Sia
❀->–
Hello friends!
Welcome to my partner search! Currently, I've been having a medieval streak, so if you're addicted to writing tales of chivalrous knights, devious foes, and the like, I might be your gal. Let's see!
Here are some things about me:
Writing samples:
Plots and Pairings:
If none of these interest you, don't hesitate to suggest to me a plot or paring of your own! Feel free to expand on my ideas as well.
Please send a writing sample.
Thanks!
Welcome to my partner search! Currently, I've been having a medieval streak, so if you're addicted to writing tales of chivalrous knights, devious foes, and the like, I might be your gal. Let's see!
Here are some things about me:
- Third-person, past tense, paragraph format
- Precise, detailed writing
- Grammar, punctuation, spelling, proofreading
- Length (4+ Paragraphs, oftentimes 8+)
- Two separate PMs for IC and OOC
- I give cookies!
- Read receipts on
- Not big on character sheets, but if we must, realistic FCs.
- Main character age range: 20-30
- M/F only for romance
- Can write both male and female characters
- Not big on swearing
- Fade to black
- Site rules apply
Writing samples:
Dianna's slippered feet peeped out from underneath her hem as she forewent her usually small and ladylike steps for a youthful lope.
"Your highness!" her handmaid whined, huffing after her. "I haven't finished your hair!"
If it were anyone else arriving at the palace, Dianna might have turned around. After all, Freya had only finished the braid that circled around her head like a crown. The back had been pinned up to shoulder-length, but the style wouldn't stay respectable without the support of a hairnet. Despite this lack of decorum, the news quickened her pace further: he had arrived! Consequently, several of the pins holding the back of her hair loosened, hanging on for dear life as the Princess turned the corner and wound down the circular staircase. Through the warped, stained-glass windows, she could just make out several forms gathered in the courtyard. One man in particular, though distorted, was unmistakable. Cassian. Her heart leapt! After three whole years of waiting, he was finally here, just outside the grand doors! In her excitement, Dianna rounded the corner, colliding into the solid chest of a guard as he came the other way. An emerald-bedazzled pin dropped free from her hair, spilling a coil of honey-brown locks over her shoulder.
"Oh! Pardon me, sir," she apologized meekly, her smile undimmed although a fresh shade of pink tinged her cheeks. The moment's delay allowed Freya to catch up, and the maid captured the Princess' elbow.
Shyly, Dianna stepped back and averted her gaze from the guard, bobbing an apologetic curtsy. "Excuse us."
Forgetting the pin on the flagstones, the pair hurried off down the hall again, barely able to slip around the next corner before bursting into giggles.
"You're lucky that you have me in times like these," Freya muttered, aghast as she picked out the last rogue pin from her mistress's hair. Dianna smoothed any odd twists from the back, leaving only the crown-like braid untouched. Shaking her head at the scene, Freya smiled softly. "Princess, you become like a giddy milkmaid whenever Lord Hargate comes to mind," she commented, but her words turned into warning. "You should be more careful. Many of the new palace officers are from the outer territories. Things are different there, and they've not exactly been getting along with the soldiers from the inner territories."
Indignantly, Dianna once more began their walk down the hall, her nose slightly upturned at the suggestion. The entry way was just ahead, and mens' voices echoed around the polished stone. "Nonsense," she replied, distracted, "Both you and my Cassian are from the outer territories, and you two are the most angelic creatures ever to walk the earth."
Freya almost replied, but just then, the man himself passed into the palace.
"Cassian!" Dianna breathed as her eyes met his. He had grown taller, broader during their time apart, and he had let his hair grow so that the sleek black locks she loved could be tied into a loose tail over his shoulder. There was a nasty scar, too, one that striped across his forehead, but underneath were the same kind, puppy-dog eyes she'd known so well.
She didn't know how many times she'd dreamed of seeing his rectangular smile. Here, with the length of a room between them, it came, illuminating the crevices of her heart, the places that had so powerfully grieved over his absence that Dianna brought a hand to her chest in order to ease the ache. It was as if her feet had a mind of their own as she ran to him, wrapping her arms around his middle like the big tree he'd become. Cassian laughed in her ear, rubbing delicate circles where his hands naturally found her waist. "It's wonderful to see you too, Princess Dianna."
Leaning into him, Dianna blushed crimson, feeling every inch of the kiss he pressed into her hair. But before she could reply, a throat cleared behind them and Cassian released her. Sir Walsh, her Father's steward, had spectated the pair's interaction, and the man reproved them with an eye that might wake the dead.
"Lord Hargate," The steward addressed, "His Majesty will see you now."
"Of course," Cassian replied, winking at Dianna and tugging an ear as he left. A thrum of excitement pulsed through her at the old sign. Cassian would meet her tonight then, in the secret garden! If only there were less hours in a day.
As Freya guided her away from the new arrivals, Dianna floated on the tips of her toes, aimlessly weaving along the halls of the castle in complete bliss. Smiling, she blushed again, her skin tingling at the ghost of Cassian's touch. Worst of all was the kiss he'd planted on the crown of her head, the roots growing so deeply that a flower might have sprouted there if it had wanted to.
"Absolutely ridiculous." Freya mused.
Once Freya had, for the second time that morning, groomed her charge into a perfectly respectable young lady, she and Dianna broke a late nooning meal out in the gardens. Normally, the Princess might have enjoyed her favorite spot underneath one of the apple trees, but the increased presence of the soldiers these days was a bit unnerving, with all those wandering eyes! It was invasive enough already.
So here they were, hidden behind a length of hedge and rare blossoms, the princess with a heavy tome spread out across her lap, and the maidservant occasionally peeking over the hedge on her tiptoes. Dianna reached for a grape, holding the fruit between her teeth for a moment as she turned the page.
