( The doe masks feels a mockery, seated on his cheeks with horns of bone spouted from it's edges. Jace's curls fall about it and while he does have Baratheon blood in his veins but the mask cannot be a call to that, it feels like a particular mockery to the failures that had befallen last month. Bravery had lead to nothing but failure, to a deep cut on his lip that he still wears as a sign of an attempt to free a creature, a girl, a monster.
There is temptation at first to wave it off but then, well, there is danger in disobeying this place outright and Jacaerys knows most value can be found in survival.
So he moves through the crowds in soft and silver fabrics, aware of pearls woven into his hair that give him an appearance of softness he'd rather not have given his small stature. And as he drifts through the rooms, there are moments he forgets that this place brings nothing but danger.
He takes a flagon from a passing tray and that is his first mistake within The Great Hall. For soon the music sweeps him up and if anything, Jacaerys enjoys sharing a dance. So to any passing stranger he offers a hand, tilts is head in offer-- ) Come. Shall we dance?
( Later, still sweat-soaked from twirling about the room with a partner or two and more ale in his veins he finds himself in a dark room -- the Velvet Parlor, back hitting a set of plush pillows and laughter on his lips. And if he lands next to another, at first he watches curious at what display reveals it self to him before realising the heat within his veins. He cannot remove the doe-eyed mask he wears but the layers can go, and so he beseaches as his fingers fumble with ties and buttons. He speaks more beggar than prince, ) Help me out of this?
eyes wide shut
PART 1. cw: stabby, stab, stab!
( How the night had turned from dance and pleasure to being hunted, Jacaerys does not remember. Yet there is some hand trying to pull him from around the corner he's turned, heaving as he's run from the mask-wearing pursuer. The kitchen knife in his hand serves as a poor weapon, not sharp like a dagger, but as he swings around in an attempt to protect himself perhaps someone is able to come to his aid.
Or perhaps the knife lands, piercing and cutting into the flesh of someone familiar lost in the fever of pursuit and driven to make good of promise of sacrifice. ) Fuck-- Fuck, snap the fuck out of it. You're mad.
PART 2.
( The fall does not kill him, though Jacaerys wishes that it had. He groans, pushing himself up and wishing that the vined floor where there is wetness on his cheek. He sits up, wiping at it at the back of his hand. It smells of blood and he is not surprised, though he cannot tell if it is his own.
He sits up and slowly stands, wavering on two legs that leave him feeling as if he is truly a newborn fawn on unsteady feet. Bloodied, shivering he spins around and tries to get a sense of his bearings but what he sees before him in the poorly lit tunnels does not bring a sense of ease. There is a path ahead, another to the side. He feels the hair rise at the back of his neck and something within him scream to move, and so he does. And when he wanders long enough it is the sound of footsteps that make him stop, frozen in fear for he does not have a weapon with him.
What he can do if it is not a creature that approaches him from the shadows but another Sacrifice in the pit, is tackle them to the ground. It is action first and worry of the consequences of sending them tumbling later. )
another glorious morning
cw: nudity
( The floor is too soft when he wakes. Or no. It is not a floor but a bed the sheets a pleasant coolness to his bruised skin, still covered in the evidence of being hunted and jumping toward uncertainty and death.
He hadn't died, Jace is sure. But he is wading from the depth of sleep onto the shores of wakefullness, pressed into a warm bed and arms wrapped around a pillow that is warm and steady against the side of him. If he were truly awake, truly aware, he'd realise that he is not alone in a bed that is not the one he usually claims for his own. Nor is he dressed or alone. )
wildcard.
(ooc: feel free to DM me or message me on moryana if you'd like to plot something different! i am very slow right now but always happy to backtag and if things move into a game setting, make them canon! )
jacaerys velaryon — house of the dragon — existing player
( The doe masks feels a mockery, seated on his cheeks with horns of bone spouted from it's edges. Jace's curls fall about it and while he does have Baratheon blood in his veins but the mask cannot be a call to that, it feels like a particular mockery to the failures that had befallen last month. Bravery had lead to nothing but failure, to a deep cut on his lip that he still wears as a sign of an attempt to free a creature, a girl, a monster.
There is temptation at first to wave it off but then, well, there is danger in disobeying this place outright and Jacaerys knows most value can be found in survival.
So he moves through the crowds in soft and silver fabrics, aware of pearls woven into his hair that give him an appearance of softness he'd rather not have given his small stature. And as he drifts through the rooms, there are moments he forgets that this place brings nothing but danger.
He takes a flagon from a passing tray and that is his first mistake within The Great Hall. For soon the music sweeps him up and if anything, Jacaerys enjoys sharing a dance. So to any passing stranger he offers a hand, tilts is head in offer-- ) Come. Shall we dance?
( Later, still sweat-soaked from twirling about the room with a partner or two and more ale in his veins he finds himself in a dark room -- the Velvet Parlor, back hitting a set of plush pillows and laughter on his lips. And if he lands next to another, at first he watches curious at what display reveals it self to him before realising the heat within his veins. He cannot remove the doe-eyed mask he wears but the layers can go, and so he beseaches as his fingers fumble with ties and buttons. He speaks more beggar than prince, ) Help me out of this?
eyes wide shut
PART 1.
cw: stabby, stab, stab!
( How the night had turned from dance and pleasure to being hunted, Jacaerys does not remember. Yet there is some hand trying to pull him from around the corner he's turned, heaving as he's run from the mask-wearing pursuer. The kitchen knife in his hand serves as a poor weapon, not sharp like a dagger, but as he swings around in an attempt to protect himself perhaps someone is able to come to his aid.
Or perhaps the knife lands, piercing and cutting into the flesh of someone familiar lost in the fever of pursuit and driven to make good of promise of sacrifice. ) Fuck-- Fuck, snap the fuck out of it. You're mad.
PART 2.
( The fall does not kill him, though Jacaerys wishes that it had. He groans, pushing himself up and wishing that the vined floor where there is wetness on his cheek. He sits up, wiping at it at the back of his hand. It smells of blood and he is not surprised, though he cannot tell if it is his own.
He sits up and slowly stands, wavering on two legs that leave him feeling as if he is truly a newborn fawn on unsteady feet. Bloodied, shivering he spins around and tries to get a sense of his bearings but what he sees before him in the poorly lit tunnels does not bring a sense of ease. There is a path ahead, another to the side. He feels the hair rise at the back of his neck and something within him scream to move, and so he does. And when he wanders long enough it is the sound of footsteps that make him stop, frozen in fear for he does not have a weapon with him.
What he can do if it is not a creature that approaches him from the shadows but another Sacrifice in the pit, is tackle them to the ground. It is action first and worry of the consequences of sending them tumbling later. )
another glorious morning
cw: nudity
( The floor is too soft when he wakes. Or no. It is not a floor but a bed the sheets a pleasant coolness to his bruised skin, still covered in the evidence of being hunted and jumping toward uncertainty and death.
He hadn't died, Jace is sure. But he is wading from the depth of sleep onto the shores of wakefullness, pressed into a warm bed and arms wrapped around a pillow that is warm and steady against the side of him. If he were truly awake, truly aware, he'd realise that he is not alone in a bed that is not the one he usually claims for his own. Nor is he dressed or alone. )
wildcard.
( ooc: feel free to DM me or message me on