The peace that formerly reigned in Terra Nova has eroded, now little more than a memory. War ravages the continent. Disputes divide kingdoms; ideals divide families. The quest for power consumes absolutely and indiscriminately. None are immune to its allure.
Who will rise and who will fall? Only time—and ambition—will tell.
UPDATES
05.26.2023
2 month character creation hold for all existing members begins 6/5/2023. Ended 8/5/2023.
10.29.2023
Change in how times flows. Was 4 IC seasons, now only 2 IC seasons per 1 OOC year.
5 whole years of Heir Apparent goodness! When I started the site, I knew I was hunkering down for the long haul, but I never could have predicted the numerous twists and turns this roleplay site has seen. Hundreds of plots, characters, and members have come and gone, all leaving marks on the site. I am so very thankful for those who have invested. Because you keep coming back, keep getting on, and keep writing, Heir Apparent has the legacy it does today. Three cheers to us!
Post by Regan Lassiter on Nov 28, 2022 19:53:38 GMT -5
[ For @berengar ]
Regan’s insomnia hadn’t improved with the addition of a roommate. Close quarters with Othello had taken some getting used to. She’d learned to let go of any sense of modesty or attachment to personal space. The most pressing problem right now was that he snored, and Regan was a light sleeper at the best of times. As a child, deep sleep had been a dangerous thing. Terrible things happened in the dark—Regan had both seen and heard them—and she’d be damned if she’d let herself fall victim to the night’s monsters.
So, in search of solace and succor, Regan went to the empty mess hall to hunt down something to eat. She’d brought her own beverage—a bottle of whiskey from under her mattress—and managed to hunt down some crusty bread and questionable cheese. Regan sat at the far end of the empty room, picking at the food and drinking whiskey straight from the bottle.
There were many, many downsides to living in the barracks on the military wing. Proximity to the fully stocked kitchen and mess hall, however, was not one of them. Driven by a rumbling stomach, Ber followed the familiar path through the shadowed castle, and he might have found the silence eerie if he hadn’t made this very same trek many times before. He probably should have felt a little worse about essentially stealing food, but he’d long lost any shame over it. And technically, since it was made for the soldiers, he was only eating what was rightfully his – and at this hour of the night, anyone who might argue with his reasoning wasn’t around anyway.
Quietly, he ducked into a small storage room just off the main kitchen, acquiring some bread and a couple apples after a little bit of searching. Taking a bite into one of the apples, he wandered through the kitchen – nothing else caught his fancy – and into the mess hall, where he found, to his surprise, that he wasn’t alone. The sight of the King’s Huntsman had him pausing and wondering if perhaps he ought to find somewhere else to enjoy his snack, but then he saw some bread and cheese on the table and her beverage of choice appeared distinctly alcoholic. A kindred spirit. He was beginning to think she wasn’t as uptight as her rank would suggest.
Ber wandered over and gestured with the hand holding the partially eaten apple to the bottle of whiskey. “Knew I forgot something,” He said by way of greeting, thinking that, given the current setting and activity, she probably wouldn’t mind the informality. He prayed he wasn’t wrong. “Mind if I join?”
Post by Regan Lassiter on Nov 29, 2022 12:45:56 GMT -5
Regan, lost in the labyrinthine maze of her own thoughts, took a moment to realize someone was talking to her. She looked up at the recruit, blinking stupidly for a moment before she caught up to his request.
“Oh—” She gestured, at the open seat across from her, “Please. I could use the company.” Because nowadays, her company was of the Coheedsman variety. She slid the bottle of whiskey across the table with a smirk, brow furrowing as she tilted her head to the side.
“You’re the kid from the training yard, right?” Despite her labeling him a 'kid', Regan's tone was inquisitive, not condescending.