She chewed, contemplating the writing, then swallowed and looked up. "Do you suppose that imposing fear is necessary for a king to rule?" She asked, frowning slightly.
Freya, used to such questions, shrugged. "I don't dare wonder, your highness. It's not for me to think of," she replied, folding her hands behind her and examining a rose.
"I know," Dianna said, "But what if it was?"
Sighing, Freya obliged. "I think fear can be a powerful tool, my lady. There is a certain marketplace for it, and if a king doesn't utilize it, others might." Fear. The thought of selling it sent a chill up her spine. Was that what the rebel factions were up to? Selling fear to impose their agendas? Though her brows knit together, the actual issue seemed far away from her safe haven of flowers and jewels.
"Then what of integrity?" Dianna continued, "If a king imposes fear upon his subjects, would that not require consequences towards the people? War, unreasonable taxes, unjust decrees. . ."
Freya shook her head, leaving the flower to ease the book from the Princess' hands. "My lady, you shouldn't be thinking of such things. To be involved in state affairs. . . I'd hate to see what would become of your innocence." Dianna reached for her book again, but Freya withheld it. "The council would tear you apart, highness. Who would listen to a little girl like you, except when you sing?"
The princess reached again for her book, and this time, Freya relinquished the tome. "I shall simply have to weave my rhetoric into a song," she replied, sending her handmaid a determined look before finding her page. "I may be soft-spoken, but people will listen. You'll see."
As the day stretched, Dianna's mind wandered from the contents of the book. Cassian had promised that he would meet her in the garden, but how long did he expect her to wait? What was he doing that was so important? Surely, her father wasn't keeping him so long. But the sun climbed down the sky, and still, he did not come to meet her. When the light became too dim to read properly and the summer's evening air began to chill, Dianna finally stood. "I'll just have to go find him myself," she resolved, undimmed though the man was sorely late. Something very important indeed must be happening to keep Cassian from her!
The throne room seemed to be a likely place for activity, so Dianna went, Freya tagging along at her heels like always. As she approached the main entrance, the two guards blocked her path, crossing their spears before her. "I wish to see my father, please," Dianna requested, folding her hands before her.
The two guards exchanged a glance, and finally the one on the left cleared his throat. "Forgive us, your highness, but we have been ordered not to allow visitors at this time."
Dianna narrowed her eyes. "Visitors? I am no visitor. Please, step aside sir."
Sheepishly, the soldier glanced down at a speck on the floor, and her eyes followed his. It was an odd particle, dark as the color of her dress, but even as their eyes met once more, he did not move his staff. "With all due respect, my lady, we cannot let you pass."
Her heart dropped. My suspicions were correct, she thought, confirming that one of the guards' arms was bleeding from an uncut tunic. There is something going on. The two men stiffened under her gaze, but Dianna turned a left down the hall, purposely stepping onto the speck on the floor and disappearing out of sight.
Once they had gotten out of view and hearing distance, Freya snatched Dianna's elbow. "Let's go back to the room, princess," she begged, ghost-white. "You'll be safe there if something's happened."
Dianna ignored her. She crouched down and lifted her hem, sliding her foot out of its slipper and holding the footwear up to the sconce-light. The silken covering had soaked up the spot.
"Why, it looks like blood," Freya observed, fingers trembling as she traced the offending stain. Further down the hall, there was another spot, just as red as the others, and then another place, this one larger, where someone had hastily swiped a rag in an effort to clean. "Your highness? I don't like this," squeaked Freya, but Dianna pulled her along, slipper-in-hand.
The King's solar was the only other way to access the throne room, so the pair followed the trail of suspicion down the halls. That entrance, too, would be guarded, so instead of requesting entry, Dianna lifted up one of the floor-to-ceiling tapestries and slipped into the hidden passage underneath.
"I don't like this," Freya repeated. This time, her voice was barely a whisper as darkness engulfed them.
"Go then, if you want. I'm going to find out what's happening," Dianna replied, running her hand along the wall. Sure enough, Freya followed. Holding her slipper in front of her, the two soon came to the back of an enormous wooden hutch. Underneath, the light from the solar beyond flickered from a space big enough for a small girl to squeeze under.
Though it had been years since Dianna had used this place to access her father's solar, it was an easy enough task to follow the voices on her hands and knees and slide underneath the hutch. Dust tickled her nose, but once she discerned that there were no feet to be seen from the low vantage, she hauled herself, skirts and all, underneath the piece of furniture and out onto the soft, fur carpets.
The solar was mostly dark, except for the light coming from the open door leading to the throne room. Quietly, while Freya squeezed herself through the space, Dianna replaced her shoe. Then, without waiting for her maid, she crept forwards towards the gaping door.
In the throne room beyond, Cassian stood up on the dais, his back turned to her. How regal and stoic he looked from behind! Like a king. Kneeling before him was her father, crown-less, on the red-carpeted stone floor. That's odd, she thought. Candlelight from the chandeliers gleamed upon the sword in Cassian's hand, which was stained dark. Was it ink? Surely, it wasn't blood! Could a man stain a blade like that with an ink bottle? As she watched, the breath left her lungs, and her fingers stiffened around the doorframe.
With one mighty swing of his sword, Cassian, her beloved Cassian, stole the head off of her father's shoulders.
"Papa!"
The cry came unbidden to her lips, and Dianna's vision tilted, the weight of an elephant crashing upon her heart. She stumbled backwards into a side table, but her foot caught the leg and it was not sturdy enough to support her. Both she and the decorative instruments on top shattered onto the flagstones. Oh why had she come?
