Description

"How we perceive the world around us determines the outcome of what it is we choose to see or not see."

The Basics

Full Name:
Lady Priscilla Augusta Edwards

|| Nicknames ||
She has few nicknames besides terms of endearment that her father calls her by. Behind her back, others often call her more hurtful terms.

|| Gender ||
Female

|| Age ||
Sixteen

|| Rank/Title ||
Soon, she shall be Queen and bear that title, but until then, she is merely a noblewoman who often uses her father's rank in her favor.

||Sexual Orientation ||
She has yet to be in a relationship that wasn't heterosexual, so she's still questioning.

Kingdom/Alliance:
Falor or whatever her father tells her it is

What's on the Outside

[img]ImgOrGif[/img]

|| Hair Color ||
Her hair is a dark brown, much like her mother's.

|| Eye Color ||
Unlike her hair, Priscilla inherited her hazel eyes from her father.

|| Height ||
Five feet, three inches

|| Weight ||
One hundred, twenty-five pounds

|| Scars ||
Despite sixteen years of life, Priscilla's skin remains unblemished. Perhaps one might find a small mark or two from a misplaced needle, but other that that, she has always taken good care of herself physically and overall avoids injury as best as she can. Her father is partially the reason she stays out of harm's way, too.

|| Description || Insert description of character. At least one detailed paragraph description (jaw shape, body shape, wrinkles, etc.)

What's on the Inside

Personality:
{Childish, Decadent, Vindictive, Dramatic}
The daughters of nobility are meant to be three things and three things only: charming, beautiful, and fertile. Beyond the mask that society requires, there need be nothing underneath. Priscilla is no exception. She is a beautiful vase with nothing inside, and she lacks the ambition to be anything more. It makes her the perfect tool to be used by her father, for she never questions his motives, and in her eyes, there is little he could do wrong. When she opens her mouth, one realizes just how disillusioned the poor girl is. A childhood among sycophants and ambitious courtiers has left her with a skewed vision of herself. Every joke was met with laughter. Every catty remark was met with praise. Every display of skill was met with applause. Priscilla was the jewel of her household, and no one dared to tell the silly thing the truth. To this day, she continues to believe that she is just as intelligent as those around her, and it appears that she will never learn the truth.

|| Hobbies ||
Dancing / Singing / Sewing / Collecting Pets

|| Habits ||
Bites fingernails / Rolls eyes / Gesticulates / Pouts

|| Likes ||

Herself
Music
Exotic Animals
Giving Orders
Attention

||Dislikes ||

Being Ignored
Being Babied
Bad Smells
Wit
Being Bored

What's Done Is Done

Biography
|| Place Of Origin ||
Falor

|| History ||
There are two histories of Priscilla Edwards. The first and foremost is that Priscilla was born a priceless jewel of her family. As a baby, she was happy and charmed even the hardest of hearts. Her lovely curls bounced about her head and her eyes sparkled. She only grew more beautiful the older she became. As a child, she excelled at everything she touched. Tutors had an easy time with their intelligent student. Priscilla mastered languages, history and finances. She owned a room the moment she stepped on the dance floor. Music was a special talent as she had a voice of the angels and a golden ear. Her family adored and doted on her. She was the perfect daughter and would soon become the perfect queen.

The other history is far too real. Priscilla was born to serve only one purpose and it was the serve the will of her father and further his ambitions. She was a fitful baby and left entirely to maids and nurses. Rarely she was presented to her family and met with indifference. As she grew older, she sought for the approval of her father and constantly fell short. Her fingers were clumsy on the harp and hit sour notes. Her voice cracked. She was a distracted student and had a moderate level of skill in the ballroom. She never grasped the two-faced nature of court and believed the compliments thrown at her. She is easily manipulated and desperately wants the attention of her father, but failing that, will accept it in other places.

|| Happiest Memory ||
Hearing that she would be marrying the King.

|| Saddest Memory ||
Quite honestly, she has never had a truly sad moment in her life. Certainly, she has had small outbursts over trifle things, but her life is free of trouble.

|| Face Claim ||
Hanna Mangan-Lawerence

So begins...

