foul weather fare | character storage

[harlequinade]

🪽 character storage ...
w.i.p. right now, i'll make this pretty later,,,​

 

[harlequinade]

scroll

common people

pulp

[

bastijn

van der linde

persona

&

attributes

strengths

weaknesses

backstory

&

connections

name.

Bastijn van der Linde.

nicknames & aliases.

/

occupation.

Sculptor.

role.

The Innamorati.

age.

23.

birthplace.

The Cascades / moved to Zenith around age 6.

faction.

/

status.

High society; sponsored and employed by a wealthy merchant family.

How frequently do you look in the mirror? Does your face please you? Are you disgusted to detect familial features? Do you consider your image erotic? If you squint, does your reflection become abstract?

face claim.

Aaron Taylor-Johnson as Count Vronksy.

eyes.

Dark brown, neatly indistinguishable between pupil and iris – two smudges of charcoal powder amongst his otherwise light color scheme, always visible; some would say he has a quote unquote staring problem.

hair.

Light golden brown – curls of gilding under lights, he takes great care to leave his hair artfully tousled and falsely carefree.

height.

5'9.

overview.

Bastijn is a man with an underpainting of golden tones, ivory mixed into his palette with a heavy hand. He stands at average height, built in a way that’s soft; something reminiscent of cherubim – he would say angelic. His skin is unmarred, save for the beauty marks dotting his face and the thin, pale scars on his hands he covers with gloves.

Hair, pale and haloed, curled and framing the face looking up; eyes as dark as bone black paint; his features are soft, rounded and feathered at the edges as if lined by smudged charcoal – the soft slope of his jaw, showing his age and giving away the pedigree of silver spoon fed milk and honey tipped between straight, white teeth. His nose is his sharpest feature, a straight alpine line casting a harsh shadow, underlaid by a quick pass of a paintbrush, upper lip painted darker than his hair.

He is an artist first, but a rich man closely second. It is rare to see him not draped in layers of fine fabric, cuts and colors picked with self-described good taste. He prefers dark tones – black, navy, purple mauve – to accent with jewelry of mixed metals. Putting together an outfit is akin to the old masters of baroque with their oils; deep contrast, rich colors, clothing stark shadows against pale skin. He secretly reserves a soft spot for jewel tones.

He will always appear to others as prim, pressed, and proper with heeled boots to give him the height to look down from his high, high horse. He knows the first reveal of a piece is most important; he needs the gasps, the awe, the standing ovation, and refuses to be seen if anything on his person falls out of place. He presents himself in a way meant to last, emblazoned like a signature in other’s minds.

overview.

He can be likened to a raven – drawn to shiny things, shiny people. He seeks beauty in everything. His definition of alluring things differs with the time – he likes strong personalities, hot, sticky rooms, cold night air, the way smoke curls when exhaled, gilded frames, eyes of all colors, mismatched fabrics, rough hands; the list does not end. He is moved by passion, drawn to it in others. [br/br]
His own fits of passion come on easy and leave even quicker. He seeks momentary pleasures, is prone to fits of lethargy when they’re gone. His obsession with creating is the only thing that has stuck with him through time.

His affinity for things he likes and disregard for things he doesn’t is a product of his station, the excess of wealth that allows him to make bad decisions and not think of the consequences. It is rare to find him thinking past the current moment and how it makes him feel; if he is, it is on how to capture the feelings in a block of marble. Vain, materialistic, superficial; all words thrown at him that go directly over his head. He does not care for other’s thoughts on him, save for if they find him beautiful. He preens under the attention of others, expects and demands it, positive or negative. He is charming, easy in conversation but prone to asking personal questions. He doesn’t dislike small talk, but he finds himself falling in love (in the broadest definition) with people easily and thinking of himself as closer to others than he is in reality.

He is, frankly, pretentious. An inflated ego, his head in the cloud, with no real problems except for bouts of feeling uninspired and the occasional rejection, he has not experienced hardships. For all the charming way he words things, he speaks a lot, often saying very little of substance. He will fill the open air with pretty words, but lacks experience. He loves people openly, but has limited experience with them outside of others sharing his social status.