In a moment, his large shadow filled the doorway, the stench of blood wafting in with him. Freya shrieked, but from where the maid was, still stuck halfway under the hutch by shapelier hips, she could do nothing against the monster who advanced upon her mistress. "Run, Dianna!" Freya commanded, "Run!"
Dianna's veins remained frozen.
"It's a shame that you couldn't stay put, Dianna," Cassian thundered, the point of his sword skimming horribly across the flagstones. Inwardly, Dianna flinched at the sound, but still, vertigo claimed her. Cassian. My Cassian. Another gasp of pain escaped her as the shadow loomed above her. Fingers she had once known to be gentle wound vice-like around her throat. Confused, all strength drained from her, Dianna's feeble attempts to fend him off were rewarded with a backhand so strong that she tasted blood. To do it, he had let go, and that was when the bile rose. Retching, her head spinning, Dianna trembled, but she flinched again, red dripping down her chin, when that father-stained sword point turned towards her.
"Stupid girl; I would have married you," he spat, but the point of his sword wavered. There, past the killer in him, Cassian flickered. "I don't wish to kill you, Dianna. Still, you must die for what you have witnessed."
Did her ears betray her, or was there genuine sorrow in his tone? Herding her when her feet succeeded and dragging her when they failed, Cassian pulled her out into the throne room. Freya shrieked obscenities behind them, hutch rattling in the handmaid's effort to free herself. Tears squeezed from Dianna's eyes as Cassian pushed her down the dais stairs, past the two growing pools of red and through the doors where the two guards stood watch. There was a third man there now, one whom Dianna vaguely recognized through her haze of grief and pain as the man she had bumped into earlier. He was in on it, too?
"Keriell," Cassian snapped, tone weary as he thrust her into the man's hands. "What about, 'let no one pass' do you and your men not understand? I trust you will right this wrong and dispose of this woman properly."
Though he had shown his true colors, the words pierced Dianna, cutting through her as swiftly as any sword might. Sobs swelled, and she choked on her own tears, coughing the iron taste from her mouth in great, heaving fits.
"And you," Cassian commanded, turning on another soldier, "Take care of the maid in the solar."
Dianna shut her eyes against the pain twisting in her heart. It's all a dream, it's all a dream. But it wasn't a dream at all. It was very real, and as the soldiers accepted their orders and gaped at the state of the throne room, all she could see was Cassian's back as he strode down the hall.
Behind her, Freya's cries gurgled into nothing.
Cold rage pulsed through her blood, turning her lips into a thin, hard line. I'll kill you, Cassian. On my life, I swear it.
"Your highness!" her handmaid whined, huffing after her. "I haven't finished your hair!"
If it were anyone else arriving at the palace, Dianna might have turned around. After all, Freya had only finished the braid that circled around her head like a crown. The back had been pinned up to shoulder-length, but the style wouldn't stay respectable without the support of a hairnet. Despite this lack of decorum, the news quickened her pace further: he had arrived! Consequently, several of the pins holding the back of her hair loosened, hanging on for dear life as the Princess turned the corner and wound down the circular staircase. Through the warped, stained-glass windows, she could just make out several forms gathered in the courtyard. One man in particular, though distorted, was unmistakable. Cassian. Her heart leapt! After three whole years of waiting, he was finally here, just outside the grand doors! In her excitement, Dianna rounded the corner, colliding into the solid chest of a guard as he came the other way. An emerald-bedazzled pin dropped free from her hair, spilling a coil of honey-brown locks over her shoulder.
"Oh! Pardon me, sir," she apologized meekly, her smile undimmed although a fresh shade of pink tinged her cheeks. The moment's delay allowed Freya to catch up, and the maid captured the Princess' elbow.
Shyly, Dianna stepped back and averted her gaze from the guard, bobbing an apologetic curtsy. "Excuse us."
Forgetting the pin on the flagstones, the pair hurried off down the hall again, barely able to slip around the next corner before bursting into giggles.
"You're lucky that you have me in times like these," Freya muttered, aghast as she picked out the last rogue pin from her mistress's hair. Dianna smoothed any odd twists from the back, leaving only the crown-like braid untouched. Shaking her head at the scene, Freya smiled softly. "Princess, you become like a giddy milkmaid whenever Lord Hargate comes to mind," she commented, but her words turned into warning. "You should be more careful. Many of the new palace officers are from the outer territories. Things are different there, and they've not exactly been getting along with the soldiers from the inner territories."
Indignantly, Dianna once more began their walk down the hall, her nose slightly upturned at the suggestion. The entry way was just ahead, and mens' voices echoed around the polished stone. "Nonsense," she replied, distracted, "Both you and my Cassian are from the outer territories, and you two are the most angelic creatures ever to walk the earth."
Freya almost replied, but just then, the man himself passed into the palace.
"Cassian!" Dianna breathed as her eyes met his. He had grown taller, broader during their time apart, and he had let his hair grow so that the sleek black locks she loved could be tied into a loose tail over his shoulder. There was a nasty scar, too, one that striped across his forehead, but underneath were the same kind, puppy-dog eyes she'd known so well.
She didn't know how many times she'd dreamed of seeing his rectangular smile. Here, with the length of a room between them, it came, illuminating the crevices of her heart, the places that had so powerfully grieved over his absence that Dianna brought a hand to her chest in order to ease the ache. It was as if her feet had a mind of their own as she ran to him, wrapping her arms around his middle like the big tree he'd become. Cassian laughed in her ear, rubbing delicate circles where his hands naturally found her waist. "It's wonderful to see you too, Princess Dianna."
