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๐”๐”ฌ๐”ซ๐”ค ๐”๐”ฆ๐”ณ๐”ข ๐”—๐”ฅ๐”ข ๐””๐”ฒ๐”ข๐”ข๐”ซ ใ€แด„สœแด‡แด แด€สŸษชแด‡ส€ x แด„แดส€แด˜sแด‡ใ€‘


โ˜ฝ ัั”ั‚ัฯƒgัฮฑโˆ‚ั” โ˜พ
Dec 31, 2018

แด„สœแด‡แด แด€สŸษชแด‡ส€ x แด„แดส€แด˜sแด‡
โ—ค โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ—ฅ
"Long may she reign!"

โ—ฃ โ€‡ โ€‡ โ€‡ โ€‡ โ€‡ โ€‡โ€‡ โ€‡ แดกแด€ส€ษดษชษดษข: แด…แด€ส€แด‹ แด›สœแด‡แดแด‡s แด€สœแด‡แด€แด… โ€‡ โ€‡ โ€‡ โ€‡ โ€‡ โ€‡ โ€‡ โ€‡ โ—ข

The Wolf
6'6" | Thirty-Eight

Beyond the great, eastern mountains and far from the eyes of civilization came a horde of terrifying power
endless waves of barbarians crashed across the kingdoms, tearing their castles asunder while pillaging and
raping those unfortunate enough to be caught in their wake. Those that were not killed were enslaved and
soon, it wasn't long until even the most powerful and prestigious Kingdoms had fallen to the flow of history.
Led by the accursed Wolf King, Fenris is a giant among men, a warrior that puts all others to shame, he rules
his armies with but a single commandment, that: only the strongest survive. As such, all others are merely
people to be conquered, toys to be claimed.

sษชส€ แดสŸษชแด แด‡ส€ สœแด€ส€แด˜แด‡ส€
The Lion
6'2" | Twenty-Four

Sir Oliver Harper is the new Commander of the Queen's Guard, appointed following the death of his
predecessor who was slain in battle protecting the late King. He is often regarded within the Kingdoms
as the greatest swordsman to have ever lived, besting every warrior to ever challenge him and taking a
countless number of tournaments in the name of the Royal Family. A childhood friend of the new Queen,
he has been infatuated with her since his youth, often citing his love for the Queen as his main motivation
for becoming a Knight. His romantic feelings have only become more obsessive over time, the Knight often
cursing his commoner birth for separating him from the woman that he loves dearly.

สŸแด€แด…ส แด€sสœสŸสษด แด‡สŸสsษชแด€
The Succubus
5'6" | Twenty-Eight

The Duchess of Hironedein, Lady Ashlyn is the last of Ecclesia's Great Lords. Ruling the fertile southern
lands, she commands the largest army in Ecclesia and is well respected by the remains of the nobility.
With the fall of her most prominent rivals, there exist few nobles remaining to contest her ambition,
and while it is hardly a secret that Ashlyn desires the throne for herself, challenging her power would
plummet the already faltering and wounded kingdom deep into the never-ending depths of ruin.

แด˜ส€ษชษดแด„แด‡ แด›ส€ษชsแด›แด€ษด แด แดษด แด€แดœส€แด‡สŸษชแด€
The Dragon
6'0" | Twenty-Six

The Crown Prince of the Imperialis, Prince Tristan is set to inherit the largest and most populous nation
within the charted world. The Imperialis' territories stretch from sea to sea and their seemingly endless
legions are infamous for their brutal efficiency. The Imperialis has always been recognized, even by their
rivals as the pinnacle of civilization. While their warlike tendencies often put them at odds with their smaller
neighbors, they are often content with allowing other Kingdoms to remain their sovereignty, so long as
they recognize the validity of Imperial rule. Tristan represents all of the positive and negative traits of the
Empire... Tristan is
arrogant, ambitious, but most of all, the Dragon is terrifyingly cunning.