He does not take to being denied or slighted well. Another consequence of new money; he wants the world and expects to have it. It’s an immature way of thinking, and something he has not grown out of. He has yet to see the benefits of losing the outer shell of selfishness, and has yet to face repercussions of it until recently.

With a flair for the dramatic, and great care put into his appearance, it is hard not to see his personality as a performance. And, yet, he is simply acting as he has learned from his art; something meant to be looked at and adored.

Some wait for angels, while others wait for men -- I wait for a shadow to move across some skin. Light moves fine through fabric that is thin. Good taste gives in to hasteful lust again.

hobbies.

A bad habit of starting and stopping things he is not immediately good at – a never ending string of various artistic endeavors, writing (bad) / reading (good) poetry, shopping, collecting (drinking glasses, antique books, dolls, perfume oils)

habits.

Asking invasive questions too quickly & always expecting answers, wearing strong perfumes, keeping odd waking hours / sleeping in late, thinking out loud, wearing gloves except to work, chain smoking, overindulging, talking too much, keeping a diary & writing letters.

fears.

Being known intimately as a person rather than an artist, death & the dying, aging, horses.

likes.

Rich, warm tones, opera & theatre, epic poems, gold jewelry, hand rolled cigarettes, cheap, sweet wine, string music, gossip columns, fashionable lateness, avant-garde.

dislikes.

Repetitive noises (clocks ticking, etc), landscape paintings, the smell of turpentine, sunrises, cemeteries & mausoleums, multitasking, nihilism, large dogs.

humanism

A deep, deep love for people, surface level and in the great, wide sense; this is the driving force of his art and thus himself wholly.

charisma

He is, unfortunately, very charming. He loves to engage in the simple act of conversing with people.

opinionated

There is a very short list of things he has no thoughts on, and he is both able and willing to defend them even when they are unpopular.

flattery

He has an ego but by God at least he will give you a bigger one with the way he speaks.

good taste

in everything but relationships and wine.

hedonism

An ache for beauty, in all forms; he yearns to feel silk on his skin, powder in his nose, smoke in his lungs, the stars on his tongue; overindulgence is not a word he’s ever considered to be negative.

obsessiveness

What makes him a good artist also makes him neurotic, he has never done anything casually in his life.

judgement

He is quick to judge others, as well as critique himself; he has high standards and an inflated self image, both of which come crashing down easily.

frailty

He can talk his way into problems but can not fight his way out.

vanity

A visual artist who sees himself as an extension of his work, he places a lot of value on physical appearance.

Oh, don't say you don't, please say you do. I am the last of the famous international playboys.

history.

The Repeated Image of the Artist Destroyed: A History in 6 Pieces.

i. Portrait #76, Johannes van der Linde, oil on canvas. The painting, done in a skilled hand, depicts a family of three – mother and son, easily likened to madonna and child, with the father behind.

Born of turpentine and gold, Bastijn van der Linde comes from a line of artists. His father, an oil painter; as was his father’s father, and thus up the line. His mother, a gilder, the first in her family. They met and married young, placing careers before family with the aspirations to hang their names among the star artisans of a generation. They found medium success, both talented, but without the connections to make it further.

A baby boy, then, born at the height of their efforts was not in the plans. The couple was blessed with an heir, a future painter to continue the line but the time required to raise a baby, to begin the shaping of personhood, takes away from the time to make art. A transitional period, silent resentment covered with a layer of varnish.

ii. Portrait #83, Johannes van der Linde, oil on canvas. A second painting, the family growing; the boy, older, stands at his mother’s side now, father and son now akin to the magi; mother’s lap occupied by a baby girl.

He is three when his sister is born, under the same circumstances as him; semi-wanted. He is still barely able to think abstractly, but he loves her dearly. As they age, their roles will reverse but for now he is older and assumes his part, as best as a toddler can, as the protector.

Three years after her birth, the family is changed again. No other children will be born, but their circumstances take a drastic shift; starving artist is a term that will become as foreign to them as their birthplace when they receive an offer of sponsorship from the capital. A merchant, from a line of war heroes, capitalizing off their accomplishments; the founder of Chevalier Arms Company making a gamble on golden frames making him richer socially than his iron. The family is uprooted, the children small enough to remember mostly only the capital city, and the large house they could (almost) think of as home.

