It is currently WINTER in WESTEROS during the year 303 AC. The new moon cycle marks a full twenty years since the Mad King was murdered, and his son King Rhaegar ascended the Iron Throne in his place. Though the year is fresh, war in the Narrow Sea has left the Free Cities of Volantis and Tyrosh in ashes, and the Long Night continues to beckon from the Northern fringes of the Seven Kingdoms. With the Queen Lyanna presumed dead, the citizens of the realms look only to each other for survival.
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Alias: nica
Age: 18
Sworn To: crow's eye
Born to: Hewett
Location: Oakenshield
Title: Bastard
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Joined: 26-February 17
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Last Seen: Mar 13 2018, 04:45 PM
Local Time: Jul 17 2018, 04:39 AM
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Jun 14 2017, 09:40 PM
note: this takes place in 301 AC. however, the timeline has changed. instead of raiding oakenshield as he returned to pyke, euron greyjoy raided oakenshield upon his exile from pyke, in 296 AC, taking a then-eleven-year-old falia flowers with him as he took his raiding to essos, whereupon the red hull and black sails of his Silence became synonymous with fear in the port cities. as of 301 AC, falia has been with euron for five years and is sixteen years old. . .

Cold hazel eyes surveyed the deck, noting the cooling pools of red that blended with the scarlet paint, only distinguishable through their sheen, painted silver in the low-hanging moon. With the night came relief from the oppressive heat of the day, the burnished-bronze sun had left the young woman flushed with red, the color high upon her cheeks. The sticky heat was replaced by a cool salt breeze that might have even been chilly, the sent of the ocean, of exotic blooms, of strange spices perfuming the gory deck. Beneath it all was the iron tang of blood. The side of Falia's mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. No matter where they hailed from, all men bled the same. She remembered how they bled, all those years ago, recalled the scent of her father's piss as he watched his errant weed, his bastard seed close upon him with his own sword. It had been too heavy for her to lift properly, so its tip trailed upon the dust in the yard, drawing a thin, squiggly line beside her child's footprints. He had offered to help her, had offered his own thin knife, had offered to do the honors himself. But Falia would not be denied.

Her step-mother had been thrown to the men of the Silence. And as far as Falia was concerned, she had been out of sight, out of mind. Her father, however. . .his tortures had begun at her conception, at the moment that he saw her mother was beautiful, and he desired her. From her conception, until the moment the Crow's Eye landed upon Oakenshield, he'd disregarded her completely. At that moment that Falia held that heavy sword, he'd had no choice but to pay her mind. Her mother, gods rest her soul, had claimed that the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. Alas, that woman had never truly found love, only lust, and one-sided at that. But Falia knew better. The quickest way to a man's heart was through the fourth and fifth ribs. Alternatively, a sharp blade directly to the sternum was effective, as was the armpit.

But Falia was half a world away from that place, half a lifetime away from that moment, and she was not the same girl who once struggled to lift her father's longsword. No. She was the Dark Rose, and her own flag flew aside Euron's Crow's Eye banner, black rose upon a banner the shade of spilled blood, the neck of the flower drooping, as if kept from water, a single petal fallen. Her heavy boots thudded against the slick deck, splashing gore in her wake, but Falia paid it no mind. It was inconsequential. They had done the impossible: conquered the Golden Kingdom of Yi Ti. Well, they'd conquered this city, for this night, and oh, what a night it was. Asabhad was a trading port, a city of a thousand peoples, and its riches only served to prove its value. Already, the Silence's men had returned with gold and baubles, bolts of silk, fine wines, strange liqueurs, bottles of spiced perfumes, and gems of a thousand shades.

Once, Falia would have basked in the radiance of the reflected gold and gems, held each bolt of cloth against her trim form, admiring the silk against her skin, and how it offset her golden tones and copper locks. But perhaps Euron had rubbed off on her, and now, she claimed but a few baubles for her own, wrapped but one bolt of transparent cloth about her thin figure, admiring the way her nipples peeked through the barely-there silk. The young red-haired woman once flounced across the deck in a transparent dress and naught else, heedless of the filth below her feet, or the filth eyeing her. She had eyes only for her Lord, her Captain. Now, however, she wore the same battered leathers as the rest of them, the battle-scarred scabbard that hung at her hip wasn't just for show. She'd killed her first man at eleven. She'd lost count since. Reaching the gangplank, Falia lounged against it lazily, catlike, blinking hazel eyes into the gloom as she awaited him. He who had pulled her from a life of servitude, to here, far away from home, and not wanting to return. His signature walk announced his presence far before she sighted him, the lazy saunter upon worn boots as much a herald as anything else. Soon enough, he alighted upon the deck beside her, and Falia fell into a deep curtsy before eschewing courtesy and tiptoeing, tangling one hand into the Crow's Eye's hair, the other hand brushing along his jawline, as she planted a deep kiss upon his blue-tinted lips before drawing but a breath away.

