forum "Won't you pull me from myself again?" (oxo, mlm fantasy, closed)
Started by @Indie
tune

people_alt 87 followers

@Indie

Disgraced Prince x Smitten Knight

In which the third prince of a kingdom, which we’ll call Coris, was born with a delicate constitution. Never quite as strong or fast as his brothers, unworthy to be noted as anything but “the spare to the spare”.

Even a weak prince, however, carries royal blood. And as the promise of war encroaches on the land, a personal knight is appointed to protect the youngest prince from threats that await outside the castle walls. Little does the knight realize that there is plenty of danger to be found within, and that the task of protecting the prince is not as black and white as he once thought.

The knight must make a choice: To follow the order of his ruler, or to follow the ruler of his heart.

Notes

Takes place in an Old Fantasy style setting with no modern technology. Magic exists, concentrated most strongly in those with royal blood. By Coris law, spellcasters who are not of royal blood must be carefully documented and monitored. Those who wield their magic freely risk imprisonment and having their power stripped from them.

I’ll be playing the prince, meaning it’s up to you to decide whether the knight has any magical talent, and if so, whether it is a known or hidden fact.

If you have any world-building ideas or suggestions for this, hit me up! I don’t have much set in stone at this moment.

Trigger Warnings
Expletives, blood and violence, emotional and/or physical abuse, & classism.

Rules
We're all mature here. Just be a decent person and we shouldn't have any issues! If you have questions, don't hesitate to ask.

I'm looking for a serious writer who isn't daunted by the idea of long passages of text or taking their own direction in the story. Response time doesn't really matter to me because I'll likely be inconsistent myself.

-

NAME Augustus Brent Sinnett
AGE Nineteen
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION Stands at 5’4”. Very thin and very pale; oftentimes a touch too pale to be considered the image of health. August has sunken eyes with circles beneath them that never seem to fully fade no matter how much sleep he gets. His hair is platinum blonde and wavy, long enough to cover his forehead at the front and to frame his cheeks on either side. His eyes are a pale blue, gray in certain lighting. Picrew here! (Not entirely accurate, but close enough. Keep in mind his hair and eyes are lighter than shown here.)
PERSONALITY Clumsy, insecure, eager to please, optimistic, inquisitive, & kind.
OTHER (1) His magic, like himself, is considered weak for a royal. August possesses the ability to conjure spirits made of mist, though he lacks the skill to call upon any larger than a house cat. (2) In spite of his constitution, he regularly undergoes the same training as his siblings. He's familiar with elements of the blade, archery, and horseback riding, though it's clear he doesn't hold a candle to his older brothers. (3) Coris is a kingdom known for military might. As such, the royal family is not mere decoration with inflated authority. Each member is deadly in their own right.

You can use the same format to post your character or use one of your own, I don't have a preference.

@Indie

(I would love to have you! And you're more than welcome to post a character whenever you're ready. If you have any questions, just let me know.)

@lavender_ladybug group

Name: Wolfram "Wolf" the Reliable
Age: 22
Appearance: Stands at 6'1". Broad and sturdy, equal parts muscled and portly. Fair skinned. Tanned on his face and neck, which are also littered with sunspots. A very faint, small scar beside his left eye. Honey brown irises. Sports a rpinded beard. Voluminous, brown/nearly black hair that falls between his shoulder blades when let down, though it's usually tied back. His hands are large and calloused with several scars, mostly on the back of his hands.
Personality: Altruistic, loyal, reliable. Rather sensitive for a knight, but he learned to keep certain inconvenient emotions hidden during his squire years. His stoicism is typically reserved for authority figures. While he honors and respects his superiors, they are not privy to his charismatic and affectionate personality that he offers everyone else.
Other: Born to a high ranking noble family; earmarked and destined to be a knight from his childhood.
If Wolf has any magic running in his blood he doesn't know about it, and has no desire to find out.
He enjoyed his life as a page. He fondly remembers the time he picked up a wooden sword for the first time in his small seven-year-old hands. When it was time to be a squire, though, he enjoyed it far less. The knight he followed was less than patient and quick to discipline.

@Indie

(He's perfect! Perhaps literally. Also, "August & Wolf" sorta sounds like it could be a popular TV show name! I'm working on a starter now, I should have it up by tonight.)

@Indie

(I miscalculated and forgot I have to be in at work early tomorrow morning, so I'm going to try and have it up by tomorrow instead. Just a heads up!)

@Indie

(I'm late, but here it is! I'm starting it off before Wolfram is officially appointed to be August's personal knight (which, fun fact, is a title called "Knight of the Body" if you didn't already know!), just to give them a chance to meet before circumstances demand it. Wolf probably already knows he's going to be appointed to one of the princes, but not which one—unless of course you'd rather he didn't know, which is perfectly fine also!)


It’s another beautiful day in Coris. There’s hardly a cloud to mar the wide stretch of blue above, nor the sun gently warming the land below. The wind carries a promise of chill; a sign that autumn is fast approaching.