Their care is barely overseen by their parents at all, here. More than happy to get their art, their life back, and with the newly acquired influx of money that is paid in stipends, the children are hovered over by tutors but rarely their own blood. They are caught up on lessons quickly: manners, history, math, science. Most importantly, picking up their trade. Bastijn, ten now, becoming unruly in the wake of parental attention spent his youth contrary and unhappy until he finds a chisel.

iii. [Name of Important Historical Figure], Bastijn van der Linde, marble. The first sculpture by a young, up and coming artist, sold at auction. The sculpture is nothing special, a man standing in contrapposto. The fabric draped at his waist is imperfect, the folds awkward at certain angles.

The first betrayal. No oils to stain his hands, no under sketches of charcoal, no mastery of color. Unlike his family, he finds himself in the hard, white blocks of marble, the jolt in his wrist of a hammer, the human figure emerging from nothing. He takes to sculpture better than his lessons; all consumed by the act of creation. He is still uncomfortable with the lack of attention from his parents, an unfillable crack carved away through his veins.

His sister follows him out of the family trade. She takes up harp with lithe fingers and discipline. More of their time is spent apart, more of it together arguing. They are in the age of petty sibling fights and scuffles. She always wins.

They go out together, as a family, sometimes. In the day, to meet with men and woman dressed easier in finery than he feels. He tries to emulate them, their easy laughs and soft hands as they talk to his father about the portraits they want. At night, to the theatre. He watches the actors on the stage closely, feels a pull towards them more than the people he meets. He becomes enamored – starry eyed at the costumes, the drama, the way emotions are expressed and felt even by the audience. Later, when he's old enough to make bad decision without his mother sitting next to him, to smoke and laugh and talk to the boys behind the stage, he knows it is the performance of it all.

He is fourteen and his first work sells. His name helps, his father’s last name tacked on to a new medium. It's not perfect, still, with no touches of a master. And, yet, his art, his youth, is sought after. The word is whispered, quietly, and then said to his face around wide smiles. Prodigy. He knows what it means and weighs the weight on his tongue, in his hands. It feels like nothing, the same as la mazza. He accepts it easily. He waits for his father to say it to him.

iv. At Rest in the Garden, Bastijn van der Linde, marble. Two male figures, intertwined. They are depicted as angels at rest. The drapery of the last piece is foregone.

He waits a long time, until his jaw sharpens and the hair on his face starts coming in. He waits, and while he does the world starts to shift. He becomes a man. He sees things and people differently. The desire to capture them in intimate moments, forever caught in marble overtakes him. The desire for intimate moments overtakes him. He waits, and waits for the words of his father, and little longings fester into big ones. He continues trying to be good enough in art but in no other aspects.

The words he wants from his parents never come, and so he absorbs the arrogance of youth and the boys around him. His dad is rich, he is rich, and he has seen what that allows – an absence of consequences. He knows how people view artists, knows what artists are like; he has lived with himself all his life. He plays the part given to him, makes no thought of if it's nature or lack of nurture. He is neurotic, doesn't sleep, talks too much, works himself up, calms himself back down with drink or smoke or anything he can reach, seeks attention, fears he will be like this for the rest of his life.

v. Portrait #108, Johannes and Anneliese van der Linde, oil and gold leaf on canvas. The man and woman stand alone. They are haloed in gold but they look unhappy, mouths in flat lines as they clutch into weaponry of polished silver.

In replacement of the praise he seeks from his parents, he is met with only silence. The occasional lecture, the money moving pockets to keep people that have seen him running errant quiet. He becomes worse. The need to be seen makes his actions grander, the men he seeks out higher status. It overtakes him like a fever takes a town; slowly, then all at once, half the population dead. Death, here, is the social kind.

His escapades, his affairs find the public eye. He tries to find the love he is missing from his father with a married man of high status and that’s the beginning of the end. Noses are upturned, words whispered – none of the acclaim from his art, only disapproving jabs at his character. He is compared to his sister, recently assigned as a guard, an upstanding citizen. They should have known, taking an artist and giving him the affluence of a boy born into nobility. He has brought it on himself.

vii. Third Horseman, Bastijn van der Linde, marble (unfinished). A sculpture of a knight, broken to pieces before it was sold.