"My lord," Falia breathed into his lips, "the harbor is yours."

Apr 24 2017, 03:04 PM
he ocean breeze lifted copper strands, sending loose curls roiling as they caught the late afternoon light. Perhaps it was no longer afternoon, but early evening, as the sun had dipped close enough to caress the horizon, its light dimmed from the brightness of a clear winter's day, to the warm bronze spill of luminescence that dripped over the gray stones of the keep, tinting them orange, and gilding the cresting waves from silver to gold. The girl, too, leaning precariously over the crenelations, thin form twisted lithely over the cold stone, was painted all in shades of copper, gold, and bronze, a look of wonder carved upon girlish features. Her hazel eyes were wide, her lips parted in both a grin and a gasp of wonderment, her cheeks flushed from the cool air. Perhaps she wasn't quite dressed for the weather, as she was, wrapped in wisps of silk, draped in gems that sparkled, in gold that gleamed even brighter in the early evening sun. But the cold wind mattered not to Falia, and she was unencumbered by excess modesty. And why should she be? She was beautiful, and she knew it, and there was no shame in her bones.

Before, the ocean had seemed smothering; a wall, a barrier between her and the world. A moat. Now? Now each swell of blue-green water whispered of opportunity. Of freedom. The lapping waves against the red hull of the Silence were each sirens' songs, promising an end to drudgery. Falia had never felt so free; had never felt so alive. Her favorite place had become the ramparts that overlooked the sea, where the salt breeze ran fingers through her long hair, pricked at the gauze of her gowns. Where she'd met him, as she defiantly watched, defiantly awaited what might've been her doom. But it hadn't been. It had been her boon. Falia had gone from the literal red-headed step-child, maid to the trueborn Hewetts in ill-fitting shifts, hair caught in severe braids and tight twists to wearing the finest slips of silks and furs, hair a copper tumble, watching as her step-mother and sisters served the motley crew of the Silence.

She relished the shift.

Falia was ivy, climbing stones and ramparts to seek the sky, the high breeze. Before, she'd not been allowed up top, and only touched the clouds on the rare occasions she managed to slip from the watchful gaze of her 'superiors'. Now, she was allowed where she wished, when she wished. A whim caught hold of her fancy, and the lithe girl flipped her slippers from her feet, turning around to lean against the merlon, kicking her legs out to send the silk shoes flying across the stone. Just as swiftly, she flung a leg up, and climbed upon the merlon, stretching her arms out wide as the transparent fabric of her gown waved about her form, and she let loose a high, tumbling laugh. She turned, spinning upon one tip-toed foot, facing the next merlon, and lept, landing lightly upon the cold gray stone. The ground was a dizzying distance below, the bustling smallfolk, servants, and pirates appearing almost like insects from her great height.

They were all unimportant. Perhaps that was the real draw of the sky: from up there, everything, and everyone else was petty. A nobody. Like she used to be. But no longer; the light of the sun now graced her form. She heard his footsteps before she saw him; before she deigned to spin around. That gait was unmistakable, a slow, swaggering saunter upon booted feet; the boots not so new as to have a clipped sound, but something deeper and softer. As harsh as the salt waves against the shore. Years of sneaking around the keep had honed Falia's hearing to something preternatural; she'd an unrivaled ear for detail, and an unrivaled memory for particulars. Falia waited as he approached, feigning obliviousness. At the last moment before his approach would be entirely obvious to just anyone, Falia pirouetted to face Euron. The Crow's Eye. Her Lord. Her Captain. She curtsied from atop the crenellation, the motion not the practiced poise of her step-sisters, but slightly clumsy, a little too flouncy.

"M'Lord," she greeted.