Leaning into him, Dianna blushed crimson, feeling every inch of the kiss he pressed into her hair. But before she could reply, a throat cleared behind them and Cassian released her. Sir Walsh, her Father's steward, had spectated the pair's interaction, and the man reproved them with an eye that might wake the dead.
"Lord Hargate," The steward addressed, "His Majesty will see you now."
"Of course," Cassian replied, winking at Dianna and tugging an ear as he left. A thrum of excitement pulsed through her at the old sign. Cassian would meet her tonight then, in the secret garden! If only there were less hours in a day.
As Freya guided her away from the new arrivals, Dianna floated on the tips of her toes, aimlessly weaving along the halls of the castle in complete bliss. Smiling, she blushed again, her skin tingling at the ghost of Cassian's touch. Worst of all was the kiss he'd planted on the crown of her head, the roots growing so deeply that a flower might have sprouted there if it had wanted to.
"Absolutely ridiculous." Freya mused.
Once Freya had, for the second time that morning, groomed her charge into a perfectly respectable young lady, she and Dianna broke a late nooning meal out in the gardens. Normally, the Princess might have enjoyed her favorite spot underneath one of the apple trees, but the increased presence of the soldiers these days was a bit unnerving, with all those wandering eyes! It was invasive enough already.
So here they were, hidden behind a length of hedge and rare blossoms, the princess with a heavy tome spread out across her lap, and the maidservant occasionally peeking over the hedge on her tiptoes. Dianna reached for a grape, holding the fruit between her teeth for a moment as she turned the page.
She chewed, contemplating the writing, then swallowed and looked up. "Do you suppose that imposing fear is necessary for a king to rule?" She asked, frowning slightly.
Freya, used to such questions, shrugged. "I don't dare wonder, your highness. It's not for me to think of," she replied, folding her hands behind her and examining a rose.
"I know," Dianna said, "But what if it was?"
Sighing, Freya obliged. "I think fear can be a powerful tool, my lady. There is a certain marketplace for it, and if a king doesn't utilize it, others might." Fear. The thought of selling it sent a chill up her spine. Was that what the rebel factions were up to? Selling fear to impose their agendas? Though her brows knit together, the actual issue seemed far away from her safe haven of flowers and jewels.
"Then what of integrity?" Dianna continued, "If a king imposes fear upon his subjects, would that not require consequences towards the people? War, unreasonable taxes, unjust decrees. . ."
Freya shook her head, leaving the flower to ease the book from the Princess' hands. "My lady, you shouldn't be thinking of such things. To be involved in state affairs. . . I'd hate to see what would become of your innocence." Dianna reached for her book again, but Freya withheld it. "The council would tear you apart, highness. Who would listen to a little girl like you, except when you sing?"
The princess reached again for her book, and this time, Freya relinquished the tome. "I shall simply have to weave my rhetoric into a song," she replied, sending her handmaid a determined look before finding her page. "I may be soft-spoken, but people will listen. You'll see."
As the day stretched, Dianna's mind wandered from the contents of the book. Cassian had promised that he would meet her in the garden, but how long did he expect her to wait? What was he doing that was so important? Surely, her father wasn't keeping him so long. But the sun climbed down the sky, and still, he did not come to meet her. When the light became too dim to read properly and the summer's evening air began to chill, Dianna finally stood. "I'll just have to go find him myself," she resolved, undimmed though the man was sorely late. Something very important indeed must be happening to keep Cassian from her!
The throne room seemed to be a likely place for activity, so Dianna went, Freya tagging along at her heels like always. As she approached the main entrance, the two guards blocked her path, crossing their spears before her. "I wish to see my father, please," Dianna requested, folding her hands before her.
The two guards exchanged a glance, and finally the one on the left cleared his throat. "Forgive us, your highness, but we have been ordered not to allow visitors at this time."
Dianna narrowed her eyes. "Visitors? I am no visitor. Please, step aside sir."
Sheepishly, the soldier glanced down at a speck on the floor, and her eyes followed his. It was an odd particle, dark as the color of her dress, but even as their eyes met once more, he did not move his staff. "With all due respect, my lady, we cannot let you pass."
Her heart dropped. My suspicions were correct, she thought, confirming that one of the guards' arms was bleeding from an uncut tunic. There is something going on. The two men stiffened under her gaze, but Dianna turned a left down the hall, purposely stepping onto the speck on the floor and disappearing out of sight.
Once they had gotten out of view and hearing distance, Freya snatched Dianna's elbow. "Let's go back to the room, princess," she begged, ghost-white. "You'll be safe there if something's happened."
Dianna ignored her. She crouched down and lifted her hem, sliding her foot out of its slipper and holding the footwear up to the sconce-light. The silken covering had soaked up the spot.
"Why, it looks like blood," Freya observed, fingers trembling as she traced the offending stain. Further down the hall, there was another spot, just as red as the others, and then another place, this one larger, where someone had hastily swiped a rag in an effort to clean. "Your highness? I don't like this," squeaked Freya, but Dianna pulled her along, slipper-in-hand.
The King's solar was the only other way to access the throne room, so the pair followed the trail of suspicion down the halls. That entrance, too, would be guarded, so instead of requesting entry, Dianna lifted up one of the floor-to-ceiling tapestries and slipped into the hidden passage underneath.
"I don't like this," Freya repeated. This time, her voice was barely a whisper as darkness engulfed them.
"Go then, if you want. I'm going to find out what's happening," Dianna replied, running her hand along the wall. Sure enough, Freya followed. Holding her slipper in front of her, the two soon came to the back of an enormous wooden hutch. Underneath, the light from the solar beyond flickered from a space big enough for a small girl to squeeze under.