He brings his family and his sponsor down with him. The rug is pulled suddenly and completely out from under him. Their names are tarnished and he imagines himself facing the gallows.

He is given an option that's not an option at all: a boat to take him far away. Marble is too heavy to drag aboard, but he’ll be inspired. The sea air will help, being around people that have never seen the initials VDL signed on a piece of art will help. Get it out of his system. Grow up.

relations.

♰ Johannes van der Linde – father, 46, oil painter; Not the worst a parent could be, though mostly absent. Currently, threatening to cut him out of the inheritance if he doesn't shapen up.
♰ Anneliese van der Linde – mother, 45, gilder; He is not close with either parent. He can't remember the last time he saw her smile.
♰ Lieke van der Linde – younger sister, 20, prison guard; His younger sister, and the more mature of the two. She wields a sword with sharp precision and an intellect to match. Recently instated as an Ironspire guard.
♰ Lazare Chevalier – 54, sponsor, head of Chevalier Arms Company; Though the man provided many opportunities for him and his family, he only knows him in passing. The most Bastijn knows of him personally can be summed into two facts: 1. He is in his third marriage and 2. His company’s main product is bullets.

reputation.

His father would be more easily recognizable than him, by name. Both of his parents are well-regarded in the art world. His personal reputation has recently taken a hit; a very talented young artist to another rich man making a spectacle of himself. Local reputation as both a playboy and a fool.

boarding the leviathan.

He boarded as a ticketed guest, paid for by his father. He was “asked” to leave the capital after a social scandal; he is taking the opportunity to get away from home and the love lost there, to find more inspiration for his art. His motivations are personal, to be away from the exploits of high society and see, for the first time, what lower class people experience (all while staying in the comfort of his pre-paid room…).

thoughts on royalty.

He harbors respect for the king and authority, though minimal. Most of his political interest currently is in capitalism & monetary values rather than a question of who is in power. He hasn't had reason to question the powers at play, nor been around lower class people so his opinions are stilted and, currently, begin and end with his own experiences as a man born into new money.

thoughts on piracy.

He has absolutely no experience with violent crime; it’s an aspect of humanity he is interested in because he is incapable of enacting violence or holding a sword himself. He has a half-baked, romanticized idea of what piracy really entails.

headcanons

♰ If he were modern he would be trilingual (in Dutch, French, English, from most to least fluent).
♰ He writes absolutely godawful poetry.
♰ Dorian Gray kinnie (derogatory). His vain ass can not be trusted to understand that beauty can’t be pursued without morality.
♰ The literal worst things that has ever happened in his life is that he had a messy gay breakup when he was 20. He needs real problems.
♰ Tossing around the idea of him doing drag but no concrete thoughts on that, yet.
♰ Unsure what kind of art movement is happening in universe right now but he's a baroque artist to me; RIP Bastijn you would have loved the Ecstasy of Saint Teresa.

extra content

♰ Pinterest board
♰ Playlist

filler

 

[harlequinade]

content warning: blood (no violence) in one gif.
reminder to fix music player​

---

scroll

to forgive

the smashing pumpkins

[

sir lancet

fialova

persona

&

attributes

strengths

weaknesses

backstory

&

connections

name.

Sir Lancet Sybil Fialova.

titles.

Sir, Commander.

nicknames.

Lance.

occupation.

Guard captain (previous) / trainer of new recruits (current).

role.

The Courier.

age.

39.

birthplace.

A small farming village in the mountains, nowhere of note.

faction.

/

status.

Kingsman.

The useless drag, the empty days; the lonely tower of past mistakes; to forgotten faces and faded loves; sitting still was never enough.

face claim.

Nikolaj Coster-Waldau as Jaime Lannister.

eyes.

Gunmetal blue, verging on the colorlessness of an overcast sky; his eyes could be considered kind if not for the rest of him, hardened and weathered, starkly juxtaposed.

hair.

Light cool brown, streaked with grey; he is in a constant battle with it, shaving it close enough that the blade nick his scalp and then growing it out until it is long enough to pull into a ponytail – it is currently close cropped. His facial hair is a similar, losing fight; he always has at least dark stubble.

height.