Queen of Ecclesia โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ โ€ Knight of Ecclesia

The throne room was vibrant and lively, the dense crowds of younger nobles intermingling with one another as the Queen's servants attended to their every whims. At the center of the room, they danced gracefully to the gentle hymns of violins, a lavish spectacle befitting for a newly crowned Queen. But despite the spirited festivities, there lingered a dark and brooding aura over the room; an unsettling feeling which brought uneasiness upon what remained of the nobility. Though they danced and celebrated, the silent murmurs which passed from ear to ear spoke about the fall of the civilized world, a doomed kingdom, an incompetent Queen. Indeed, it was no secret that Ecclesia itself was in turmoil, threatened by the Horde that encroached upon their very gates, leaving an endless sea of destruction and suffering in their wake. The Royal Army had been defeated, leaving the King and the Prince slain - just how long would it be until the capital city would fall as well ?

As the Queen sat upon her father's throne, the silhouette of a noblewoman would approach, separating herself from the crowd. She was slender, her fair height accentuated by tall heels which clattered confidently across the glossy veneer beneath her feet. "I would like to be the first to congratulate you on your coronation, your Majesty." Her voice was soft spoken, yet possessed an authoritative allure to it. It was the sort of voice with the ability to gently instill fear into those who listened, the type that need not be raised to invoke powerful emotions. When she spoke, the violins croaked into a sudden halt, for even the violinists knew better than to play over the Duchess' lips. The noble who stood within the Queen's presence was none other than the Ashlyn von Elysia, the Duchess of Hironedein. "It aches me to hear about what happened to your father and brother, but I trust that you will lead us in the same way your family has led us for generations." The Duchess delivered a terse bow, electing to bend at the waist and curve one hand beneath her chest in the same fashion that men bowed. While the more conservative nobles may have seen a woman bowing rather than curtseying a deprave and uncouth act, there were none still alive that dared to question the Lady.

"I, Ashlyn von Elysia, vow to protect Ecclesia... and you, to my last dying breath. My armies will ensure the safety of this city." The inflection upon that single word pierced deep into the ranks of nobles, who immediately turned to exchange their venomous gossip.

"I think you're mistaken, my Lady." The retort stemmed from a familiar voice, one that may have been comforting to the Princess during such a foreboding time. "Those armies belong to the Queen." Standing adjacent to the throne lingered the Queen's closest ally: A tall male with an unerringly handsome gaze and a mane of gold, he sported the full uniform of the Queen's Guard, complete with decorative, shoulder epaulets that matched the hue of his shining locks. Sir Oliver was the Commander of the Queen's Guard, a man that found fame and prestige not through noble blood, but through dedicating himself to a single cause: the Queen.

"Ah, the commoner speaks." The Duchess' vibrant gemstones lulled lazily towards the man that stood at the Queen's flank, "Perhaps the young man needs a refresher on politics. Tell me, my little Lion, who pays the salary of my soldiers? The gold does not come from the Royal Treasury, I assure you." The corner of her lips curved upwards into a mischievous smile, of course, what she spoke of was akin to treason, but who was going to stop her? What powerful lords remained were all under her thumb, while the Queen's army had been rendered practically nonexistent. "But, these are difficult times." She averted her gaze back to the Queen, her dark eyes reaching up into the Queen's own. Then, to the alarm of the guards surrounding the Queen, she slowly ascended the steps. "We should stand united as one. After all, what hope will we have if we bicker and squabble to the very end?" She hovered nearer still, her distinctly feminine hand reaching outwards. Her soft digits delved down towards her neck, before arching upwards to capture the bottom of her chin. "An unmarried Queen is certainly a powerful tool. I'm almost jealous with how many suitors will posture themselves beneath your feet." She leaned closer, until her lips lingered dangerously close to the Queen's own, the warm exhalation of each breath brushing across her face with every word.

"I'll give you three seconds to remove your hand, before I remove it for you, my Lady." Oliver's hand hovered down to his waist, towards the sword which rested in a scabbard upon his hip. "One... Two..."

