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Board's Plot: Blood Rites
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Established February 2010
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* Plot Informaton for Scelt

Scelt is a Territory in turmoil and peace is tenuously held together by the Sceltic Queens. Rivalry between the Clans errupted into horror for the Territory that resulted in many dead, on both sides, and culimated in Clan Sheane being outlawed in the Territory. Further troubles plague the Territory in a variety of manners - Landen villages are raided, Courts are attacked, and no one seems to be safe.
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Author Topic: We Bought The Farm  (Read 81 times)

Description: tag. Morgan

Offline Molly O'Kerry

  • Character Account
    • ss2bo
    • bw
    • Role

      Head of the Hourglass Coven

    • Territory

      Scelt

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Petrichor

    • Posts

      25

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We Bought The Farm
« on: Oct 08, 17, 11:51:32 PM »

A Black Widow of Dark power, if their ambition so desired, could see themselves flush with wealth before their jewel of rank passed a full turn of seasons. Like so many of those rights tied to their caste Black Widows of Scelt rarely could work their gifts to such advantage. However, Molly O’Kerry? She was of the island but hadn’t always called the island’s shores home.

During her years of study in Dhemlan, Kaeleer the ambitious witch was able to take full advantage of her soul’s nature and gifts. She wasn’t wealthy in any fashion worthwhile to the caliber of long lived aristocrats her education made sure she was in regular contact with. The Head of Scelt’s Hourglass was nevertheless possessed of coffers fuller than many of her sisters of caste and Craft. What was hers quickly became theirs when the Coven agreed to stand behind her in a plan that was - depending on the speaker - brilliant or destined for failure.

It was Molly’s luck that many who couldn’t or wouldn’t support her plan’s spirit lent their strength to her cause solely because of the certain discomfort, displeasure, and general frustration it was to bring Loreniel Killan. Spite wasn’t the noblest of motivators but she and her coven were, and had for years, been at a place of needing any port in their Territory’s storm of hate.

Thanks to hope, their people’s propensity for revenge petty and grand alike, and Clark’s amazing knack to take woven dreams and plot a course for their realization Molly stood proud upon the land she was betting would bring Scelt’s Widows their bright tomorrow.

The purchases had been made two weeks before but official transfer of deeds only happened that morning over mediocre tea and watery porridge. Dunkirk was a district that was as poor as she was beautiful. Happy as the family from which she’d purchased a long barren neighboring farm had been to take her marks she was still a Black Widow and they were still the people of Scelt most used to being given the short end of every deal save for those of her caste.

Subsequently Molly didn’t begrudge her hosts their poor hospitality and tried to instead be glad they’d put on even the barest of niceties for the exchange. Destitute as the district’s population was she’d still faced many, many rejections in her search for land on which to see her and Clark’s dreams for Scelt’s Black Widows realized.

Many hours passed since all things for the farm she’d see become a school and a safe place for her sisters (and brother) of the Twisted Kingdom’s songs and future’s webs were made official. Molly sat in a kitchen full of things needing fixing, cleaning, or replacement with a thermos of proper tea and a pipe full of spiced tobacco which she puffed thoughtfully. Her blue-grey eyes the colour of the sea when it rains traced the curls of smoke through the air after each exhale.

Rarely did she relax but what her afternoon was set aside to hold meant she needed it if she was going to face Morgan Clery, whom she hadn’t seen since Desmond’s father’s funeral, with any amount of composure. The male Black Widow was coming to see for himself the place he and his sister, whose Jewel of Birth promised her a power Molly couldn’t help but envy, would learn in full their Craft. Prince Clery’s gifts were ones she was going to need on hand when it came to hiring their budding school’s staff.  Though light of Jewel, Morgan had a knack for moving through the corridors of consciousness that often surpassed those of deeper power but less talent for the art. It was a gift she intended to see used when it came to choosing those allies whose salaries would at first be coming straight from her private accounts.

She felt his approach before his shadow graced the small home’s threshold and so it was Molly met him facing the entrance with a diplomat’s smile. Her pipe rested in its stand on the table, smoke still curling from its bowl and mingling with that of the fresh pot of tea she’d readied in anticipation of his arrival. “Afternoon Prince,” she said whilst moving to greet him in the manner protocol required from one Black Widow of rank meeting one who served below her in power as well as station within the coven. Hot pulses of electric energy tried and failed at least at first, to ruffle her professional demeanor as niceties were exchanged. “It doesn’t all look like much yet I know but that’ll change after we get some carpenters here and Lady Lyon’s makes her firsts gifts to our land.




Offline Morgan Clery

  • Character Account
    • yellow2rose
    • bwprince
    • Role

      Black Widow Adept

    • Faction

      Hourglass Coven

    • Territory

      Scelt

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      [Link]

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      Bowie

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      12

    • a secret unbound

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Re: We Bought The Farm
« Reply #1 on: Oct 09, 17, 02:57:04 PM »
It was not a short, easy trip, but it could have been worse, and he was bolstered - and conflicted - by the cause for the trip. He traveled with all haste when she sent for him, promising Brigid he would return with news of whether it was safe and good for her to come. But there was so much more storm brewing in him than merely an appraisal and a short few days visit before a return home. There was much twisted in his experiences with the elder Widow, and he felt his mouth all but dry with thirst for something no water could sate, his lips growing only more parched as he approached the estate upon which his next few years might depend.