6'0.

overview.

hhh.

overview.

If the walls of the capital’s barracks are impenetrable, Lancet’s are both more weathered and thicker. He does not see himself as capable of getting close to, lacking in anything to provide at a personal level that he can't with others kept at sword length.

His tongue is a sword pommel – blunt. He does not mince his words nor aim to save feelings. His conviction is as strong as a sword set into stone. He is a man of actions above words.

Even those he does not let in, he is sworn to protect and to teach. His words are rough, but his heart is soft below his breastplate. He has found himself in the role of teacher and, though it was taken up with hesitancy, he has come to welcome it. Despite his efforts, he cares for the recruits that train under him; he is not easy to them when armor is donned but dines with them, lends his ear for woes, and, clumsily, his tongue for advice when he is prompted. The walls are high but there is a gate. He is steel with too little carbon – sharp, but pliable. If something does not go against his own sworn moral code, he is easily malleable; if it is framed to be for good, he likely to fall for it.

Where the steel has left tracts through his veins to encase his heart, settled in that soft part of him is guilt. The boyish fantasies he had in his youth were not enough, his idea of knighthood and chivalry idealistic, lost years ago. He has become a gritty realist. The guilt does not run molten anymore, but he feels the sting still. Striving, now, to protect and to serve are his ways of seeking penance. Putting his emotions and aspirations both aside to become more than he was. He takes a knee, bows his head, needs to be of service, needs new actions to wash away the old. He takes to the blade because it is what he knows, he turns it where he is pointed. He teaches the young, takes the words and blows meant for others like his body can be a shield. He pushes people to the precipice of their limits because he knows what falling latent leads to. He is not, generally, happy unless in action.

He thinks himself Atlas, he thinks himself Charon; a man of deliverance with the world on his back. Yet, of those inhabitants of the underworld, he is most akin to Cereberus – loyal as a dog who sleeps at the foot of the bed.

So chain me, restrain me, teach me how to kneel.​

​

hobbies.

Falconry, gambling (dice games), wood carving, "gardening" (attempting to maintain a small patch of medicinal, mostly wild herbs; lacks a green thumb severely), leather working.

habits.

Speaking with a constant downward inflection, drinking (dark liquor), prolonging eye contact to an uncomfortable degree, maintaining stiff posture, cracking knuckles / neck, losing at cards.

fears.

Not his own death but that of those around him, feeling helpless, meaninglessness / chaos / loss of social order; intimidated by well-spoken people but tries not to show it.

likes.

Herbal tea, black coffee, strong liquor, the smell of soil, antique weaponry, violets, birds, fresh baked bread, ambient noise (crickets, ocean waves, etc.), cluttered rooms, quilted blankets.

dislikes.

Lying, wasting time, sitting with his back to a door, cats, cold & damp weather, philosophizing, the texture of wool, open windows.

Sword arm

Two and a half decades of physical training have made his body strong, even after having to switch his sword hand.

Honesty

He would rather fall on a sword than say or do something he does not mean.

Obedience

He is good at taking orders as well as giving them.

Experience

He's held multiple fairly high ranking militaristic positions.

Action First

Never one to mull things over, if there is a call to action or a decision to be made, he will be the first to act.

Bullheaded

His conviction passes the line into blind faith. He is stubborn enough that you would think the metal of his helm fused with his skull.

Manners

He does not mince words, and in some circles that is considered rude. He has difficulty socializing in general.

Unrelenting

He tends to prefer to do things himself, instead of relying on others. He will not quit anything until it is completed.

Literacy

Little formal education; he has never learned to read or write well.

Thinking Second

He doesn't take the time to mull things over; it's now or never.

Hope you've got your things together, hope you are quite prepared to die – looks like we're in for nasty weather. One eye is taken for an eye.

history.

Knight of Tarnished Armor
content warning: depictions of violence, brief allusion to torture, dismemberment.

Once, a time long ago, there was a boy born of summer; laughter like the warmth of a sun-soaked lake, eyes bright as the wings of warblers nested in the foliage, feet bare, hands quick, alive as the forrest surrounding his village.