Before the Knight could sound off the third number, the Duchess drew her hand away from the Queen, "Relax, little Lion, I just wanted to make sure the Queen considers all of her options... however unconventional they may be." She stepped backward, retracing her steps while never averting her gaze away from the Queen. "A strong Queen should never be tied to such traditions anyways." With that, the Succubus bows, before turning and disappearing back into the crowd of nobles. "Until then."

"Your Majesty, do you have a moment? I would like to speak to you... in private."


Upon the border of Ecclesia lay an abandoned spire, nestled upon an ominous cliffside and reaching towards the sky; blackened by the deviant powers which encroached upon the land. To the outward observer, the dark tower was in a state of obvious disrepair, even the pathway leading up the titanic slopes being lost to the weathering elements. But despite its crumbling battlements and weathered defenses, its mountaintop position meant that any that dare encroach upon it be met with the full might of its defenders. Indeed, the ruins of the once marvelous fortress represented Ecclesia's best hope for stemming the tide of invaders which sought to break into the countryside. For two months, the defenses held, mostly in part to its favorable position, but in no small part the efforts or its garrison and of course, the talented Captain which commanded them.

But even if their resistance had been admirable, their defense had been destined to fail.

Within the derelict, dark corridors of the cavernous spire, a single man sat upon a dejected throne, the last vestige of a Kingdom that had once existed thousands of years ago. He was a towering, foreboding figure, with a chiseled jaw that accentuated his masculine features. A set of deep scars marred the corners of his portrait and a dark, leather eyepatch obfuscated the right flank of his gaze. The dreadful hulk was none other than the Wolf King himself, the warlord that was destined to conquer the world: Fenrisulfr.

"My Lord, we've brought the enemy commander to you, as you've requested."
From beyond the doorway, the lithe silhouette of a woman appeared into his single-eyed visage, the familiar chime of metal shackles reverberating through the abandoned throne room as the light haired figure was presented before her new master. Her wrists were bound together behind her back, the chains reaching upwards and connecting to a metal collar which had already been locked around her slender neck. With a single curl of his index finger, the Wolf beckoned for her to approach him, watching as the warrior behind her shoved her forward, until her own feet would carry her towards him. "You caused quite the ruckus among my ranks. But I'm sure you're quite proud of that, aren't you?" The man snarled, waiting for her to draw closer before speaking once more, "Leave us." Upon command, the other figures in the room dispersed, until the Knight was left alone with the towering warlord. Once they were alone, he stood from his seat, hovering closer towards her so that the little Knight could see just how overwhelmingly large he was in comparison to her. His mere presence blocked out the light, obscuring the knight's vision so that she would only be able to see him.

"I will give you but one chance to receive mercy..." His voice was deep and primal, like some sort of voracious, masculine beast. "Kneel."


Nov 13, 2020


๐• ๐•€ ๐• ๐”ธ ๐•‹ โœง โ„ ๐”ผ ๐”พ ๐•€ โ„• ๐”ธ

" Our beloved Queen.

I expect this will reach you in four sunrises, as the crow flies. So, by the time you are reading this, we will have fallen.

Know that it was not without equal bloodshed, and know that we love you.

Long may you reign.

- Lucia. "


The scrap of carefully written parchment sat in the grasp of cold, delicate fingers; beheld by the Queen who had read it repeatedly over the course of mere hours, dwelling over it ever since the pigeon had landed. Her study was dreadfully lonely, and she sat wistfully at her desk, leaning her forehead against the its surface as she steadied her emotions. She had little left to give beyond despair, now, having been drained of all ability to mourn. Her father, her brother -- and now Lucia, snuffed out like candlelight.

"This is why it is the Council's duty to open your letters first." A voice spoke from the entryway. Evelyn did not move, unwilling to meet the gaze of the man who addressed her. The voice belonged to Rune, Council-Master and close confident of her late father. His features were stern and wise, and he leaned against the door frame in impatience. "They are beginning to question your absence. Save your pining until after the event."