She appeared at the doorway and his chest, and more, tightened. A smile blossomed, tentative but certain, as he neared her. She offered the first pleasantries, and precision and study ensured the Prince returned them.

"Good afternoon, Lady,"
he greeted in response, his head bowing, and shoulders angling forward to pronounce the slight affect of such a bow. It helped lower himself, as was right the variance between her authority, prominence and jewels compared to his own. A moment later, his head rose, but not before his eyes trailed up over every inch of her, the clarity of his appreciation of her not even remotely hidden. If anything, it was intentionally telegraphed.

The Widow Prince moved closer, not even looking into the house she welcomed him into. "I think there's certainly potential," he agreed without sight, raising questions of his meaning. Fingers rolled against his thumb as he regarded his old mentor and pen pal, bringing himself purposefully close through the threshold into this farmhouse that was meant to serve some entire new purpose; though he suspected the kitchen was still meant to remain one of those.

"I appreciate the 'our land',"
he offered, smiling, looking away from her to try to bring himself back to task. His breath quickened, but he fought to repress those dark instincts that blossomed when he was near her. She called him here for something entirely less lascivious than his desires sang to answer. "It's a good sell. Makes me feel invested," he teased, lips curling well in mirth and amusement.

"And I am invested,"
he promised. In truth, he would've gone anywhere, done anything, she asked, for the chance of further education of what he was and could be. It was her written guidance alone that had given him what skill he had beyond mere natural talents, and the only reason his hand and his tooth were saved. But a proper school was especially appealing. As was, for him, the fact of being able to be so near her, as distracting as it was for him.

"I brought some things. Do you have some place you'd like me to put them?"
he asked, lifting and lowering the bag that doubtlessly contained clothing, hygeine goods and all other accoutrements needed for a man's stay.

Offline Molly O'Kerry

  • Character Account
    • ss2bo
    • bw
    • Role

      Head of the Hourglass Coven

    • Territory

      Scelt

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      [Link]

    • OOC

      Petrichor

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Re: We Bought The Farm
« Reply #2 on: Oct 09, 17, 09:41:22 PM »
The Dark Prince, that’s what the Clery’s called Morgan. Molly scolded herself beneath layers of psychic shielding for allowing the unkind moniker cross her thoughts as the Black Widow Prince made his greeting. Like the night of the funeral, he made no effort to hide the way his caste’s appetites swelled at sight of her. Champion of politics that she was the Coven’s Head did well in pretending as if his broadcasted interest existed beneath her notice. What sort of leader let themselves get ruffled by an awkward boy she’d tutored from afar?

Sharply she reminded herself that he wore a Jewel of Rank and discounting his hunger as that of a boy and not a man would be folly.  He moved to close the distance between them and though Molly meant to hold her ground she couldn’t help but take half a step back to enforce some of the space between them. ”I think there’s certainly potential, I appreciate the 'our land.’ It's a good sell. Makes me feel invested,”, Morgan all but crooned with a grin in a voice suggesting his words weren’t entirely to do with the modest farmhouse he’d not given a second glance since crossing its threshold. "And I am invested”

It,-it,"  She began to speak and stuttered. With a bashful smile Molly cleared her throat and reached for her mug of tea. “Apologies, the morning’s poor weather seems to have gotten into my throat. Nothing a strong cuppa can’t cure.”  As she went on the witch effortlessly used craft to pour a second cup for Prince Clery. The magic seemed to work itself for her gaze never left the Prince’s countenance and the mug rested itself at the table’s edge nearest Morgan’s reach.

Molly took a sip of her honeyed brew. She used the moment to smooth her flustered composure by focusing on the sweet heat warming her in a manner more wholesome than The Dark Prince’s hungry stare. “As I was saying, it’s not much to look at but we got more for our marks spent acreage wise than we would’ve from any of the estates with buildings easier on the eyes that were willing to sell to us. Not many were keen on being the reason a group of Black Widows moved to Dunkirk.

When Morgan raised his bag and asked about his place Molly gave him a smile wide and bright. Her eyes twinkled with excitement that drowned out the anxieties and appetites of moments before as she sat down her beloved mug and clapped her hands together in excitement. “Oh brilliant I wasn’t sure you’d be ready to stay on my word alone. Would’ve been understandable if you weren’t but it’s delightful that you are. There’s much to be done to ready the dormitory, which isn’t where you’ll be staying but I was hoping you and Dez might be willing to help get through some of the simpler building and chores that need doing but I’m getting ahead of myself. C’mon.”