Priscilla Augusta Edwards's Story

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Tibera

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Character Portrait: Priscilla Augusta Edwards

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#2015-01-20 00:56:02, as written by Scarlet Loup

The conversation between Christoph and Tyrion was short lived, consisting of only a greeting exchanged between the two. When it had transpired, the Count simply turned back to Evelyne as she returned his comment. His lips twitched upward in a smirk. "I appreciate it," he replied, crossing one leg over the other casually. She was quick, quicker than most of his women had been in the mental sense at least. Very few of his women ever joined him outside of his chambers, and the majority of the kingdoms' courtiers knew this, for they eyed Evelyne curiously as they walked by.

His attention turned to Nicholas then as the young King sat beside him, replying also to his remark. "You certainly received that wit and silver tongue of yours from your dear father, Gods rest his soul," the advisor shot back, though not necessarily maliciously, or at least not noticeably maliciously. Christoph toyed with a ring on his left index finger. "I believe she will be joining us soon. It is not like her to miss the festivities."

Lucas made the party one of four as he hurried up to the group. Christoph subtly inclined his head, and one might have thought he didn't hear the guard great him had he not then focused his gaze on the slightly disheveled captain of the guard. He wanted to tear the boy apart on the spot, call him out for leaving his king alone to possibly die, but he decided it wasn't worth the effort. After all, Nicholas had the final say, and the boy still cared for his guard. He was pulled out of his thoughts yet again by another voice.

Priscilla had woken quite early that morning when compared to an average day. She had dressed enthusiastically in light ink silk, adorning herself with pearls before pulling her hair up into an intricate style. In actuality, her hand maidens had done everything, for the girl was helpless when it came to putting an outfit together or braiding her hair. Still, when she left her room, she made sure she looked alluring.

Priscilla confidently mounted her horse, a milky-colored mare, and she only nearly fell off twice as she moved at a walk towards the small camp where she knew her father would be. Her own guards helped her from the horse to avoid any mishaps. "I can do it myself!" she protested, but she took the hand of one of the guards nonetheless. She gathered up her skirts in her hands once she had dismounted and hurried towards where her father sat. "Father!" she called out as she threw her arms about Christoph's neck, breaking a sort of silence that hung about. She had just narrowly missed the rain that now fell quite steadily outside of the protection of the tents.

Christoph returned the hug with a single arm around her waist as he cleared his throat. She remembered then, at his cue, that she was to greet her King first. She turned quickly to face him, nearly tripping in the process. "Good morning, my King," she said softly, curtsying cautiously so that she didn't lose her footing. The look of temporary panic in Christoph's eyes showed that he was worried such a thing would happen. Priscilla sat herself on her father's knee like a child and glanced about, meeting the gaze of Evelyne for a moment before looking the strange woman over with a questioning look in her eyes.

Priscilla certainly wasn't blind to Christoph's sexual habits, but she also knew that he rarely brought any woman with him besides those that mothered his children. Though Priscilla and Loras were the only two to have survived childhood, there had been more children and therefore more women alongside her father. She wondered if that was why he had brought the exotic-looking woman with him. The young woman turned to face her father then, opening her mouth to speak, but she was cut off by a horrid screech from a few of the women of the court.

Christoph looked up then, noticing a few of the royal family of Ostwall ride back on their horses with an animal carcass draped over one of the horses...but where was Ulfric? He stood slowly, and Priscilla slid off of his knee for a moment, for she watched the figures walk through the rain too intently to notice that her father was moving until she nearly fell on to the ground. "Oh..." Christoph said softly, beginning to discern Ulfric's graying hair from the bear fur of his cloak. He had never been close to the man, but like many there, he too had heard the ballads that sung his praise. He too had heard the tales from the border where Ulfric slew countless men from Falor. Priscilla's brow furrowed lightly as she looked up at her father. "Father...?" she asked, tugging gently at his arm. He watched Ronan, lips pursing, wondering how he could make this benefit him.