Though it had been years since Dianna had used this place to access her father's solar, it was an easy enough task to follow the voices on her hands and knees and slide underneath the hutch. Dust tickled her nose, but once she discerned that there were no feet to be seen from the low vantage, she hauled herself, skirts and all, underneath the piece of furniture and out onto the soft, fur carpets.
The solar was mostly dark, except for the light coming from the open door leading to the throne room. Quietly, while Freya squeezed herself through the space, Dianna replaced her shoe. Then, without waiting for her maid, she crept forwards towards the gaping door.
In the throne room beyond, Cassian stood up on the dais, his back turned to her. How regal and stoic he looked from behind! Like a king. Kneeling before him was her father, crown-less, on the red-carpeted stone floor. That's odd, she thought. Candlelight from the chandeliers gleamed upon the sword in Cassian's hand, which was stained dark. Was it ink? Surely, it wasn't blood! Could a man stain a blade like that with an ink bottle? As she watched, the breath left her lungs, and her fingers stiffened around the doorframe.
With one mighty swing of his sword, Cassian, her beloved Cassian, stole the head off of her father's shoulders.
"Papa!"
The cry came unbidden to her lips, and Dianna's vision tilted, the weight of an elephant crashing upon her heart. She stumbled backwards into a side table, but her foot caught the leg and it was not sturdy enough to support her. Both she and the decorative instruments on top shattered onto the flagstones. Oh why had she come?
In a moment, his large shadow filled the doorway, the stench of blood wafting in with him. Freya shrieked, but from where the maid was, still stuck halfway under the hutch by shapelier hips, she could do nothing against the monster who advanced upon her mistress. "Run, Dianna!" Freya commanded, "Run!"
Dianna's veins remained frozen.
"It's a shame that you couldn't stay put, Dianna," Cassian thundered, the point of his sword skimming horribly across the flagstones. Inwardly, Dianna flinched at the sound, but still, vertigo claimed her. Cassian. My Cassian. Another gasp of pain escaped her as the shadow loomed above her. Fingers she had once known to be gentle wound vice-like around her throat. Confused, all strength drained from her, Dianna's feeble attempts to fend him off were rewarded with a backhand so strong that she tasted blood. To do it, he had let go, and that was when the bile rose. Retching, her head spinning, Dianna trembled, but she flinched again, red dripping down her chin, when that father-stained sword point turned towards her.
"Stupid girl; I would have married you," he spat, but the point of his sword wavered. There, past the killer in him, Cassian flickered. "I don't wish to kill you, Dianna. Still, you must die for what you have witnessed."
Did her ears betray her, or was there genuine sorrow in his tone? Herding her when her feet succeeded and dragging her when they failed, Cassian pulled her out into the throne room. Freya shrieked obscenities behind them, hutch rattling in the handmaid's effort to free herself. Tears squeezed from Dianna's eyes as Cassian pushed her down the dais stairs, past the two growing pools of red and through the doors where the two guards stood watch. There was a third man there now, one whom Dianna vaguely recognized through her haze of grief and pain as the man she had bumped into earlier. He was in on it, too?
"Keriell," Cassian snapped, tone weary as he thrust her into the man's hands. "What about, 'let no one pass' do you and your men not understand? I trust you will right this wrong and dispose of this woman properly."
Though he had shown his true colors, the words pierced Dianna, cutting through her as swiftly as any sword might. Sobs swelled, and she choked on her own tears, coughing the iron taste from her mouth in great, heaving fits.
"And you," Cassian commanded, turning on another soldier, "Take care of the maid in the solar."
Dianna shut her eyes against the pain twisting in her heart. It's all a dream, it's all a dream. But it wasn't a dream at all. It was very real, and as the soldiers accepted their orders and gaped at the state of the throne room, all she could see was Cassian's back as he strode down the hall.
Behind her, Freya's cries gurgled into nothing.
Cold rage pulsed through her blood, turning her lips into a thin, hard line. I'll kill you, Cassian. On my life, I swear it.
When he broke the surface, Eric sucked in a breath of air, tasting salt on his tongue. The princess sputtered beside him, coughing and resisting him until she nearly sank back down again. Eric deftly scooped her back, expertly supporting both his weight and hers by means of his legs and remaining arm.
"Shh, calm down. You're safe with me, princess," he soothed in deep tones, staring into her eyes. There was something different with her, and it wasn't just the glossy sheen of uncomprehending fear. But before he could decide exactly what, the commotion above him demanded attention.
"Pull her up, you imbecile!" Irvin was shouting, purple-faced from amidst the spectators. One of the lifeboats was lowered, and Eric swam her to it, hoisting her inside with a pair of gentle but solid hands along her arms, waist, and thighs. Once she was stable, he tilted the edge of the boat, pulling himself in with practiced hands and minimal flooding. Mister Chuck, the shantyman, and Derek reached for them, and Eric relinquished her to their care. Bradley was among them, and in a moment the academy graduate had shed his fine coat and draped it over her shoulders. The length spared her modesty, though she heaved on hands and knees for what was previously denied her.
Giving the men a slight nod of approval, Eric stepped onto the deck and crouched beside her. She said something in an accent he didn't recognize, though clearly a word here or there was english. She's too terrorized to speak correctly, he reasoned, wiping the salt from his eyes.
"Just look at the state of her!" Irvin bellowed, pushing his way through the crew. But strategically, he waited until the maid Lilith had led the Princess away under the guidance of young Bradley. Only then did his verbal assaults begin. He flicked his hand in the ladies' direction. "That's not the way a princess should be treated! Captain, I insist you discipline him!"
The Captain pushed his way through the men and gripped his saber, drawing it out a the furious shing. "Lindburg, I should have you hanged! Tearing the princess' dress like that! What else did you do with those filthy hands of yours?"