It’s another beautiful day, thinks Augustus, though he only has time to admire the beauty for himself in the clear reflection of polished steel streaking towards his head.

The prince drops beneath the blade, raising a leadened arm to parry another attempt to clobber him with the flat edge of his sword. His knees tremble from the awkward crouch, but he pushes through the discomfort and rises once more. His own sword flashes in the sunlight while sweat drips from his brow, threatening to break his focus.

It’s the longest he’s held himself against Horace in a long while. His brother must know this, too, because a concentrated scowl splits the older prince’s face. Behind him their sword instructor watches impassively, every now and again offering corrections to their form or technique. He’s been silent for a few minutes.

The two combatants regard each other carefully, and August feels a twinge of pride to know he’s being seen as a genuine threat.

Then a loud clang rings out from the other side of the training grounds. August starts, his eyes straying to see what had caused it, and realizes his mistake too late.

His eyes widen and he pivots on his foot to fend off Horace’s attack, but it’s futile. He sees the wide grin on his brother’s face and then all at once the large expanse of blue sky. This time it’s no reflection.

The wind is knocked out of him as he lands hard on his back, and he gasps fruitlessly for air to fill his lungs. Footsteps rush over to him, then a pair of hands grab his shoulders and try to right him. He doesn’t have the heart to push Lettie away, so he bears the touch until he’s finally able to collect his breath.

Panting, he lifts his head to see Horace sneering down at him. Ashamed, August averts his eyes.

“…My prince?”

Only now does he register that Lettie is speaking to him. The ringing in his ears slowly subsides, and he swallows. His throat is dry. “A… Apologies, Lettie. Would you repeat that for me?”

The attendant studies him for a moment, lips pressed together so that they form a stern line. Before she can speak again, another voice cuts in.

“Are you well enough to continue, my lord?”

It’s the training instructor, and a feeling of inadequacy settles deeper into August’s chest at the clear look of disappointment in his eyes.

Rather than answer, the youngest prince pushes himself to his feet once again. It’s more difficult than it was a moment ago, and he sways dangerously into Lettie. He thanks her quietly, subdued, when she steadies him and keeps his gaze fixed on the ground until the dizziness passes.

“I can keep going,” he says, forcing himself to meet the man’s eyes.

He senses Lettie’s disapproval at his answer, but much as he wishes to please the older woman, it’s imperative that he does not miss any more of his training.

Lettie gives them a brief, if reluctant, curtsy and falls back to where August knows she’ll be waiting if he needs help. He loves her, truly, but he wishes she wouldn’t intervene. He makes enough of a spectacle on his own, let alone when she rushes in to care for him like that.

Bending down to retrieve the sword he dropped, he sends a quick word of thanks to the gods that Horace had only struck him with the pommel this time. Though his chest aches and is surely already blossoming into a troubling bruise, it’s far better than an urgent visit to the healers.

Heavens know he spends too much time with them already.

August wobbles to the side of the practice area, ignoring the voices raised in laughter as he passes his brothers. Rufus, who had been a silent bystander throughout his spar with Horace, now cackled, “Did you see his face? He needed his nursemaid to stand him up, gods help him!”

Flushing in embarrassment, Augustus tightens his grip on his sword and refuses to look at them. On the other end of the field he spots a handful of pages scrambling to clean up a mess of spilled training equipment. Clearly that had been the source of his distraction, though it no longer matters.

Behind them, he catches the gaze of a knight—one he does not recognize at first glance—watching the princes’ training intently. He must be newly appointed, he thinks, or perhaps returning from another post. August is used to being watched, and as such, pays him little mind.

Rufus steps forward at the instructor’s command and Augustus’ attention follows, slipping away from thoughts of the knight altogether.

—brief timeskip—

August’s ribs ache as he shuffles over to sit in the shade of the castle wall, half falling to his butt instead of the graceful descent he had planned. A puff of breath escapes him and his eyelashes flutter shut for a moment as he wards off another wave of discomfort.

Sweat beads on his forehead and he can feel the flush on his cheeks in spite of the mild weather. His entire body pulses in time to his heartbeat, and he knows he’s more than passed his limit for the day.

Lettie was right. I shouldn’t have overdone it, he thinks, expecting to feel regret over his prideful—and rather pointless—stand. Instead, he feels numb with bone deep exhaustion and a sense of failure.

The rest of the training was less intensive than his match with Horace, at least, with August only sparring once more with Rufus before its end. Even that, however, was more than enough for him to accumulate a few more welts and minor bruises. His brothers, as usual, were not accustomed to showing mercy, even to him. Perhaps especially to him.

Slowly leaning back on his hands and sighing, August opens his eyes to watch the few roaming clouds above—and starts at the sight that meets him instead.

It’s the knight from before, the long hair and staggering height unmistakable as he stands beside him.

August freezes, feeling very small where he sits. After a conflicted pause he relaxes, an equal mix of caution and curiosity in his eyes. “What brings you over here, Sir Knight?” he asks.

@lavender_ladybug group

(Okedokes! That all sounds good to me!)

