfortable here, at ease, his usually pin straight posture relaxed despite the job he knows lays ahead of them. it’s not one he’s entirely comfortable with, an uprising in a poor village. always messy, always felt a bit like putting down a weakened calf at the farm. so they drink, to forget the day that lies ahead, the uncountable days behind. the faces. faces. faces, that echo like screams. he can’t recall who speaks first, but it was likely canis himself, always a little too bold when his body buzzed with liquid courage. “that’s not what i’m asking,” one of his men corrects with a nudge of canis’s shoulder, always aggressive with each other, a pack of wolves nipping at each other’s heels. “the death’s on your hands. but it’s meant to be a good one. worth while.” and the captain’s own eyes twinkle uncharacteristically, perhaps because his inner conscious knows what his mouth does not. that the answer lies waiting at the tip of his tongue, a snarling beast of a target. “and how much coin are we gonna get fer it?” ajax jests, but canis can see the gold flashing in front of his face, even from across the table. canis barks out a laugh, and they all bang their goblets on the table. “aye,” in unison. they know each other inside and out, they speak a language strange and foreign. a family with many moons in their pockets. how many knights can say that? “no coin,” canis finally adds. “no glory. no private dance at the brothel,” eying ren, and there’s another chorus of easy laughter, more aye’s. “one of the nobles,” lawren grunts, and at first there’s just ringing silence. a paranoia that winds it’s way through the small group. they trust each other with their lives but this .. it’s like blasphemy. it’s revolution uncurling within them, more than just a job, it’s a force awakening. lawren speaks again, gentler, louder. “undying knows they’re all pricks.” and it’s easy again, more aye’s, cups overflowing with wine and ale. but in between the laughter, he feels the wrench in his gut, the rage that threatens to flare. an allegiance of blood and blind faith -- it reminds him so much of religion that he squirms. maybe his answer lies in a job, with wicked tendrils wrapped around his neck like a leash. the dog. how wrong would it be to bite the hand that feeds you? “i’d cut off my ring fingers and swear to celibacy to be rid of the fuck all king already,” canis growls, his knuckles white where he grips tight on his cup. and it’s quiet again. when he speaks they listen, they all listen, even the highborn in the castle, like he’s a wave crashing on shore. commanding attention. demanding it. “you’re spending too much time with the clerics,” ren groans, with a face like a fox, her hair hanging limply in her face. he can’t tell if she’s smiling or frowning, but they’re nodding in agreement. all of them. “what good’s that sack of shit king, anyway?” lawren chimes in, and then it’s deafening chatter. all canis can do is listen, absorb the pain of his men, the frustration, see himself reflected in their woes. say what any outsider will about his crew, maybe they are all mutts. one mind, one body, one restless spirit. tired of being used, of being chained to a cause that tries to fill deep chasms in bleeding hearts with gold. what is the price of true freedom? “maybe the end is closer than you think, canis,” a small voice that rises above the others. a girl, mary, raised in the pack, only nearing her seventeenth summer. and she’s a legacy of everything canis has created, the family he wove with bruised and boney fingers. “we haven’t lost a battle, yet.” and she’s right, of course she’s right, whip smart and flea bitten. if there is to be a revolution, aid of the pack would be an immense advantage. it isn’t arrogance with which his men speak. it’s truth. he has to chew on the suggestion, sharp glass in his mouth with every bite, impossible to digest, but maybe with the backing of his crew .. canis has trouble seeing the future beyond a sack of coins and a full bottle of ale. he knows little of politics, even after all his withered years serving as something of a king himself. it’s overwhelming, and he thinks his whole arm shakes when he raises his goblet. “nasty fuckers,” but his teeth shine in the lamplight, like fangs. like canines. “trying to get your own captain killed.” but when they clink glasses, it feels like a deal has been made, like he owes this death to more than just the queen, like the undying herself is watching.

EXTRAS

VOICE : canis has an eclectic sort of accent , a combination of all of the people he met while living on the street , his father , the lands he’s traveled and settled into with his companies . he constantly sticks out as an ��outsider , no matter where he is . he doesn’t mind this sense of otherness because whenever canis goes , his family is never far . canis’s mockblog can be found HERE his pinterest can be found HERE ( blood tw )