The boy was welcomed into a lively home, warmed by the fires of a forge and scented with medicinal herbs. He was showered in mothers’ love, soaked through with it as if caught perpetually in a warm summer rain. There is little money, but he does not want for anything. He chases hares in the spring, triumphs over deer in the autumn, learns which way to hold a sword, tumbles down the rolling hills with the swiftness of a river, fits into the habitat with joy and gratitude.

The boy did not know his father, only stories with a name that made his mother’s bright face fall still, smile shrinking to a line with a faint upward tilt. He learned quickly to hold his tongue, to turn his questions to other things: what spices were best with fresh meat, which cured a stomach ache, which to press to a cut to stop the bleeding. What time of day was best to swim and which was best for catching fish. Where the stars went during the day.

The boy had hopes, dreams too big for the river valley he was born in. He had been fed stories and believed them true: there were knights, in armor that shone like the sun. Quests, with cups that granted eternal life and castles hidden under lakes. A king, to accept him, to love him, to treat him as a son or a brother or a lover. He could almost taste them, sweet and supple on his tongue as the berries he forages, the same his mother makes into sweet wine in the fall; he grows dizzy off of it.

He kissed his mothers on the cheeks, makes promises to be home before the moon has gone through too many of her cycles. He hid his homesick tears in the mane of his horse as he broke past the treeline.

The boy was sixteen, thinking himself a man, and did what all boys who think they are men do; set off to bring back the world.

༺༻​

The interlude is long and has little to say – it also begins the erosion of his daydreams. The fables told to him by his mother never included this part, jumping straight from the introduction to the climax.

It is a long period of yearning – for glory in battle, for his body to grow stronger, to become immortalized like the knights of olde, for a princess in an unhappy marriage to save. To do more than tend horses and train his arm in the yard.

He starts later than most, strong from the work back home, but awkward under heavy plate. He spends a lot of time knocked on his ass. He misses the songs his mother would sing, the warmth of fire on his face from the other. He takes it all with determination, puts in hours of work, does not complain. Seasons melt into years before he is sworn in as a protector.

He is posted first as a city guard. The environmental is unfamiliar. There are cobbled streets, here, and more people than trees. It takes getting used to. He spends his time patrolling quiet streets, stopping petty crimes. It's less exciting than he thought, to control order.

He is in the right place at the right time, stops a blade aimed for the wrong throat. He is elevated, from city back to country. His new assignment simple: be an envoy, a quiet watcher for important people through a treacherous stretch of road. He is assigned a small squad; there are men under him now, people to command as well as protect.

He is bright eyed and full of purpose, and fails on both fronts.

༺༻​

The golden illusion shatters in pieces and then all at once.

The boy is twenty-five and face down in the mud and his men are dead. He chokes down a breath of dirt and blood and feels the grit against the back of his teeth. He tries to sob but there is no time to grieve.

There was no reason to think today was to be any different from the rest; he knew the land, grew accustomed to it quickly even though it was flatter than his home, and he knew the dangers. He had been stationed on the same stretch of road for years with little trouble, all of it handled quickly with a lunge and a cut.

Today, a massacre falls around him instead. His men, the people he is supposed to protect – all crumpled around him, with his hand barely finding the handle of his sword.

He tries not to remember anything more, after he is pulled forced harshly to his knee. He is restrained and forced to keep his head up. With a deliberate, slow cut, his arm is taken below the elbow. By mercy or cruelty, he is left alive. He is sent to bring a message back, one sealed in blood.

For the first time since he can remember he whispers a prayer. The king's banner that previously flew proudly above one of his men's heads is tied around the remains of his arm, opposite hand fumbling and awkward with disuse, until it is tied off. The red stains before he makes it to the tree line. There is nothing else for him to do; he sets off for the edge of the world.

Perhaps his prayer was heard by something higher; there was not a soul left in that bloodstained field to hear and yet the man is found, alive but barely.

For a long time, he sleeps. It's the most rest he's gotten since he left home. He is fed sweet poppy milk when he stirs awake. In between, he is glad he does not dream.

When he wakes, fully, he finds a letter at his bedside, emblazoned with fine script and sealed with a heavy insignia. He is to withdraw from the land he knows, again. He is being reeled back in. His failure is known by the crown, but so are all of his previous successes. His shield arm still in tact, he is meant to pass his knowledge onto others. It would be a waste of a man and his training, to fully retire him after only half a decade, when he is still mostly intact.