Definitely not as uptight as her rank might suggest. With a matching smirk turning the corners of his lips upward, Ber set his food on the table and took the seat across from Lassiter. When she slid the bottle in his direction, he accepted the unexpected invitation without hesitation and felt no regret as he swallowed a mouthful of very low quality whiskey. Alcohol was alcohol, and it wasn’t like he could afford any better
Feeling the burn travel down his throat to his chest, he set the bottle back on the table, sliding it back toward Lassiter, and nodded. “Yeah,” Ber confirmed, then added, ”And you sent that punching bag across the training yard. Then took down Woodwick.” He paused, then added, “A lot of people wish they could’ve seen that last one.” The Lieutenant was many things, but popular among the younger soldiers in the barracks was not one of them. He couldn’t stop himself from grinning slightly at the memory. A moment later, he introduced himself in case she hadn’t caught his name the last time they’d met. “I’m Berengar Stormcrest, by the way” He already knew who she was. They all did, at this point.
Last Edit: Nov 29, 2022 21:19:53 GMT -5 by Deleted
Post by Regan Lassiter on Nov 30, 2022 11:55:24 GMT -5
Regan shrugged, smirking a little as a touch of color rose to her cheeks. “Yeah well,” she sighed, taking a swig from the bottle before saying, “Takes guys like Woodwick to keep this whole operation running. It’s a thankless job, but there it is.”
“Regan Lassiter,” Regan extended her hand for him to shake. Just then, it occurred to her just where she’d heard the name ‘Stormcrest’ before. Regan herself was named for the orphanage she’d been raised in. Stormcrest was a bigger operation than Lassiter House, but both where dumps—as to be expected. Lassiter House had a bit of a reputation in many circles, mostly for selling children for the unspeakable when they started running out of beds; the fact it had been condemned some years ago told you everything you needed to know. A place not even good enough for Nevermere’s forgotten children.
“Stormcrest, eh?” She said in an invitation to state what was perhaps the obvious.
“Yeah,” Ber agreed noncommittally, rather more comfortable with remaining in a state of simmering annoyance with the man than he was with the prospect of venturing into some sort of sympathetic mindset. She was right, of course, about Woodwick, but he still thought the man could be less of a hardass about everything. When she offered her hand, he reached over and shook it. “Nice to really meet you.” Like Regan had alluded to, everyone, even the low ranking soldiers like himself, had a role to play. Who knew what they were really like once the hierarchy fell away, but so far, the Huntsman seemed decent.
At her question, he paused for a moment, eyeing her to try to determine if she knew or if she was one of the many others who simply thought it was a dramatic sounding name. “Lassiter.” The word was repeated quietly. A moment later, Ber nodded at her. “Exactly what you’re thinking of.” By acknowledging the indication of his past, she had sparked a realization of his own. The Lassiter name, her fighting style, maybe even the way they were here right now with their meager pickings and her cheap whiskey: street rats to soldiers, the both of them. Then again, where else would they go but to the military? “Started off on the streets, went to training, shaped up—“Mostly. One side of his mouth quirking upward, he gestured with both hands to the mess hall. “—and now I’m here.”
Taking another bite of the apple, he nodded toward her. “Looks like you did alright yourself.” Better than he had, at any rate, but he was fairly confident she had a few years on him. “Left it all behind, haven’t looked back?” Though, now that he thought about it, hadn’t there been something about a fire a while ago?
Post by Regan Lassiter on Dec 2, 2022 19:50:39 GMT -5
Regan relaxed as he spoke, eyes going a little mushy as she considered the boy in front of her. There was no one that could understand what she’d been through, but if there was, Ber was as close to an empathizer as she was likely to come. Regan snorted and shook her head at his question, taking another swig and then sliding the bottle back across the table.
“Nah, not all behind,” Regan sighed, picking at her bread, “As much as I’d like to.” She gestured to a scar on her face, one that split just above her eyebrow down to her cheek. She popped a chunk of bread in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully before shrugging.
“But I’m thankful. Better lookin’ girls didn’t make it out so good. Us?” Regan gestured between the two of them, expression serious, “We’ve got what they can only dream of. I never forget that. Ever.”
A kindred spirit indeed. When he had made that observation upon noticing her sitting here, Ber hadn’t realized quite how similar their stories were, but even as they danced around actually saying the words themselves, there was a mutual understanding that was undeniable. He had known, intellectually, that he was far from the only poor commoner to join the military – far from the only poor, orphan commoner, surely – but he would never have expected to find such camaraderie with the King’s Huntsman. It was a pleasant surprise.