Eric stared up the point, palms out. "All due respect, sir, I couldn't have pulled her up otherwise."
"You've violated her modesty. There is no excuse. Take this man off my ship at once."
Chuck stepped forward."Captain, he's the First Mate. We need him to set sail."
"We'll find another to fill his position." He paused, settling on the impressive shoulders of Randy. "What about you? You'll do."
"I am not qualified, Captain," He grunted, words tainted by his thick accent.
"And you?" Offered the Captain to Derek.
"I will vouch for Sir Lindburg. There is not another seaman alive half as worthy, and I've known him since he was a boy. If we are to complete our journey within the allotted time, he must fulfill his commission."
"Preposterous." The Captain turned back to Eric, eyes narrowed. The seconds stretched to five, then ten.
"Very well, for the sake of the mission. But don't think you've gotten away with it. You will pay, Lindburg."
With a flick of his sword, the Captain headed for his cabin. But before he reached the door, he paused, turned back, and offered Eric a faux smile. "And Lindburg? Have this ship be ready to leave within the hour. If you're as good as these men believe, you should at least manage that."
Eric schooled his face into collected calm, though the beginnings of a scowl tugged at his lips. So, we're all to be punished for my judgement. Dripping, he stood, noting the paleness of his crew at the almost-impossible order. "Look alive; you heard the Captain. To posts, everyone."
After overseeing the immediately necessary tasks, Eric dripped towards his quarters. Below deck, he passed through the mess, where four long tables sat before the kitchens. There were several grates in the floor, each deep enough to store animals and prisoners alike, should the need arise. Now, though, the bleating of sheep and the clucking of chickens and geese were all that lived there. He turned down the dark corridor. It was cramped and dark, as all ships were, the only bits of light coming from the deck prisms stuck into the ceiling. On the port and starboard sides of the ship, there were two rooms, one for each shift of men, all full of hammocks. Already, one room was fairly full with the men who were off-duty. Between the storage room and the shared latrine rested his quarters.
When he opened the door, Eric was greeted with a space fit to be a broom cupboard. There was one hammock rigged up above, and a small, built-in desk in front of a porthole. Sighing, he tossed his jacket, which had been retrieved from the port, on the corresponding chair, taking a moment to rummage through his belongings in the water-tight trunk underneath the desk. Passing over the washbasin and soaps, candles, tools, and paper, he tugged out his second pair of clothes. Though carefully-mended and smart, the garb was simple and practical: a white linen tunic left open at the neck, and gray linen trousers.
Once he'd fought himself out the dripping ones and changed, he left the wet things on a hook by the door and left to take up his post once more. By the creak of the ship and the subtle shift of the bobbing pattern, Eric smiled. The tides were on their side, pulling them out from the dock in time for Ryland's deadline. The mainsail could not be unfurled until they were a safe distance from port, but until then, there was plenty to do.
"Officer on deck!" Yelled one of the crew as he climbed back up into the sunshine. They scrambled to form up, but Eric waved them back to their duties, returning their salutes with a hand tapped to his brow. Not much had happened in his absence, of which Eric was grateful for. He was just in time to ring the half-bell, which told the crew on duty how much longer their shift was. Each one was four hours long, marked by eight bells in half-hour intervals. Eric imagined that a bell every half hour for the entire trip would disturb both the princess and the captain, but it was something they'd have to get used to, just like the bob and sway of the ship.
"Look alive. Eight men on the windlass, top-middle off. Mister Andrew, take the helm, Mister Lawrence, make sail." As Eric called men by name, they took their places without objection. He pushed past Bradley, who stood over a running line. With only book smarts, the kid stood in awe, hands idle.
"Mister Derek, Mister Bradley," he ordered, "Take the stays." Derek could babysit, and on the long ropes, they'd get a good view of the action. More of his men hurried in finding their posts amongst the rigging and sailcloth.
As the first mate, he needed to keep track of everyone and the progress of every job: mentally calculating who might finish first and who might need help or a sharp word. An ideal crew could pace themselves and all finish in due order, but as a crew working together for the first time, Eric's keen eyes caught the discrepancies. Some were used to slower-paced crews, and these men lagged behind. Namely, the fresh academy graduates. Others, like Derek, put all of his weight and strength into the lines, having been used to efficient vessels and harsh commanders. Bradley, taking Derek's example, dug his feet in and grunted with effort, but the boy hadn't built enough muscle yet to keep up with the stripe-faced sailor. Eric helped where he could, letting his men do the work but showing more efficient ways to complete the tasks before them, never staying in one place for too long.
"Ready on the foremast!" Eric bellowed, his voice booming throughout the ship. At his command, forty voices parroted the order, and on his mark, the crew freed the foresail and the topsail from their ties, the crisp, white canvas snapping full with wind. Usually, it was the Captain who gave these orders and the First Mate only repeated them. Eric ignored the twinge of annoyance, though in truth, it was a blessing that the captain had chosen to stay in his cabin.
Once they were a fair distance out, Eric called up to the men on the next mast. "Ready on the main mast!"
Eric kept a keen eye above, watching as the eight men, four on either side of the ship, lay on their stomachs across the high cross sections of mast. On his mark, they let loose the knots. Eric heard it whistle as he paced to the other side. "What's the matter?" He called up, his hands on his hips and his eyes squinted upwards against the wind.
"The sail's stuck!" shouted a sailor up on the mast, "The knot's not loosening, there's not enough sail!"
"It's jammed!" Another panicked.
Eric cursed. The mast could crack if the sail remained half-unfurled like this for much longer.