༺༻
​

These are the whispers that cling to the tail of Lancet's cloak as he circles the training grounds. The ones most based in truth, at least. There are more, he knows, more fanciful stories of how he lost his arm and his honor, ones he does not stand to indulge.

It has been almost fifteen years since he has taken his new post, tried to fold away the golden tapestries of wanting to becoming a makeshift legend. Instead, he does his best to become a makeshift father, and then does his best to pretend he didn't think that word.

They send him young people, faces still round under their helms to turn into guards, warriors, heroes. It took him a long time to feel comfortable in the part he's placed in, but he has always been able to change just enough to adapt.

He gains renown amongst recruits for being tough, harsh and ruthless in their physical training. He always expects better, pushes them for more. He gives them the time to get up, brush the dirt off or punch out the dents in their armor, and then goes again. Later, he sits amongst them and lets them regale him with their own ideas of how they will become what he couldn't; some kind of knights at a round table, the same stories his mother filled his own head with. He had to choke down resentment, the need to tell them they were young and stupid. He stops himself. He lets them believe what they need to make it through. He pushes them harder in the yard.

The training grounds that have been his longest comfort are leaving him, too. Or, he is leaving them. Another assignment, his sword pointed in a new direction.

Another letter comes, again stamped with a heavy seal. There's a ship, and a whole world behind the city. A whole generation of people with no way to get to the capital to train, outside of the walls that he's become comfortable behind. In a cruel parallel, he is sent back with a message. Crown guard in need of new recruits.

He sets his jaw and vows to do what he had started so long ago: goes forward to bring back the world.

relations.

♞ Sybil Fialova - mother, herbalist; His ma, a gentle woman that raised him with the same care as her garden. She provided medical aid when she could to the community. The source of Lancet's past idealistic view of the world, he misses her dearly.
♞ Inés Calderon - mother, blacksmith; Married to his mother when he was around 5, he doesn't remember a time without her. Though not his birth mother, he loves her as one.
♞ Ellis Ashmore - father; Left or died before he was born. Unknown to him, he's never given it more thought.

reputation.

He would be known to other Zenith city guards, but not beyond; notoriety among those who trained under him but little-to-no widespread reputation – possibly passing rumors that are more widespread after the massacre but in most of them would have been thought dead. Easily recognizable to anyone that has trained under him in the last ten years. Easily recognizable as those who have never met him as a loyalist / guard by the way he dresses & carries himself.

boarding the leviathan.

Boarding at Antares on assignment; his orders are to bring back new recruits with him. For personal reasons, he is both happy to get out of the city and back into the field and nervous that he has potentially "gone soft" staying in one place.

thoughts on royalty.

Extreme loyalist; view of the monarchy has changed since he was young (he was raised on legends & fairytales, and has realized life is not actually like that), but is still unshakable; where some men may lose part of them in battle along with their faith in the ruling class, he lost much but sees it as a debt owed and paid in blood.

thoughts on piracy.

He knows from experience that people will do what they need to survive. He thinks violence is innate to mankind but sees himself as more righteous as he does not revel in it. Stick in the mud.

headcanons

♞ He is probably autistic; special interest in blades & weaponry (me projecting).
♞ He hates to be called Lance, with the justification that he fights with a sword and shield and thus it is an unjust name.
♞ His prosthetic is made of wood, leather, and steel; it is fitted to hold a shield. There are no embellishments to it, save for the etching of a violet on the palm.
♞ I know this is low-fantasy, he does not. He still believes in stories of werewolves that his ma told him when he was young to scare him into being good & I am not going to break it to him.
♞ He prefers dice / truly luck-based games to cards; surprisingly bad poker face for a stoic man, he has a hard time lying.
♞ His bird for hawking is a saker falcon named Gwen. She is treated with the care of a princess; she is not making the voyage with him and has been left in good care back home.
♞ He's lost most of his country twang, but it creeps through sometimes. He hasn't shaken the vocabulary.
♞ Even though he hasn't been home in a long time and can't read well, he receives letters from his moms. He sends them back small parcels of things in response.

extra content

♞ Pinterest board
♞ Playlist

filler