When she offered the bottle, he reached out and took another swig before sliding it back her way. He swallowed the whiskey, then made a thoughtful noise at her words, considering their last names: tell-tale signs to their origins for anyone who knew. “I guess some of it has a way of sticking around, doesn’t it.” Ber gestured toward her scar. “You got whoever did that good?” It probably didn’t need to be asked; even beyond hearing the rumors, he’d seen her fight himself and knew there was only one possible answer.
As her tone grew more serious and she expressed a gratitude that, for him, got buried all too often under the day to day minutiae of military life, Ber met her gaze and nodded. “We do, don’t we.” He didn’t think about the difference between what he had and what he could have had very often or at all, but he understood what she was getting at. He knew what happened all too often to the children no one loved; no one noticed – no one cared – when they went missing. “All the more reason to take what we have and run with it while we can.” For themselves. And for the ones who never made it out.
Post by Regan Lassiter on Dec 4, 2022 19:48:09 GMT -5
Regan grinned as she surfaced form another swig of whiskey.
“Popped his eyeball out,” She declared proudly, “I couldn’t sit for a week because of it, but it was worth it anyway.” The scar was the most lasting reminder. From that day on, she’d started wearing her hair short, doing everything she could to not draw anyone’s eye. And, so far, the strategy had worked.
Regan smiled at Ber, warmed by the comfort of his presence. She spent so much time trying to ignore or conceal where she’d come from. To be able to acknowledge it now was an unexpected and welcome relief. She nodded in agreement, pushing the bottle back his way.
“You like the military?” There was nothing in her tone that would suggest it was a matter of judgment. The military had been a way out for both of them. Regan had found it suited her well, but that didn’t mean Ber necessarily felt the same.
At her declaration and obvious pride, Ber chuckled, remembering with satisfaction the victories he’d stolen for himself as a child. “He should’ve known better.” It was brutal, perhaps, but so was the world that had raised them. If he cared about hurting his opponent every time he fought, Ber would never win anything. As far as he was concerned, there were no rules in a fight, so only those willing to risk the consequences of losing ought to step into the ring. “Guess he does now.”
When she asked him about the military, he shrugged. “Yeah, I think so.” Training had shown him a way off the streets, so enlisting and seizing that opportunity had been the obvious decision. He hadn’t even hesitated. “Being a soldier is something I can do, and I don’t think I’m that bad at it.” He made the observation more as a statement of fact than in any way that would suggest he was fishing for compliments. Ber had eyes; while he may not have been the best, he knew that he was also far from the worst. “It’s…” After trying and failing to find the right words to describe that he was content enough as a soldier despite essentially having no choice if he wanted to better himself, he shrugged again. Maybe he wasn’t as dedicated as a Delaney or as motivated to reach the top as Sliva, but he didn’t hate being a soldier, and that was enough. “I can’t see myself doing anything else.”
It was true, he realized, as he took his turn with the bottle before sending it back. Though Ber may have been a soldier partly out of preference but mostly out of necessity, he doubted that he would take the chance to change careers even if offered one - not that that was even remotely a possibility right now anyway. Regan, however, might have gained enough influence as the King’s Huntsman to switch careers - to what, he didn’t know - if she so desired. “Did you ever think about doing something else?”
Post by Regan Lassiter on Dec 5, 2022 20:03:02 GMT -5
Ber didn’t have to finish his thought. Regan knew exactly what he meant. There was nothing else they could imagine doing because they’d never been given a choice. It would have been fanciful to dream of becoming a painter, or a politician, or a teacher in a coven. Delusional, even. A solider wasn’t just the reasonable choice, it was the only choice. No other dream was given the oxygen it needed to breathe because they knew, eventually, it would have to die.
“No,” Regan said, her voice muted with an uncharacteristically soft smile, “Wouldn’t even know where to start.” She chewed on another hunk of bread, more subdued than before.
“Did you know who they were? Your—” Regan almost said family, but the word didn’t come out, “You know, your, uh, birth parents or whatever.”