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#2015-01-22 22:51:57, as written by Zoey26123

Simon stared at the sight in horror, feeling something like regret and guilt even though he had not killed his uncle. He listened to Ronan's story, not believing this was how his uncle died. He believed Ronan, but was in disbelieving that his might uncle would fall in such a way. "Ronan," Simon begins upon seeing his cousin growing colder by the second. He didn't like that he was speaking to Renly that way, he didn't like it when he spoke like that to anyone.

Simon moved forward to help his cousin lift his deceased uncle, holding back the feeling he wanted to go crawl into bed and sleep forever. Simon grabbed the reins of his horse as they passed her, helping Ronan guide Ulfric's body on Ulfric's horse. Simon walked solemnly, his face devoid of any emotion. Where was his brother? Simon breathed deeply, not making eye contact with anyone as they moved forward. He hated it, he hated everything at that moment if he was going to be honest with himself.

"Ronan, have you seen Guy this morning?" Simon mutters under his breath, wanting to know if anyone had seen Guy at all. He knew Ronan and Guy had something against each other, but he had hoped the two might at least know each other's whereabouts on such a large day as a hunt.

Simon saw his uncle's arm fall off from where it had been on his chest causing Simon to turn away for a moment. The man who had taken him and his brother in, the one who had practically raised them, their father's brother, gone.

Guy smiled as he stepped back, looking at the web with drops of dew hanging off it as if it was hanging in his window. Guy looked out to see storm clouds brewing and frowned, pulling his painting inside but keeping the windows open. He liked the humidity storms brought. He studied his painting again, frowning now as he saw that he hadn't caught the light, he had neglected the light! He'd have to start over. He sighed and tossed the half dry painting on his bed.

Guy heard a rush at the door then saw a servant barge in. "Prince Guy," He begins, out of breath and looking horrible. Guy instantly knew something was wrong, something had happened. Was the storm worse than he had figured it would be? "Is Simon alright?" He demanded, fearful his twin might have broken himself should he have gone on the hunt. Simon had figured his brother would have just stayed in bed, not go on the hunt without him. Now he wished he had gone. "No, sir, you're uncle..." The guard hesitated, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do.

"Well?" Guy presses, moving to grab his vest. "You're uncle... you should come see him," The guard finishes. Guy nods, pulling on his boots and grabbing his cloak as well as Simon's. He had left it in Guy's room after their ride outside yesterday. Guy followed the guard, walking quickly. What could have happened to his uncle that had caused such behavior? He probably was just sick or had pulled something, wanting to have Guy around just so that he felt a little better.

Guy followed the guard until they were outside where the guard pointed to the tents. Guy saw his brother, his shoulders hunched, looking rather unhappy. Frowning, Guy accepted his horse from a nearby squire he looked relieved to be going back into the stables. Guy felt bad for making the kid stand outside for so long, but dismissed it as he mounted and rode towards his brother. He saw something on Ulfric's horse, perhaps his cloak. As Guy rode closer, he slowed, seeing people were crying or staring at Ulfric's cloak. "Simon... What's wrong?" Guy asks as he dismounts, approaching the small procession where he spotted Renly and Ronan as well. Simon's head sprung up, staring at Guy with something Guy had rarely seen from his brother.

"Where were you?" Simon asks, staring at his brother. Guy looks at his brother with surprise. "What do you mean? Simon what's wrong with uncle?" Guy asks as he walks forward, offering Simon his cloak.

Simon takes it only to throw it on the ground, furious at his brother. He needed an out, he couldn't let it out on Ronan or Renly and there was nobody else around that could take his anger but his brother, even if it was a little hard now. Simon looks around incredulously, then walks forward to grab his brother by the vest. "Don't you get it? How can you not see it? That's him, that's him right there, Guy. He's gone," Simon declares, pushing his brother towards Ulfric's body before turning and leaving, having a hard time taking the horror.