"I sent her to her death." Evelyn muttered, her voice muffled beneath folded arms.

"She hardly gave you a choice."

"Still --!"

"Your duty does not end with your retinue, your Highness. Our allies are waning, so address them, lest we all fall at your behest." There was resentment in his voice. No matter his connection to the King, he - like the rest of the Council - observed their fledgling Queen as an asset. A weapon of war and betrothal, and a connection to otherwise untouchable Kingdoms.

Evelyn's grip tightened on the parchment, before pressing it flatly against the desk. She stood, then, and excused herself in a less-than-royal manner, pushing past Rune in a way which reflected her particularly volatile state.

The long walk to the dais would allow her plenty of time to reflect.

- โœง -

The throne room was alight with candlelight and music, bearing host to the wealthier crowds of Ecclesia. Yet, despite everything, the vibrancy of the palace was a little more than grim masquerade; a facade against the burning onslaught of the outside world. A moment of respite, perhaps, from the dread that swelled at their breasts.

At the forefront of such tension was the Queen herself, perched upon the ornate throne and attempting to emulate the shadow of her father and former King. However, where he had once issued orders and legislation, she remained silent, insecure in the manner with which she should interact with such a noble confluence. Such weakness did not go unnoticed amidst her subordinates, who had begun to circle like carrion birds and scrape for power in the wake of invasion.

It was not long until the first serpent approached.

The encroach of bitter silence drew the Queen's attention to Lady Ashlyn, who spoke outwardly at the foot of the dais and addressed the throne boldly without request. Evelyn's own lips parted in observation, strangely curious of the Duchess' callous mannerisms and the confidence with which she spoke. More-so, there was an air of envy about the Queen, as she silently wished that she could render a room silent with mere words. In time, brooding thoughts of Lucia were put to rest, and her indifferent expression slowly lifted into a small, curt smile.

"An honor, Lady Ashlyn. My father spoke highly of your line." Her words were carefully recited, and almost forced. She lifted her hand as a gesture to silence the interjection of her guardsman, though it did not last. "I am ever grateful of your aid during these times."

She had perhaps expected the exchange to end there, but she was gravely mistaken. Wide eyes watched in silence as the woman ascended towards her, seemingly undeterred by the surrounding crowd who watched her missteps in curious silence. Even members of the High Council sat in quiet observation, awaiting the Queen's reaction to such an immense presence. But there was nothing. Evelyn froze at her approach, and her breath held at her invasive touch. The warmth of breath against her own lips caused her flesh to prickle and a lump to swell in her throat, subdued by an emotion she could only describe as something dangerously akin to fear.

This time, she was thankful for Oliver's intervening. She caught her breath finally, swallowing as the hand drew away from her face.

"My betrothal is my own concern, now. There are matters in far greater need." She uttered, mulling over the Duchess' implications. Unconventional options, breaking traditions? Could she have meant..? Evelyn almost flushed at the thought, her knuckles raising to her lips to discreetly clear her throat. Slowly but surely, the crowd prized their eyes away, lest they offend their shaken Queen.

"Your Majesty, do you have a moment? I would like to speak to you... in private."

"Hm?" The Lion's familiar voice pulled Evelyn away from her pondering, and she turned her head, glancing wide-eyed in his direction. She smiled in short time, and stood. "Of course I have a moment." She offered a subtle curtsy to those in her immediate company, dismissing herself temporarily from the throne. Her insecurities were not present among Oliver, replaced instead by trust; a feat which had developed over the course of their youth.

Yet, despite this, there seemed to still be a great distance between them. Even as they left the party alone, there was an almost painful air of formality between two childhood friends. A division of class, and power; the dynamic between nobility and commonality which had only widened as they both entered adulthood. Though the Duchess' actions had suggested otherwise, Evelyn had become entirely untouchable, and a chasm seemed to have opened up around her.