Despite his initial reticence, Wolfram found that there were some notable benefits to being a knight that was stationed at the castle. The training grounds, for one, were some of the most fine he's had the privilege to swing a sword in. As a page, his master's estate would never have been big enough to accommodate a space like this—or even Wolf's family's courtyard. The young pages who swung wooden swords and shoved their friends cared so little about where they do so.

While Wolfram observed, the older squires primarily instructed and disciplined, but he enjoyed offering a tip here and there. He liked to think the kids appreciated his company too. Many of the other knights, older than Wolfram, might be described as gruff—to say the least. Eight-year-olds rarely had thick skin.

"Wolf! Wolf…look…what I found," said one young page, his statement sparsed with heavy breaths from running. He presented his cupped hands up towards the knight, who had to kneel to eye the worm. It was wriggling around in protest of its unjust capture.

"Ah, I see you have a…worm, hm?" The boy smiled proudly in response. "Did you perchance find this worm while you were meant to be practicing your lunges with Carle over there?" The boy's smile dimmed, turning sheepish instead. "Well, how about I—"a pause to bolster himself–"hold this for you while you go get yourself a sword?"

The boy seemed to find this solution acceptable, if not very much fun. He nodded, transferring the worm into Wolfram's hands. Wolf stifled a shudder, at least until the boy was on his way to the training equipment, and placed the worm in his pouch that hung at his side.

In the meantime, Wolfram looked past the pages and across the grounds to a sparring match between two princes. That's right. He'd forgotten the primary reason he'd even come to the training grounds again after his own session. The princes. He was meant to guard…one of them. No one had specified which yet.

A loud clatter startled him out of his thoughts. Wolf snapped his head towards the sound. It didn't take him long to identify the boy from earlier standing in front of the mess with a wooden sword, but it appeared another boy had crashed into the equipment while sparring. One of the squires barked at the pages to clean up the mess.

With the situation handled, Wolf glanced back at the princes. A flash of concern sparked in his chest at the sight of the youngest prince on the ground. He stood up straighter, narrowing his gaze to focus on the scene. His concern subsided as the prince stood up. He could hear the faint sounds of laughter. Their eyes might have met. Otherwise, Wolf simply watched the rest of their fight.


Later, when the pages had left the training grounds, and there was nothing left to do in the day except to wander until supper, Wolfram noticed Prince Augustus sitting against the castle wall, eyes closed. He'd done well during training—his resilience was extraordinary. Wolf admired that. Now the prince just looked utterly drained.

He'd been assigned to guard the prince. Which prince, he didn't know, but maybe this one needed him now. So Wolfram took his post, one arm at his side and another hand on the hilt of his sword. He stared forward until Augustus spoke. At that, he angled his body towards the prince and bowed.

"Your Highness. It appeared to me as if you required an escort." His speech was stilted, almost reheared. Although not without flecks of emotion during his next sentance. "I would be appalled with myself if I were the type of man who left a man of your station alone without offering assistance. I apologize for being forward if that is not the case, and I will take my leave at your request."

@Indie

(Wolf is absolutely adorable with kids omg)

"Ah," he says, softly and colored with a tinge of uncertainty. August threads his fingers through the grass beneath them, a betrayal of his nerves as he considers the knight's words.

After training he's often left to his own devices; a routine he appreciates because of the toll it takes on his body. Usually he finds somewhere quiet to sit and recoup until Lettie arrives to spirit him away to his room—or worse, to the infirmary. As unpleasant a thought as it is, it's not nearly as daunting as someone unfamiliar witnessing the aftermath of his bullheadedness.

He wonders if this knight has already heard about it.

His illness is a poorly-kept secret, August knows. Though his father, the King, would prefer to keep such matters private so as not to announce such a failure of a son to any enemies of the crown, it's hardly practical for an entire kingdom to keep silent for a near two decades. No, it would have been easier if he had died as a child, or perhaps even better if he had never been born at all.

The hostility of the thought surprises him—it doesn't sound like his own thoughts speaking in that moment—and he abruptly realizes he still hasn't given the knight an answer.

He's already witnessed my loss here today, and he seems quite genuine. Suddenly, the thought of sitting on the ground, alone and waiting for his frenzied nursemaid to retrieve him, seems unappealing. Besides, this knight has a pleasant voice and a sense of calmness to him that he rarely encounters in others. He sort of wants to bask in it.

"Well, I would hardly wish to challenge your integrity by way of declining," he responds in an equally formal manner, a half smile on his face as he looks up at the man. "However, I'm afraid I am quite unable to stand at this moment. I need a few minutes to regather my strength before I am to be escorted anywhere." He pauses, pulling his legs closer to himself with effort he tried to disguise. "I assure you, no matter my station, you are under no true obligation to wait on me. But, if you would like to wait with me until that time, then I would not be opposed to the company."

August tilts his head. "If you don't mind my asking, honest knight, would you tell me your name? I hope I do not appear ignorant by saying so, but I do not recognize your face."