Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

[Pepsionne]

THE ACROBAT.

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PERCY

GRIFFIN

MOOD

WISTFUL

OUTFIT

Velvet King

LOCATION

THE HAVEN INN

MENTIONS

MENTIONS !!

INTERACTS

TAGS!!

CUT — SWEET PILL.

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WHO AM I WHEN I FEEL?

What dies in me when I am me?

CHAPTER TWO.

There was a lot Percy missed about the traveling troupe. Not that he’d admit it, of course, but his rocky adjustment to life outside his home spelled truths he went lengths to hide. One of them being the near constant rumble of conversation, laughter and foolery. The troupe was a lively place--even the thinnest of silences unable to find enough traction to stick.

Lying here, in the inn, the silence pressed down on Percy’s chest with the reminder of his isolation. Pushed aside after his injury, the acrobat had been burdened with so much loneliness that he was beginning not to know what to do with it. Aching fingers begged for relief from the hidden rage he carried, yet they were unwilling to let go. So instead he broiled in silence, like a dying star crying out in the vacant cradle of space.

The room had a wine induced spin. He squeezed his eyes tightly but relief escaped him still. His mind swayed with the pulling waves of his inebriation.

“I did not mean to disturb, I’ve brought a spot of tea.”

Incoordination plagued the movement of Percy’s limbs in the attempt to haul himself upright. He stopped until he merely propped himself on his elbows, eyes unfocused and bleary. Grey fabric shifted in a nonexistent wind.

“What do you want most in this world? More than anything else?”

“I--” The words stalled in Percy’s throat. What did he want? What didn’t he want? Wealth, fame, admiration and respect. Luxury goods he had only observed in the shop windows of Sirocco.

The oddity of the figure appearing in his room with such a request was lost on him. Whether it was reason smothered under the haze of alcohol or his desires leaping before his judgment, the panic of a sudden intruder had bypassed him.

Before the man could answer the figure with the wave of desires that swarmed up within him, the fabric of the room began to shift and change. Glassy eyes widened from the disorientation of the new space. He must be hallucinating, surely. What was in that wine? Had he been drugged?

Softly, almost as if building upon itself so as not to scare him with its intensity, the ambient hum of a chant filled the room. Cheers, cries and loving exclamations of a name--his name. “Percy! Percy! Percy!”

The small yet homely room he had stumbled into earlier in the night was no more. Instead, an arena dimmed in shadow. He could make out the forms of faceless bodies, merely heaps of wavering shadow and noise. Only one spot of light existed beneath the grand tent he now found himself in. And that light shone on only one person. Percy.

If not for the shock that paralyzed the young acrobat, Percy would’ve started crying. This was--home. Everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever dreamed of. The troupe did need him. The stands were packed with devoted fans to him alone. He was a star.

A nudging presence at his elbow, the figure having appeared at his side. They stretched arms with a soundless, nearly otherworldly movement. The tea hovered in Percy’s direct line of sight.

Percy drinks the tea.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[ComplexDragon]

THE MAGPIE.

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Azzara

TALLULAH

ㅎㅎ

mood

Distressed, Angry, Disoriented

OUTFIT

Typical Tallulah

LOCATION

HER ROOM (SORT OF)

MENTIONS

NONE

INTERACTS

That bitch Helga

THIEVES - Sammy Rae

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CHILD OF THIEVES

oh drunken gods of slaughter
you know I've always been
your
favorite daughter

CHAPTER THREE. PART TWO

Tallulah was familiar with the feeling of floating - of being suspended between two separate worlds. Somehow both in her body and outside of it all at once. She could not recall her first experience, but she was sure she was young, and it had happened so far in the past that it might as well not have happened at all. For all she could recall, it had always been this way.

This time, she was staring at the ceiling, tracing the stucco and letting her mind waver in and out of consciousness. Like a tide surging upon the shore before being ripped back into the endless ocean.

There was suddenly a disturbance—a ruffling, the clinking of china, and the scent of warm, chamomile tea. Not just any. It triggered something deep in her subconscious—a longing, paired with the acrid taste of regret. Of all the things she shoved in a chest and locked far away. Buried and dead, but suddenly screaming back to life in violent color.

She sat up straight, digging her fingers into the rough worn blanket beneath her. “What the hell-”

Tallulah was sure she’d locked the door. So how had this woman managed to get inside?

“I did not mean to disturb. I brought a spot of tea.” Despite the friendly lilt of her voice, something about how she observed Tallulah with sharp, yellow eyes set her nerves on edge. The younger woman slid off the bed and reached for the dagger strapped to her thigh.

She unsheathed it with swift accuracy. “Get out of my room.” She spoke the words with as much force as she could. Covering herself in the blanket of her stories. But still, the older woman sat, stirring her tea. And with each clink of spoon on china, the little Magpie’s resolve began to splinter. Like a nail fracturing once unbreakable glass.

“Tallulah Giovanella Azzara. What is it you fear most?”