In two steps, he bounded up onto the gunwale, grabbing hold of the rigging and climbing hand-over-hand to the topsail. The beam was full of men, but still, he passed over and around them like a monkey, agile and dextrous. Indeed, the sail was caught, the knot now pulled far out of reach. Standing perilously with both feet planted against the beam, he hung on to a rat line and leaned out over thin air, keeping himself steady only by his foot, strong grip, and experience.
"Watch your hands, Mister Shepherd," He warned the midshipman, pulling the smaller knife from the sheath on his belt. Reaching far down, he caught the line with the tip of the blade, and with a quick, strong flick of his wrist, the tie broke. The sail snapped into place, catching the wind with an eagerness that sent Derek and his team of men scrambling to turn them correctly.
The men along the beam cheered, but Eric picked a line on the mast and slid down, his feet hitting the deck with a thud. "We've got a lot of work to do, men. Let's try for no more mistakes."
"Shh, calm down. You're safe with me, princess," he soothed in deep tones, staring into her eyes. There was something different with her, and it wasn't just the glossy sheen of uncomprehending fear. But before he could decide exactly what, the commotion above him demanded attention.
"Pull her up, you imbecile!" Irvin was shouting, purple-faced from amidst the spectators. One of the lifeboats was lowered, and Eric swam her to it, hoisting her inside with a pair of gentle but solid hands along her arms, waist, and thighs. Once she was stable, he tilted the edge of the boat, pulling himself in with practiced hands and minimal flooding. Mister Chuck, the shantyman, and Derek reached for them, and Eric relinquished her to their care. Bradley was among them, and in a moment the academy graduate had shed his fine coat and draped it over her shoulders. The length spared her modesty, though she heaved on hands and knees for what was previously denied her.
Giving the men a slight nod of approval, Eric stepped onto the deck and crouched beside her. She said something in an accent he didn't recognize, though clearly a word here or there was english. She's too terrorized to speak correctly, he reasoned, wiping the salt from his eyes.
"Just look at the state of her!" Irvin bellowed, pushing his way through the crew. But strategically, he waited until the maid Lilith had led the Princess away under the guidance of young Bradley. Only then did his verbal assaults begin. He flicked his hand in the ladies' direction. "That's not the way a princess should be treated! Captain, I insist you discipline him!"
The Captain pushed his way through the men and gripped his saber, drawing it out a the furious shing. "Lindburg, I should have you hanged! Tearing the princess' dress like that! What else did you do with those filthy hands of yours?"
Eric stared up the point, palms out. "All due respect, sir, I couldn't have pulled her up otherwise."
"You've violated her modesty. There is no excuse. Take this man off my ship at once."
Chuck stepped forward."Captain, he's the First Mate. We need him to set sail."
"We'll find another to fill his position." He paused, settling on the impressive shoulders of Randy. "What about you? You'll do."
"I am not qualified, Captain," He grunted, words tainted by his thick accent.
"And you?" Offered the Captain to Derek.
"I will vouch for Sir Lindburg. There is not another seaman alive half as worthy, and I've known him since he was a boy. If we are to complete our journey within the allotted time, he must fulfill his commission."
"Preposterous." The Captain turned back to Eric, eyes narrowed. The seconds stretched to five, then ten.
"Very well, for the sake of the mission. But don't think you've gotten away with it. You will pay, Lindburg."
With a flick of his sword, the Captain headed for his cabin. But before he reached the door, he paused, turned back, and offered Eric a faux smile. "And Lindburg? Have this ship be ready to leave within the hour. If you're as good as these men believe, you should at least manage that."
Eric schooled his face into collected calm, though the beginnings of a scowl tugged at his lips. So, we're all to be punished for my judgement. Dripping, he stood, noting the paleness of his crew at the almost-impossible order. "Look alive; you heard the Captain. To posts, everyone."
. . .
After overseeing the immediately necessary tasks, Eric dripped towards his quarters. Below deck, he passed through the mess, where four long tables sat before the kitchens. There were several grates in the floor, each deep enough to store animals and prisoners alike, should the need arise. Now, though, the bleating of sheep and the clucking of chickens and geese were all that lived there. He turned down the dark corridor. It was cramped and dark, as all ships were, the only bits of light coming from the deck prisms stuck into the ceiling. On the port and starboard sides of the ship, there were two rooms, one for each shift of men, all full of hammocks. Already, one room was fairly full with the men who were off-duty. Between the storage room and the shared latrine rested his quarters.
When he opened the door, Eric was greeted with a space fit to be a broom cupboard. There was one hammock rigged up above, and a small, built-in desk in front of a porthole. Sighing, he tossed his jacket, which had been retrieved from the port, on the corresponding chair, taking a moment to rummage through his belongings in the water-tight trunk underneath the desk. Passing over the washbasin and soaps, candles, tools, and paper, he tugged out his second pair of clothes. Though carefully-mended and smart, the garb was simple and practical: a white linen tunic left open at the neck, and gray linen trousers.
Once he'd fought himself out the dripping ones and changed, he left the wet things on a hook by the door and left to take up his post once more. By the creak of the ship and the subtle shift of the bobbing pattern, Eric smiled. The tides were on their side, pulling them out from the dock in time for Ryland's deadline. The mainsail could not be unfurled until they were a safe distance from port, but until then, there was plenty to do.
"Officer on deck!" Yelled one of the crew as he climbed back up into the sunshine. They scrambled to form up, but Eric waved them back to their duties, returning their salutes with a hand tapped to his brow. Not much had happened in his absence, of which Eric was grateful for. He was just in time to ring the half-bell, which told the crew on duty how much longer their shift was. Each one was four hours long, marked by eight bells in half-hour intervals. Eric imagined that a bell every half hour for the entire trip would disturb both the princess and the captain, but it was something they'd have to get used to, just like the bob and sway of the ship.