The witch gestured in a way that spoke without words for the Black Widow Prince to follow. Though in disrepair the farmhouse was sizeable. Its walls hummed with the secrets of big families that spanned generations of love, loss, victory, and despair. Stone and wood held stories of the homestead’s lineage of tenants and in their echoes Molly O’Kerry took comfort. Many had grown and loved and prospered beneath the leaking roof her Coven now owned. In truth, the home hadn’t been the cheapest of her options but it had the best energies and in a place meant to heal, teach and see many young Black Widows prosper? Such details were of the utmost importance. Down two hallways and one flight of stairs the pair moved. Molly talked as she walked, tracing her fingers across the walls and letting herself get familiar with her new homes tales. “You’ll be staying in the hearth witch’s quarters since hiring one of them for our endeavors is as of yet a luxury we can hold out on. When one eventually comes she can stay with our girls since I won’t have anyone working here who can’t see them as the bright, special children and witches that they are.”

That was all Molly had time to say before they reached the servant’s quarters which Morgan would be able to call his alone. It wasn’t as if Scelt had any other male Black Widows she knew of and if the island did they were going to great lengths to hide from scrying eyes. “It’s not much but at least you won’t have to share,” she added after pushing the door open and stepping aside to allow Morgan passage into his new bedroom.

Offline Morgan Clery

  • Character Account
    • yellow2rose
    • bwprince
    • Role

      Black Widow Adept

    • Faction

      Hourglass Coven

    • Territory

      Scelt

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Bowie

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      12

    • a secret unbound

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Re: We Bought The Farm
« Reply #3 on: Oct 18, 17, 09:32:47 AM »
He was not Dark in Jewel, but he was Dark in spirit; a cloud which hung over his family and over the troubled community of Aberly. A community which has had its community suddenly less troubled by the news the Clery Widows might just find a new home elsewhere. But it only meant the cloud that was the Rose’s birthright hung pregnant and heavy over the house which Molly sought to build. A cloud that threatened to break, his eyes purposeful and deep, cheeks taut with a predatory anticipation, gaze pulling through her.

The darker, ranked Widow took a step back when he took a step forward, and every instinct in him roared. She showed the hesitance of prey, as if she might bolt, and he yearned to pounce. His body ached with intent, which he reined in with absolute force and years of studied practice. She stuttered, and he yearned to entirely bring her silence, or the very opposite thereof, but counseled against himself in equal enough measure to withhold action. Action which burned to be taken, his gaze making such intent nakedly clear, even as he did not act upon that very clear purpose boiling within.

Closing to the table, he stopped beside it, inches from her as he lifted the mug, and let his eyes cut free of her to the drink, and he focused on it as he let it swirl and shift in his grip. The heat distracted, and he forced himself to breathe and just find solace in the movement of the drink inside its container, trying his best to center himself and not find use of the privacy they enjoyed. A void of company he yearned to fill with more than awkward silences or discussions of this school’s future. But he managed to yet temper himself, and let his gaze find her again, eyes less molten while she continued to explain her plans. The man nodded along to her explanation of the price point, while his bag laid by his side.

“My only hesitation is if Brigid is ready for a world apart from her own. But I would go anywhere you’d have me, on but a whisper,” he assured her, the appetites he held seeping through against his better intention. She urged him to follow, and he set down the mug after two sips, and moved to follow behind her.

“Who’s Dez again?” the Prince inquired, brows furrowed, distracted for a moment by that fact, but only a moment as he found himself behind her, letting her lead him, knowing what would be at the end of this tour, even if he had no idea of what he would witness upon it. Eyes trailed over the storied years hidden in grains of wood, the eyes of a son born to a fishery keeping aware of the strength of construction and the gaps in planks that’d let through breezes. It would need loving care to make it a home again, he knew, but it had once been just that.

They moved towards the Hearth Witch’s quarters, and he thought to ask why he got special accommodations, but he suspected a few reasons and, besides, wouldn’t complain about the fact. Male dormitories, he reasoned, being the most likely: she knew his hungers, from when he had found her on the grounds outside at the estate previously, whispering darkly in her ear as his hands slid over her hips.

She pushed open the door to allow him inside, and every instinct in him demanded he instead settle beside her, or behind her, and drop his bag, before urging her into that very room. The whispers he would insinuate into her ear flew through his mind, one overture after another that he knew would well send shivers down her spine and heat her core. It was all he had to bury these demands, the reaction in himself physical, but he did not grant it the gift of action. Stepping past her, too close, cloth brushing her own, was the closest compromise he granted his desire.

Dropping his bag, he looked about the place he would call his own, contemplatively. His back to her, he breathed deeply; perhaps to take in the room. Perhaps to center himself yet again, to guard against his own desires.

Head turning over his shoulder, he looked back to his superior, his mentor, his guide. “Do you have private chambers, as well? Or do you plan to bunk with the rest?” he asked, the fire in his eyes blazing as he all but willed her inside this room. Facing from her, the distance he kept, was the best he could do for the moment to protect her from him, and he yearned for her to endanger herself.