Her veins turned to ice. The world spun on its axis. How did this woman know her name? Not just her name, but her full name. The name no one but her mother used so many lifetimes ago. But before she could say anything the room began to morph and shift. Shattering and restitching itself together. Tallulah staggered backward, chest tightening and breath coming in short bursts.

Had she already been poisoned? What was happening?

Suddenly, she was standing in the staggering luminescence of the sun. She squinted her eyes and tried to shield them with her hands but something kept them bound behind her back. The ground beneath her bare feet was solid wood. A stage perhaps. As her eyes adjusted to the onslaught of light, she found herself in front of a crowd.

There were easily a hundred or more. And they all looked murderous. She couldn’t name any, but for some reason, they looked familiar. As if she had met them in another time or another place.

Was this a performance? Maybe they were furious because their performer was not performing. She tried to move her hands again, but they would not budge. There was no music, just a distant rumble and the sinking feeling that this was some sort of waking nightmare. She looked behind her back for the source of the restriction when her heart lept into her throat.

Her wrists and hands were bound by shackles and chains, and somehow her feet were rooted to the ground where she stood. She started to tremble, whipping her head around for some sign. What is this?

But she’d put on a great show in worse circumstances, so now was the time to rely on all that hard-won training.

She opened her mouth to sing but no melodies poured forth. Only aching, acrid silence. Her stomach dropped to her feet.

No.

Suddenly there was the loud bang of a gavel. And a man in long, flowing robes stared down at her from a large podium with ire in his eyes. The rest of his face remained hidden behind a sheet of black.

Her clothes had transformed into rags. As if they had been pieced together with scraps of old dresses. And they smelled of chamomile, beer, smoke, and poor decisions - burning her eyes, nose, and throat with hundreds of memories.

“Thus begins the trial of Tallulah Azzara. Will the first accuser step forward?”

A trial. A trial. A trial. The word echoed in her mind like a drum harkening the end times. The one word she’d prayed she’d never hear. She would not go back in a cage. She couldn’t. She’d worked too hard to go back now. She wanted to run, hide, close herself off, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t do anything but stand there like some useless prey animal frozen in front of the face of certain death.

The stage shook and creaked as a woman dressed in a revealing outfit climbed the stairs slowly. Curly auburn hair framed her gaunt face. Despite the lifetimes of distance, Tallulah would never be able to scrub the memories away. Her throat tightened. Was this a reckoning? Had her mother come to rescue her after all these years? “Mother? Please you have to help me.”

Seraphine’s eyes locked on Tallulah and she pointed a shaky finger at her. “That rat ruined my life! She couldn’t do one little thing I asked of her. She was a useless wretch the day she came into this world, and she’ll continue to be until you purge this scourge from the earth.”

The crowd rumbled in protest.

“No. Stop. Please.” Tallulah tried to shut her eyes or turn away, but she’d lost control of her faculties. She could do nothing but stand and watch and listen. She had been bound, body, mind, and soul. And everything screamed in her to be released. She hadn’t meant to hurt her. It wasn’t on purpose.

“Guilty!” The judge shouted.

“What? No!” Tallulah screamed as the shackles around her wrists tightened. “No. No. Stop.”

The crowd raged and pelted objects at her from all sides - the kind of punishment befitting a criminal such as herself. When the crowd finally lowered their arms and quieted, the judge spoke again. “Thus begins the trial of The Starling. Will the first accuser step forward?”

What? There was the familiar jangle of cheap bells and bangles. She dropped her gaze to the fabric draped over her hips, thighs, and legs. It was a multitude of fabrics and colors. The skirt Gwendolyn had gotten her when she was twice as small. Her head was wrapped in a distinct yellow scarf.

Her stomach roiled; her heart thundered in her ears.

Suddenly, a mass of fifteen people stood before her. Her entire troupe. All in their regalia, just as the last time she had seen them - Gwendolyn at the helm.

Hope sprung up in her chest. They had saved her once before. Perhaps they had come to rescue her. To take her back into their fold and nurse her back to health. Get her away from this hellscape. “Please. Please, Gwendolyn. Marius. Someone. Tell them the truth!”

She’d only stolen to get by. Well, that wasn’t exactly true, but it was for the most part. Those people didn’t need all their things. They could never miss them.
“The truth, Starling, you deserved to get arrested and we left you because you became a liability.” Gwendolyn stared her down, fire raging underneath her cool exterior. “You are a thief, a deceiver, and a liar. You put us all in jeopardy for what? A little extra cash? A little extra glory?”

Tallulah shook her head, desperation clawing at her insides. “It was a mistake. I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s not enough, foolish girl!” Gwendolyn spat at her. “You were not worth saving.”

The crowd raged, and Tallulah’s heart shattered into a million pieces. The world as she knew it was falling apart in front of her. Gwendolyn and the troupe swarmed her, pulling at her clothes until they fell to the floor in a ruined pile of scraps. The only remainder of her life with them. The judge screeched. “Guilty!”

Ruffle of cloth, finger pointing, crowd raging. “Lavinia Montgomery - Guilty!”

Ruffle of cloth, finger pointing, crowd raging. “Madeline Lamont - Guilty!”