Guy looks at what he thought was Ulfric's cloak but catches sight of his uncle's pale hand. "Oh my God," He whispers, looking around and realizing what had happened. He wanted to fall on his knees, but withheld, staring at the body, then Ronan on the other side of the horse, then back at Ulfric.

Lucas noticed the disapproval from the count and his friends. Lucas nearly ignored Christoph altogether had it not been for Priscilla coming over. He couldn't believe the girl was sitting with her father, in his lap. He couldn't remember the last time he had sat in his father's lap, he couldn't remember the last time he had talked to his father about something like that.

His attention was caught when he spot the king of Ostwall was shown to be dead. He moved closer to his ward, standing right behind him. They had been apart too long, he was afraid now more than ever that he wouldn't be able to keep Nicholas safe, especially when one of the strongest king through the world was found dead, killed.

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Tibera

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Character Portrait: Corianna Ulfricdottir

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#2015-02-10 14:12:10, as written by Scarlet Loup

The King's hand brushed lightly against the scar that still graced his left cheek -- a bitter-sweet reminder of how he had come to stand here beside Genevieve. His coronation, given the lack of spiritual leaders in the widely-diverse Ostwall, was headed by one of the eldest chieftains within the kingdom's borders, a man of a staggering seventy-seven years. Ronan's hair and beard had grown out to appear more like his people, from whom he required approval. The thick fur of a bear, draped about his shoulders, only helped further that image and reflect the symbol of his father. The pelts seemed to weigh him down greatly. They most certainly were the reason beads of sweat had begun to form on his brow. Or perhaps they came from the worry that, somehow, they'd trace the murder back to him.

The death of Ostwall's monarch had brought the festivities to a screeching halt. Ulfric's burial had been a ceremonious one, and the kingdom had grieved for months, meaning the current coronation had been unable to occur until now, two months later. In the mean time, Ronan suddenly found himself in the shoes of a man he had only, until then, dreamed of becoming. He played the part well, and Genevieve had as well. It was only when they were behind closed doors that she lost her air of nearly-constant mourning. Even then, he had not permitted her to be joyful in public until far after he had announced his plans to wed her.

Ronan moved his hand to brush at his brow then, and as he looked up at the chieftain before him, he noticed Celia just a bit off, holding Volundr. His son. He could never acknowledge the boy as his own, for the kingdom believed he had been the child of Ulfric and Genevieve, but Ronan told himself that the young prince should rightfully bear the surname of Ronanson. It pained him that it should be otherwise.

The chieftain stumbled over his words, causing Ronan to look back at him. Ostwall, unlike the other two kingdoms, had never truly adopted the more traditional concept of coronation until Ronan had insisted upon modernizing the nation. The chieftain had little idea as to what he was doing, and the words on the page made little sense given the fact that he was just barely literate. His stammering ended soon, thankfully, and he moved on to the crowning of the royals. The crown that was placed upon his head was nothing more than a thick band of iron with ornate patterns carved into it. The real beauty and power laid in the heavy chain that was placed about his neck, further weighing him down.

It was a relic dating back to times before even Falor had been unified when the clans of the North would give the chain to the strongest chieftain in the land. Over time, the simple chain had been added to in terms of links and precious stones until it hung heavy enough that it was only used for ceremonies. This, of course, was one of them.

As Genevieve went through a similar ceremony, receiving a less burdensome crown and chain that he had had created, for up until this point, the consort of the king of Ostwall had no political say. Though he had most certainly received the approval of the others in his kingdom, he knew they hardly approved of this action. Nevertheless, he turned around to great his people, hand reaching for Genevieve's as he did so. The chieftain cleared his voice once more before speaking in his thickly accented voice.