Her answer hardly surprised him. If she wanted to leave, he suspected she would have by now; when the opportunity arose, they both knew the importance of snatching what they wanted before it could vanish. “Yeah, neither would I.” In quiet agreement, Ber lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “This is what I know.” It was all he knew, which might have felt as limiting as it was familiar had he not spent his entire life operating under such conditions.
Regan asked, awkwardly, about his birth parents, and he let out a soft, amused breath. “Never,” He said, turning sideways on the bench and bringing his feet up as he leaned back against the wall. Once upon a time, he might have been curious, might have longed for someone to claim him as their own, but that dream had long since died. His younger self had quickly learned that no amount of wishing could make knowledge appear out of thin air. Just as every castle required a foundation, so too did the hope of finding any blood relatives. “Just a baby in a blanket, laying on the doorstep in the middle of Heims.”
Not the first, and certainly not the last. One of life’s many mysteries, but only for some of them. Sometimes, he knew, babies came with a story or a clue as to their origins. He had never been able to decide if that tantalizing glimpse was better or worse than knowing nothing at all. Ber set the apple core aside and looked over at her. “Did you? Parents? Siblings?”
Post by Regan Lassiter on Dec 6, 2022 19:37:38 GMT -5
Regan was struck by how similar their stories were, but then she supposed it wasn’t just the two of them that could tell this particular tale. There was no shortage of doorsteps in Nevermere or unwanted infants to occupy them. Regan and Berengar were just two drops of water in a churning sea.
“Nah,” Regan said, shaking her head with a sigh, “No note, no nothing. Just me.” She shrugged. “Better that way, I suppose. Never felt the need to go looking for them cause I’ve got nothing to go by."
Nodding, Ber let out a sigh and rested his forearms on his bent knees in front of him. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” He agreed, turning away to stare at the far wall of the mess hall. “Some of them needed a story though.” Those ones had found - or convinced themselves they’d found - a little tidbit of the past, and the mystery had just eaten away at them until there was nothing left. “There was a kid who swore he was the bastard son of a noble and his mistress. Used to talk about how he’d find his family and eat feasts in the castle with the king. Drove everyone crazy.” With a quiet exhale, he shook his head at the memory, which had lain forgotten in the back of his mind until now.
“Of course, no one believed him.” The teasing had been relentless. “I think some of them even thought it was a joke.” For the longest time, Ber himself had never been fully sure as to how much the kid had genuinely believed versus how much he put it on for those nights when an imagined feast was the only food they had to fill their hollow stomachs. “But every time there was a noble around, I saw him staring.” With a sigh, he looked back over at Regan and shrugged, adding a heartbeat later, “He disappeared shortly before we started training.” Officially, no one knew what had happened, but Ber, who vaguely remembered seeing him brandishing what he now assumed was a false letter with a forged seal, thought that he’d probably been lured away by promises that no one could keep. Unchecked dreams were dangerous. It was easier, safer, to let them die.
Gaze drifting from hers to the space beside her, Ber lapsed into silence for a few moments. “Yeah,” He reiterated quietly. “We have it good.” Food. Drink. A roof over their heads. Even just being alive. With a slight tilt of his head, he refocused on Regan as a thought struck him. “You staying in the castle?” Obviously, if she was here at this hour, but… “I don’t think I’ve seen you in the barracks.”
Post by Regan Lassiter on Dec 8, 2022 9:19:51 GMT -5
Regan listened, growing still as she listened to Ber’s story. She knew that kid. Not him exactly, but ones like him that lied to themselves to avoid the reality of their circumstances. Regan supposed she wasn’t much different. She’d found her own ways to escape—not through fantasies but through fighting and finding solace at the bottom of a liquor bottle. Ber was right. They did have it good.
It took Regan a moment to wake to his question, lost entirely in thought until she dragged herself back to the present. “Uh,” Regan mumbled, cheeks turning a little pink, “Sort of. Me and, uh, Othello. The big blonde guy. We’re…roommates, I guess.” She shrugged, smirking, “Someone’s got to keep an eye on him.”