Feb 26 2017, 03:30 PM

[dohtml]<div class="n-site-template">
<h1><reach>falia flowers</reach></h1>
<h2>17 years old. crow's whore. the reach. cintia dicker.</h2>
<h3>neekuh. 23. est. owl post.</h3>
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<span style='font-size:16pt;line-height:100%'><span style='font-family: times new roman'><i>“you little <b>whore</b>.”</i></span></span>
The beautiful blonde woman looked much less so when anger and hatred twisted her features. To you, she never appeared to be a beauty. She'd always been a harpy. But she kept that simpering smile plastered to her face in public. She graced her own daughters with a gentle touch, a mother’s kiss. For you? The public evidence of her husband’s shame, his dishonor, his betrayal, you got nothing. A sneer. A hissed curse. Your mother was a ladies’ maid. She demanded that she was demoted to scullery maid; to atone for her crimes of allowing a man to touch her, she was condemned to scrubbing pots in the deepest recesses of the kitchens. There was never any love between your parents; he was a Lord, she was a maid. She was cursed with beauty. He took what he wanted. But she loved you. Falia she called you, fah-lee-ah, the name rolled off her tongue like water in a babbling stream. If it had any meaning, you never knew, nor did it ever matter. With your mother, you were happy; perhaps those were the only times you were happy.
She never called you ‘Falia’. To her, you were always ‘Flowers’. You never understood how she hissed such a beautiful word with such venom. You didn’t understand what ‘Flowers’ meant. To you, it meant the varicolored blooms that enlivened the Shield Islands and the Reach. There was no shame to being a flower. Flowers were beautiful. Your mother called you her ‘little rose’, for your red hair.
And for your thorns.
Even back then, you refused to be pruned. You lashed out against authority, screaming and crying. You were a wild child, a weed in a patch of daisies, and you would not be ignored. You were too young to understand though you were a ‘flower’, you were not worthy of the petals the other girls received. You were not worthy of the bright silks, sparkling gems, the attention of your father. He too scorned you; but he simply ignored you. Only your mother called you beautiful, saw the rose beneath the thorns. She brushed your copper curls, kissed your forehead, and tucked you to sleep. You thrived in those days, vibrant, and energetic, and loud. When your mother passed from illness, you were seven.
And you wilted.

<span style='font-size:16pt;line-height:100%'><span style='font-family: times new roman'><i>“don't you <b>lie</b> to me.”</i></span></span>

The maid was short, fat, and black-haired with frowning lips and a perpetual scowl. That scowl was affixed to you in this moment, and you met her blue-eyed stare head on, challenging her with every line of your body, every ounce of courage you possessed was laid bare in your hazel-eyed glare. You were lying, but that mattered not. It was the principal of the thing. Nobody else was there to stand up for you; you had to do it for yourself. You had to be your own defender. You were eleven now, and had been working since the day after your mother’s death, under the stern, sharp eye of the laundress. Your ‘sisters’ were your daily tormentors, and the other maids shunned you. It was ill luck to befriend a ‘bastard’. A ‘Flowers’. You remember when you first learned the meaning of flowers.

You weren’t a bloom to be cultivated.

You were a weed. And by the Seven, you would be a nuisance. Your ‘father’ wouldn’t send you away, that much was clear. It was clear by the scorn in her eyes when she gazed upon your red-haired, long-limbed, freckled form. She had lost that battle with him, and so, she brought the war to you. She denied you any comfort you might have found, in companions, in rest, in life. You worked from the time that dawn’s pale tendrils brushed the parapets of Oakenshield until the last hearth was banked in the kitchens come evening. You were the physical evidence of her husband’s shame. You deserved no rest, no respite, no gentle touch. Your very presence was punishment to her, so your entire existence became her punishment to you.

Your retaliations were small, petty things. Like now, the maid’s blue eyes flashed as she stared you down, accusation in every line of her form. She claimed you had tightened the stitches on her lady’s dresses, making them impossible to fit in for the trueborn Hewett daughters. Of course, you claimed you did no such thing. Lady Hewett had clearly overindulged in the lemon cakes one too many nights. Perhaps she ought to go riding?

But of course, you had. It had been a gradual thing. One week, the stitches on one gown you tightened, and you’d leave it be for a little while, watching your ‘sisters’ squirm. The next, you’d tighten them further, so that your ‘sisters’ garments could be confused for sausage casings. And you’d start again, with other gowns. Slowly. Methodically. Only this maid had caught onto it, and only because she’d discovered a gown you hadn’t yet gotten to. But your wide hazel eyes were the portrait of innocence, your nervous stance the picture of a timid girl receiving an undeserved tongue-lashing.

You always were a talented liar.
<span style='font-size:16pt;line-height:100%'><span style='font-family: times new roman'><i>“you scheming <b>bitch</b>.”</i></span></span>

Your ‘sister’ had many suitors who called her beautiful, and sweet, and kind. Privately, you questioned this. Her nose was a little too large, her ears stuck out far too much, her chin a bit too pointy, her blonde hair too dull, too dark. Her mother’s beauty had skipped her. Even your father’s penchant towards long limbs and roiling copper curls had skipped your oldest sister. Her smiles appeared forced; they weren’t the lazy, easy grins you and your father shared. She couldn’t even manage the frigid simpers her mother kept plastered to her face.