"I present to you King Ronan Bjorn Ulfricson, first of his name, and his queen, Genevieve Hansdottir of Falor, first of her name."

The proceeding festivities were a welcome change for all in Ostwall, having been in a period of nearly perpetual mourning for two months. A mixture of traditional and foreign instruments played, inspiring many to leave the banquet table in order to dance. Ronan, a bit too drunk by then to gracefully find his footing, resolved to stay at the table where he held the one month old Volundr in his arms. The King brushed a finger along the boy's cheek, laughing as the young prince gripped it and inspected the calloused finger with fascination.

"It's wonderful, is it not?" he remarked, looking out on the crowd of nobles, local and foreign, who occupied the hall. "It's ours now." Ronan continued to look about, meeting the gaze of a few nobles who watched the pair closely, with judgement visible in their eyes even from at the royals' place at the table. He knew they spoke about him and Genevieve quite often. It was most certainly scandalous for anyone to marry their widowed stepmother, let alone just months after her husband's death, but there were no laws regarding marriage in Ostwall.

Propping the small child up in his lap, Ronan gripped his tankard of ale and sipped from it for a moment, positioning it afterwards so that it attempted to block out the gossiping nobles. It hardly helped, however, and he simply turned back to Genevieve with his arm once more around Volundr.

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#2015-02-14 04:50:05, as written by Scarlet Loup

Christoph, as per usual and to no one's surprise, had carefully placed Priscilla on one side of Nicholas and himself on the other at the start of the banquet. Other than these brief moments of familiarity, the coronation overall was an unusual scene for all involved. Ostwall hardly allowed outsiders into the kingdom, let alone the palace. In fact, many nobles would not see the royals save the decennial celebration. Very occasionally would the northern tribesmen migrate all the way to Falor's palace for a celebration. Perhaps a wedding or a coronation might be enough. Ulfric had been quite public, despite his conservative ways. His son was only more so.

Coronations were unheard of in Ostwall. Christoph was intelligent enough to know that. Already, the new King was proving himself to be different than his predecessors. He looked about slowly, clever eyes taking in as much as he could.

Priscilla, on the other hand, looked about in a more carefree manner. She hardly even noticed the strand of hair that had fallen lose from her intricate hairstyle until she looked back at Nicholas and it flew into her face. Hastily, she tucked it away and beamed at her future husband. "Do you suppose our wedding shall be an affair as grand as this?" she asked, her voice a bit too overexcited and bubbly. She looked about at the people dancing and nearly dared to ask Nicholas to dance with her, but she decided against it, resolving that her father might not want her to. Then she worried that perhaps he would want her to ask her future husband to dance with her, in which case she ought to say something.

Christoph cut Priscilla off just as she began to open her mouth. "I remember when Ulfric took the throne of Ostwall," he mused. "Only two years his senior, and now he's dead. So soon these monarchs die..." He looked to Nicholas then. "He's eight years your senior, this king, yet I must admit he has far more to learn than you ever did when your father died." He folded his hands and looked once more at Ronan, smiling down at the child in his lap. "What is your opinion of the new King of Ostwall?"

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Tibera

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Character Portrait: Genevieve Hansdottir

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#2015-02-16 05:36:29, as written by Zoey26123

Lucas had been watching for the girl, yet he hadn't seen her again, not since that night he had asked her to dance. He sighed softly from where he stood in a small alcove behind where Nicholas sat. He would much rather prefer standing, or sitting, next to his friend and talking to him rather than pretending his only care was keeping him safe.

Lucas stood, watching Priscilla and Christoph with contempt that was only visible to people who knew him really well, in other words, Nicholas. His gaze floated to the recently made king. He wasn't sure how he felt about the man. It was clear to Lucas that he wasn't all he seemed to be, and that his wife probably was already in love with him before his father died, either that or he took in a widow for his father, though Lucas couldn't help but doubt that.

Lucas had his hand lazily on his sword though he was more alert than any of the surrounding guards. He could appear lazy but be taunt as a horse during a gallop. Lucas watched the crowd, growing more and more tired of his task of watching the crowd than ever before. He wondered if Nicholas would be kind enough to come save him from his duty by going to bed. How wonderful that fantasy sounded.

Lucas thought back to a happier moment to distract himself. He was standing on the packed dirt that served as a training grounds for squires though Lucas was using it as a guard by the age of fourteen, a young and bored guard, but a guard nonetheless. He was training with an older guard, perhaps his current age. The older male was not going easy on small Lucas and Lucas would walk away with many bruises and cuts, yet he was easily holding his own against him. His task for the day, appearing like he was trying his hardest while throwing the match. His most recent teacher had wanted him to practice his hiding his abilities and it wasn't all that difficult.

The older fellow seemed to smile as his saw an opening Lucas had left open on purpose. He took the shot and Lucas pretended to nearly miss deflecting it before falling down and ending with the sword at his throat. It had been a great day since he had successfully completed the task in his mind. His master later chastised him for not being good enough, but the original pleasure of the memory held within Lucas's mind.

He turned his full attention on Nicholas again, finding that he couldn't help but continue to think of that girl from those many months ago either. He had been embarrassed about staring, yet had truly been happy to see her during the ball, and work the nerve up to talk to her after being abandoned by his ward. A strange situation yes, but still, it had worked and he had gotten to talk to the beauty that had captured his attention.

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#2015-02-19 22:27:10, as written by phoenixheart

Judging by the mood in the room, coronations were rare events in Ostwall, if they actually happened at all. Nicholas wasn't entirely sure what to expect; the last coronation he had been at was his own. Being a guest at a coronation was entirely different. He was not the focus of everyone's attention. That was something he was grateful for. What he was not grateful for was being sandwiched between Priscilla and Christoph, once again. He constantly wanted to look around the room to look for Renly. He hadn't seen Renly since the day Ulfric had died, and even then it had only been for a few seconds. He still wasn't sure if Renly had seen him. Nicholas had made his excuses and left as soon as he saw the boy coming. As much as he had wanted to stay, he didn't want Renly to know who he was. And there was the risk of giving themselves away. Christoph was the sort that always noticed more than he let on. Since then, opportunities to see Renly had been few and far between. His own stupidity astounded him sometimes.

"Do you suppose our wedding shall be an affair as grand as this?"

Nicholas looked to Priscilla, slightly at a loss for words. He knew they would be married. Short of one of them dying or some horrendous scandal being discovered, it was inevitable. Still, Priscilla's sudden question left him on the back foot. Acutely aware of Christoph sat beside him, Nicholas smiled, "It can be as grand as you like. Well, within reason." There was no point bankrupting the entire kingdom for a wedding he wasn't even sure he wanted.

"I remember when Ulfric took the throne of Ostwall. Only two years his senior, and now he's dead. So soon these monarchs die..." Nicholas turned his attention to Christoph "He's eight years your senior, this king, yet I must admit he has far more to learn than you ever did when your father died." Christoph looked across the room to Ronan, as did Nicholas. "What is your opinion of the new King of Ostwall?"

Nicholas thought for a moment, studying Ronan. He'd had few dealings with him, the two only seeing each other in passing. He seemed to be a capable warrior, whether that made him a capable king remained to be seen. And he didn't seem particularly broken up over his father's death. "He seems to be a decent sort, a capable warrior. Whether he's a good king remains to be seen. But I do think there's more to him than meets the eye." When he could, Nicholas would keep an eye on Ronan until he could be certain the new king could be trusted.

Priscilla seemed to be getting more agitated than usual. Nicholas gritted his teeth as he leaned over to Priscilla, determined to give the impression to all concerned that they were two young people who were very much in love with one another, "Would you like to dance, my lady?" he asked quiet enough that only Priscilla would be able to hear him.

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