The atrium was dimly lit and empty, save for the occasional footman who procured empty glasses to and from the event. Short heels clicked against marble and the tresses of her silken dress trailed gently as she walked. Her eyes surveyed the room, running across the painted ceiling and falling upon her Queen's Guard as she turned to face him.

"Will this suit?" She asked eventually, referring to their surroundings. The smile never left her face, but she still seemed distracted, her thoughts seemingly still seized by the Duchess' feminine grasp. "Is something bothering you, Ser? Forgive me, I... don't often find the time to check in on you."

Four days. It had taken four days for the Northern Spire to fall, and it had ended in flames and bloodshed, drawn out over long, sleepless nights. Captain Lucia Caldwyn and her company had observed their approach from afar; a trail of burning hamlets amidst the hills, and a monstrous horde at their wake. Their presence had drowned the moors in a clotted veil of shadow which remained unrelenting and without rest. She knew that they would die atop this fort, but they had each sworn that they would not die easily. They were among the last of Ecclasia's own forces -- members of the City Guard itself, marching far from home to defend their Queen's name.

The horde's visible approach had allowed the Captain plenty of preparation time. The ascent to the fortress was laden with often crude traps and treacherous dug-outs, each procured with the streamlined purpose of slowing their aggressors down. From there, archers took up their vantage points, and rained steel down upon them in successful waves of defense. Their formation was nigh impenetrable, but like everything else, it slowly succumbed to the passing of time. Arrows eventually ran low along with food, and soldiers struggled to fight against their restlessness. The fourth night was grave, with tyrannical beasts finally knocking through the heavy iron doors.

She was made to watch as her company was slaughtered. The Spire was cleared in its entirety, hunted down to the last living man. But not her. Death was not so easy for the Captain, who had single-handedly delayed the tyrant's assault by a string of valuable days.

Lucia had been bested by numbers, and bound in her defeat. She had questioned her state, begged for it to end, yet nothing came of it; instead, the end of the battle saw that she was dragged to her feet and made to walk over the corpses of her brethren. The gargantuan interior of the Spire had become somewhat familiar to Lucia during her stay, and she knew well that she was being escorted to the throne room. The marred walls of the fortress had once been home to the many moots of the Old Kings during their travels, and withered artifacts and furniture told tales of such times. But there was no King on the throne. As her eyes adjusted to the presence of dim firelight and flickering candelabras, her breathing hitched as she beheld the Great Terror himself, amidst his pack of beasts. The air was heavy, no doubt, and the glares of many fell upon the disheveled silhouette of the once prideful Captain. Nevertheless, she did not falter, remaining somewhat regal even as she was shoved towards her enemy.

"You caused quite the ruckus among my ranks. But I'm sure you're quite proud of that, aren't you? Leave us."

Her own gaze lifted, fixing with the beast's own. There was no humanity to be found -- not a shred of reason that Lucia could detect. Her form stood firm even when approached, though it very nearly faltered as she was swallowed whole by his shadow, perhaps not quite anticipating the immense presence of his stature. War-torn, overbearing, aggressive... She should not have expected any less. Lucia's own expression was firm and frowning -- her brows knitting tightly above her widened glare. Her prior exchange with his subordinates had left its mark -- the fabric of her skirt was partly shredded, and blood smeared at the corner of her lip. Somehow, her expression was still somewhat smug. She had bought her Majesty time, in exchange for her life.

Or, perhaps not.


"Kneel?" The Captain blinked. Her expression faltered, and she laughed. It was a quiet, melodic chuckle, accompanied by a small step backwards as she did her best to recollect herself. Boldness and fear made for a dreadful cocktail, and she had unwittingly found herself grimly amused by his command. That... and whatever it was that a monster would deem as 'mercy.' Her hands tugged testingly at their binds as she did so, causing the chain to tinker quietly against her neck. "Before you? I bow only before our Queen." Her eyes lifted once more, her laughter settling back into breathy silence.
"And long may she reign, beast."
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