Ruffle of cloth, finger pointing, crowd raging. “Raisha Salam - Guilty!”

Ruffle of cloth, finger pointing, crowd raging. “Kathleena Barley - Guilty!”

On and on the crowd came forward, one after another, revealing themselves to be her victims. The people she wronged over the years. Each one of her identities and stories was ripped from her chest and set out in front of everyone, raw, rotted, and bleeding. Until there was nothing but a sad little shell.

And perhaps whatever magic held her up finally released, or the pain was too great because she dropped to her knees and clawed at her hair, nails digging into her scalp. “Make it stop. Make it stop. Please.”

“Oh little Magpie, I do hate to see you this way.” Silky soft voice grazed over her ears, sending a jolt of energy up her spine. It was familiar, comforting, alluring. A finger gently lifted her face skyward. “I can make it all go away. I just need you to drink this and the pain will stop. You can come back to me. Back to where it’s safe.”

Wait. Her eyelids fluttered open and she was face to face with icy blue eyes and sandy blond hair. Carrow Brollot held a cup in front of her face. He smiled with that same charismatic charm he used on her before. And while all she wanted was to fall back into his arms - into the arms of the one person who really cared, reason came screaming back to life. Blood pounded in her ears, and she glanced down at the china.

The same one from the room.

Realization struck her like a bolt of lightning. It was a trick. A trap. None of this was real. Or if it were, the tea would not be her way out.

She would not be caged again.

So she did what she didn’t do before. And she lunged for it - him.

[X] She attacks

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Pepsionne]

THE HUNTSMAN.

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MAGNUS

MOOD

BROODING

OUTFIT

Black obvs

LOCATION

THE HAVEN INN

MENTIONS

MENTIONS !!

INTERACTS

SIMPLE HARP VARIATION NO. 1 — MARTIN PHIPPS.

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DEATH TWITCHES MY EAR

"Live," he says,
"I am coming."

CHAPTER TWO.

There was a pointed crack to every meeting of his heel against the inn flooring. As if he could drill his way through to the room beneath him. His anger sat heavy across broad shoulders. It pushed his steps heavier and heavier until the floor began to tremble in anticipation for each step that was to come next.

The Blood Warden. A whispered bounty among hunters. It was almost too good to be true given the sheer zeroes that followed its mighty number. But Magnus knew it was no fairytale. He had seen faint markings of the Blood Warden’s trail. Whether it be a town shocked into a cold stasis, a missing bounty hunter who had previously been thought to strike something large. The clues were there. All he had to do was entrust that Ren wasn’t bluffing in the face of death.

No matter. The man let out a deep sigh and allowed himself to sit on the edge of the inn bed. His back was rigid, posture set in stone and muscles coiled in a trained inability to become anything other than ready to pounce. If Magnus caught Ren in a lie, it was easy enough to claim the original bounty he had set his eyes on. Grey eyes became an onyx vortex, intensity snaking through them. How pretty it would be indeed, to see dark crimson paint the canvas of Ren’s tanned throat.

Magnus’ expression twitched momentarily. Following his failure to collect tonight--he would not let the sticky sense of familiarity to slow his judgment again. Ren was a bounty, simple as that. And Magnus would do what he did best. Collect.

“I did not mean to disturb, I’ve brought a spot of tea.”

A tiger coiled to pounce on unsuspecting prey, Magnus had sprung from his position on the bed before his mind could process the threat that had appeared in the corner of the room. Grey fabric kissed the edge of his outstretched blade in an invisible breeze.

Who was this stranger? How had they gotten in here without him noticing? The door was firmly locked, window closed and curtains tightly drawn. Though given the otherworldly nature of his new guest, Magnus allowed his mind to release its grip on the how and instead focus on the what. What did this figure want? What did they want with him, specifically?

“What do you fear most in this world? More than anything else?”

His features furrowed into a sour disdain. Him? Afraid? Nonsense. Fear had been evicted from its tenant within his nervous system long ago. Even fear of death found it tricky to angle itself properly. Magnus welcomed death--most fear wrapped tangled strings to that singular concept.

“I don’t fear anything,” He stated. Magnus’ voice was cold. A grit lined the timbre of it, causing the words to nearly growl from the depths of his throat.

The figure didn’t respond. They sat unresponsive in their same position, uncaring to the knife Magnus angled at what he could only assume was their throat. They balanced a cup of tea in their hands with a steadiness that hinted at not only a lack of fear towards death, but a complete unfamiliarity with the concept itself.

A sharp heel clacked against polished stone. The sound bounced against the walls of his tiny room, mounting upon itself until there were a thousand instances of it, all playing one after the other.

Magnus tore his eyes from a focus on the figure. His inn room was--no more. Instead, the room had become damp and dark. Shadow dripped into the room with a liquid viscosity, drenching everything except the dull flicker of a torch hovering at the seam of the door.

He turned just as the door opened, grey eyes like bleached moons.

“I’ve missed you, my pet,” A voice purred.

Without hesitation, Magnus attacks.

♡coded by uxie♡