And yet, she blamed you for the looks the young knights gave you, their eyes lingering upon your lithe, long-limbed form as you bent about your tasks, wearing ill-fitting gowns. You knew you were beautiful, even then, before him. You could recognize the looks in those young knights’ eyes as their gaze followed you from room to room, and it wasn’t polite interest. No, it was that hazy-eyed stare that young men never favored the marriageable ladies with; no, they saved it for the tavern wenches, the maids, the whores, and the bastards.
This was what they meant by ‘Flowers’.
You were a bloom, attracting the buzzing insects. And they swarmed you like flies to honey, like bees to a rose. You basked in their attention, fanning their affections with every coquettish laugh, every simpering smile, each bat of your eyelashes. They didn’t touch you, however. You just toyed with them, drawing them in, catching their interest, before batting them away, like a child who’d lost interest in a new toy, or a cat who’d lost interest in a fresh kill. None of them held your attention for long; you merely liked them for the way they looked at you; not with hatred, like your step-mother, or your half-sisters, but with lust. With longing.
Your sisters took exception to this. You were damaged goods, bad blood. You weren’t meant to outshine the trueborn Hewetts. She took exception to this. They took away the gowns you’d sewn for yourself from discarded cloth and their forgotten gowns, and stuck you in ill-fitting shifts to dampen your light. But you would not be denied. Your copper curls still caught the light, the easy grace with which you moved still turned heads, your easy smiles still brightened rooms. You would not be denied. They never were able to prune you, and even a ‘little rose’ had its thorns, and you simply became more of a nuisance in your ill-fitting shifts. Now, you didn’t merely tease the knights and squires that passed through Oakenshield, you pulled them by the arm and they tumbled willingly after you to pillows and to hay, whispering meaningless things to you, and you to them. You dreamed that, one day, one of them would scoop you up and take you far away, riding a white horse.
You dreamed of your very own knight in shining armor.
<span style='font-size:16pt;line-height:100%'><span style='font-family: times new roman'><i>“you should be wearing the finest <b>gowns</b>.”</i></span></span>
His ‘smiling eye’ glinted at you when he said those words, the bright blue the precise shade the ocean had been that day. That day. The day that red-painted hull had crested the waves that ringed Oakenshield, the day that men cursed, children cried, and women prayed. But not you. You alone, of all the women in the household, walked the parapets that day. You were utterly fearless. After all, these sort of men had little care for baseborn daughters; all eyes would be upon your sisters, your step-mother. There was nothing they could take from you that had not already been taken. You had neither silks nor jewels. Your dignity? You lost that long ago.

Perhaps that was what caught his eye. And perhaps you were not meant for a knight in shining armor.

You were a wildflower, a rose cultivated by wind and rain, not by the shears and delicate touch of a gardener. You faced the pirates standing, chin up, hazel eyes unwavering. Strong. Your sisters cowered, your step-mother wept, your father prayed. You alone had the courage to meet your fate, whatever it may be. And he saw that. From across the hall, his ‘smiling eye’ found you. That night, you wore your sister’s gown, your step-mother’s gems. The pirates feasted; though it was an eerily silent affair.

Only Euron retained his tongue. His ship was crewed by mutes.

You and Euron alone spoke; your step-mother and sisters wore your ill-fitting shifts, and served the gathered mongrels and pirates in their own hall. Your father? Oh, he was trussed up like a suckling pig beside Euron, a turnip shoved between his fat jowls.

But that wasn’t enough.

From the time you could speak, the time you could walk, your step-mother and sisters had been tormenting you. They took any joy you may have had, and turned it to ash in your mouth. You whispered in his ear. For the first time, he laughed, and your step-mothers and sisters were no longer wearing your ill-fitting dresses. They wore only what the Seven had given them. The pirates ogled and grasped at their bare skin, clawing, ripping at milky-white flesh. Your youngest sister was crying. Your step-mother merely glowered at you with eyes ringed red by tears, but she had run dry. Instead, the depth of her hatred was on full view for the rest of the world. She no longer pretended in front of the world with those vapid simpers, those false smiles. Now the world had seen her true form.

She wasn’t quite so beautiful now.
You laughed with him, the peals of laughter the only sound aside from your sister’s sobbing that filled the hall. His ‘smiling eye’ was so bright, so full of life when he leveled his gaze upon you. It was the light you’d been starved of; like a bloom, you angled yourself towards him, soaking him up. You were a rose.
Best not forget your thorns.
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