"Look alive. Eight men on the windlass, top-middle off. Mister Andrew, take the helm, Mister Lawrence, make sail." As Eric called men by name, they took their places without objection. He pushed past Bradley, who stood over a running line. With only book smarts, the kid stood in awe, hands idle.
"Mister Derek, Mister Bradley," he ordered, "Take the stays." Derek could babysit, and on the long ropes, they'd get a good view of the action. More of his men hurried in finding their posts amongst the rigging and sailcloth.
As the first mate, he needed to keep track of everyone and the progress of every job: mentally calculating who might finish first and who might need help or a sharp word. An ideal crew could pace themselves and all finish in due order, but as a crew working together for the first time, Eric's keen eyes caught the discrepancies. Some were used to slower-paced crews, and these men lagged behind. Namely, the fresh academy graduates. Others, like Derek, put all of his weight and strength into the lines, having been used to efficient vessels and harsh commanders. Bradley, taking Derek's example, dug his feet in and grunted with effort, but the boy hadn't built enough muscle yet to keep up with the stripe-faced sailor. Eric helped where he could, letting his men do the work but showing more efficient ways to complete the tasks before them, never staying in one place for too long.
"Ready on the foremast!" Eric bellowed, his voice booming throughout the ship. At his command, forty voices parroted the order, and on his mark, the crew freed the foresail and the topsail from their ties, the crisp, white canvas snapping full with wind. Usually, it was the Captain who gave these orders and the First Mate only repeated them. Eric ignored the twinge of annoyance, though in truth, it was a blessing that the captain had chosen to stay in his cabin.
Once they were a fair distance out, Eric called up to the men on the next mast. "Ready on the main mast!"
Eric kept a keen eye above, watching as the eight men, four on either side of the ship, lay on their stomachs across the high cross sections of mast. On his mark, they let loose the knots. Eric heard it whistle as he paced to the other side. "What's the matter?" He called up, his hands on his hips and his eyes squinted upwards against the wind.
"The sail's stuck!" shouted a sailor up on the mast, "The knot's not loosening, there's not enough sail!"
"It's jammed!" Another panicked.
Eric cursed. The mast could crack if the sail remained half-unfurled like this for much longer.
In two steps, he bounded up onto the gunwale, grabbing hold of the rigging and climbing hand-over-hand to the topsail. The beam was full of men, but still, he passed over and around them like a monkey, agile and dextrous. Indeed, the sail was caught, the knot now pulled far out of reach. Standing perilously with both feet planted against the beam, he hung on to a rat line and leaned out over thin air, keeping himself steady only by his foot, strong grip, and experience.
"Watch your hands, Mister Shepherd," He warned the midshipman, pulling the smaller knife from the sheath on his belt. Reaching far down, he caught the line with the tip of the blade, and with a quick, strong flick of his wrist, the tie broke. The sail snapped into place, catching the wind with an eagerness that sent Derek and his team of men scrambling to turn them correctly.
The men along the beam cheered, but Eric picked a line on the mast and slid down, his feet hitting the deck with a thud. "We've got a lot of work to do, men. Let's try for no more mistakes."
Plots and Pairings:
Tragedy strikes when an enemy from the south begins to relentlessly attack Muse A's kingdom. With no other option, Muse A escapes the carnage to beg for aid at the doorstep of Muse B, who rules the neighboring kingdom. Will the deliverance of her people cost her everything?
Kingdom A and Kingdom B have a long history of alliance and trade, but when the monarch of Kingdom A is overthrown by an internal military coup, the commander-turned-king begins arresting the nobles for treason and executing them, innocent or not. Muse A is an accomplished singer who used to support the coup, having courted one of the new king's right hand men. But after seeing the blood of innocent friends, she's had a change of heart, but if she acts against the new monarchy, it will be her head next.
Muse B is a rich nobleman from Kingdom B who has begun to frequent the court of Kingdom A. With the reputation of a complete idiot, Muse B masks himself with pompous airs so that no one will suspect that he is the elusive bane of the new king's existence. Secretly, he has been rescuing some of the innocent nobles and bringing them back to his kingdom, but nobody suspects him because he always acts like there's sawdust between his ears.
After hearing Muse A sing at a party, Muse B is enchanted by her. But can he sweep her away, masked as the fool, or will he risk everything and drop the act?
Muse B is a rich nobleman from Kingdom B who has begun to frequent the court of Kingdom A. With the reputation of a complete idiot, Muse B masks himself with pompous airs so that no one will suspect that he is the elusive bane of the new king's existence. Secretly, he has been rescuing some of the innocent nobles and bringing them back to his kingdom, but nobody suspects him because he always acts like there's sawdust between his ears.
After hearing Muse A sing at a party, Muse B is enchanted by her. But can he sweep her away, masked as the fool, or will he risk everything and drop the act?
To resolve a feud, the King has decreed that Muse A must marry the neighboring baron, who had her brother killed. Distraught, her family allows her to slip away like a shadow on the eve of the wedding. The baron sends Muse B, his most skilled huntsman, after her. Will he succeed in dragging her back, or will she find a new destiny in the arms of a man who's already lost his freedom?
Knight x Princess
King x Princess
Huntsman x Princess
Prince/Princess x Decoy
Knight x Healer
Arranged marriage
Enemies to lovers
Duty-bound
King x Princess
Huntsman x Princess
Prince/Princess x Decoy
Knight x Healer
Arranged marriage
Enemies to lovers
Duty-bound
If none of these interest you, don't hesitate to suggest to me a plot or paring of your own! Feel free to expand on my ideas as well.
Please send a writing sample.
Thanks!
Last edited:
