ROLEPLAY HQ - queen-the-fool

"My... Successor... My Heir..." Those four words had hung in the air. Heavy. Anticipatory. With them would come a changing of the guard. As the life passed from the lips of King Ademar XIV, his final breath wheezing out from cracked, bleeding lips. "...Custódia..." With that final pronouncement, the king's life slipped from him. His tenuous hold on the mortal realm finally relinquished. He left the room cold, shocked, and silent.

Custódia Irilen, Princess of Pelen, never once harboured ambitions for the throne. She was an insular creature. Mercurial of mood, vastly preferring the company of books to other people. Often relegated to the afterthoughts of her lord father, his only daughter spent her days alone. For as long as any had known it, her lord brother, Ademir IV, had been born as the throne-expectant. Such ideas had gone up in flames as King Ademar lay dying, pronouncing his daughter as his heiress. The accusations had come swiftly. Her father's body had yet to grow cold by the time the first of them met her ear. Her own brother, accusing Custódia of bending their father's ear in his enfeebled state. Poisoning him against naming Ademir his successor, in order to claim the throne for herself. Her denial had been met with further scorn. And she, overwhelmed and panicking, had fled.

Custódia's study had been constructed in a vacant wing of the royal complex, at her request. It lay far from the court, from the gossipmongers and dandies she so disliked. It gave her quietude and solace from the chaotic life she was forced by birth to lead. It was here that she fled as fast as she was able. Legs catching in her billowing skirts, her leg aching with every step. Her cane struck the marbled floors with a repeating series of sharp klaks!, her breathing hindered by the restrictive corset that the ladies of the court considered to be so in-chic. The twin oaken doors slammed shut, and Custódia fell to her knees, wheezing. Hands gloved in silk fumbled over her midsection, tearing at the busk. Cloth tore and ripped as the two whalebone strips were wrenched free, the corset coming undone around her torso. She doubled over, hacking, and wheezing. "Why...?" She asked herself, hands pressed to the floor, fingers splayed. Her entire body trembled, sweat and tears rolling down her cheeks, running along the rounded line of her jaw. She fought to get herself under control, to master her breathing. Custódia forced herself upright, shedding the remains of her ruined gown into a disorganized pile. The process of arduous. The removal of the exquisite garniture, the sweeping skirts, the petticoat and underskirts. Worst of all was the damnable crinoline, the latticework of shaped wood and whalebone that gave her skirts shape. She brought her elbow down and her knee up, snapping brittle bone and laquered wood without a care in the world. All she wished was to be free of it all. "Why me? You never once prepared me for this, father! It was to be Ademir! Ademir, not I!" Custódia's cane had fallen to the ground, and lay buried under her layers of skirts. Without it, walking was a labour. Yet she did so; dragging her useless right leg along as she collapsed into the massive, plush chair behind her study. She remained there, curled in a ball, until her maidservants finally caught up to her. They were horrified by the state of their mistress; her beautiful clothing discarded and ruined like so much rubbish, and the woman herself rocking back and forth in her chair, half-naked, her hands gripping her hair in a white-knuckle vise and her face a mess of running, tear-slicked makeup. Custódia was said to have repeated but one thing, again and again. Staring with glassy eyes, never once acknowledging the presence of others in her study. "Why?"

23:54

Queen Custódia of Pelen, First of Her Name, lay alone within her study. Her coronation had come one month after the death of her late father. And the time between had been frought with all manner of trouble. The surprise pronouncement of the dying king had earned her no love from his courtiers, and even less so from the allies of her her brother. All had sworn fealty, but there had been a biting, bitter edge to ever oath. And her brother had spoken not a word to her. He refused, even, to look her in the eye. Her despair was still fresh. The raw wound of loss only salted by what had been placed upon her shoulders. In the quiet privacy of her study, she cried herself to sleep every night, and awoke every morning with dread eating her alive from the inside. The sun had yet to rise. Dawn teased at the horizon's edge, but would not come for while yet. Her hair was mussed from sleep, and she hadn't yet mustered the wherewithal to see to it. If she could have lived the rest of her life without society's expectations-- brushed hair, a painted face, a stupid, stupid dress with too many damned parts-- she would have died a happy woman. At the very least, she could exist without any of those expectations whilst alone. Custódia raised a hand to her face, staring up at the dark ceiling. She forced herself up, reaching out for a chamberstick. With a snap of her fingers, the wick of the candle ignited. It was such a... Paltry use of her gifts. But this, and but a few additional, meager tasks, were all she allowed herself. For the Queen kept her magic a secret. Not even her late mother, whom she'd been far closer to than her father, had known. She was not a particularly skilled magus. Certainly no spellsword. But regardless, she was weighed down by enough suspicion. She would do just fine without something else for others to whisper about behind her back. Custódia moved slowly through her study, eyes squinting against the light of the candle, still bleary from sleep. She found her way to a counter set into the wall of her study, resting the chamberstick on the granite. Slowly, carefully, she found the iron burner, and ignited it. With another gesture, water formed in a brass vessel she had collected from a shelf. It was an ornate, cup-shaped vessel with a long handle made from iron and wood. Custódia rested it over the burner, then carefully tipped the contents of a container into it. The rich smell of coffee filled the chamber, and her nerves stilled. The water came to a boil, and she lifted the vessel up, pouring the contents into a cup. It was a rich, flavourful brown. The grounds swirling at the bottom of the cup. She held it reverently in her hands, sipping at the beverage. The taste calmed her. Her morning coffee ritual was Custódia's solace. She looked forward to it every morning. Some days, it was the sole reason she got out of bed. The simple promise of the caffeine to which she was hopelessly addicted her only motivation to not just lay there and rot away. Cup in hand, she crossed her study and settled into her chair. Duties would come with the rising of the sun. Her Ladies of the Chamber would bustle in to see her bathed, clothed and groomed. The work would begin, and stretch ever onwards, until finally night would come again. Then, it would be back to sleep. Back to her horrible dreams, ushered in by desperate tears. Again, this would repeat. Ad infinitum. For this was the fate that had been thrust upon her without her knowledge. But that would be later. For now, she had her coffee. (edited)

23:54

@hALloween froggo

"You are nothing. You will always be nothing." These words could haunt a person for life. When delivered with such conviction, from someone without whom the recipient of such an assessment would not exist, it left a person with two options: they could internalize it, accept that the speaker had seen their fate and spoken truth. Or they could fight back, not with fists, but with spiteful determination. Maram ibnat Aisha al-Duha had chosen the latter long ago, clinging to those words and to the old youthful rage she had met them with for years. When her mother's death had sent her life spiraling, she'd still had her father's words, his dismissal, and her anger to keep her alive. It was easy to learn to charm, to fool, to play the fool to part the true fools from their gold. Some sleight of hand could be mistaken for the most harmless form of magic or accurately recognized as skill, but either way it placed attention wherever she needed it. Wordplay could reveal truths others didn't want to face, but the right kind of smile could send the message that nothing she said mattered enough to warrant punishment. She had survived. Then she had found her way from the ruins of her homeland, far from the scars left from its carving by stronger countries, and into those stronger countries themselves. She found proximity to power. Then she found power. Pelen's nobility had found her amusing. A foreign novelty, an entertaining youth. Over the years, she'd learned to wield it like a weapon. An observation or two could make or break peace between noble houses. A whisper in the right ear could shift royal favour toward those who favoured her. A whisper in the wrong ear could tear her from all she had gained. ~~~