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 Mar 31, 2023 9:37:22 GMT -5
[ For @warren ]
Regan didn’t know where to go.
It was late when she left Cassian (or early, depending on how you looked at it). She supposed the logical thing would be to go to the officers’ barracks to sleep. The healing tent had mostly put her back together again, but it did nothing to ease the fatigue. But Regan was painfully, miserably awake—something not at all unfamiliar. During her first weeks in Lorendale, she’d hardly slept at all. This time it was the increasingly full moon that made sleep impossible and her mood unbearable.
Her reason for avoiding the barracks, however, ran deeper. Regan was painfully aware of the scars that crawled like vines over one side of her face. She wanted somewhere to hide—or at least to not be on display.
Warren had confessed to sleeping some nights on the couch in his office. Maybe this was one of those nights; if it would be any night, she thought, this would be it. From what she’d gathered, half of the officers in Nevermere hadn’t slept a wink since the catastrophe at the ball. Which only made sense, given the circumstances.
Regan slinked toward Warren’s office, head down, avoiding people where she could. Eventually, she arrived at his door and knocked, listening carefully for any movement inside.
It was one of those nights when Warren had opted for sleeping on that old couch. He'd dozed off with some parchments in his hand and they'd fallen to his chest. The single lantern on his desk had given off plenty of light to read by, but he was kidding himself if he thought he'd actually get any work done once he laid down. His boots were rested neatly by the couch, his jacket hung over his chair. The half empty bottle of whiskey that Regan had brought to him not too many nights prior sat on the table against the wall to the left of Warren's desk, alongside the shoe-shine tin. Other than that, and his desk being scattered with parchments, his office was as usual. Clean, neat.
When the knock came at the door, he was startled from his sleep and the parchments fell to the floor. He grunted as he pushed himself up on the couch, rubbing his face. "Just a minute," he said as he stood to light the other lantern in the room. Once there was a little more light in the office, he'd clear his throat. "Come in," he said as he bent to get pick up the parchments that had fell to the floor.
Post by Regan Lassiter on Mar 31, 2023 10:36:40 GMT -5
Regan didn’t delay. Her hand was already on the doorknob by the time Warren invited her in. She entered and shut the door behind her quickly, almost as if someone was giving chase on the other side and needed to be kept out. Once the door was shut she’d look up and just…stand there, staring at him.
She didn’t remember just what she’d intended to say first, exactly. Didn’t recall what reason she’d planned to toss at his feet for calling on him at this hour. It had all evaporated in the kiln of her ire that burned in her chest. Her breathing was rapid, her eyes faintly flickering with copper as her scars caught shadows in the lamplight.
Even as he was bent over to pick up the parchments, he could tell by the feet who was entering. He stood fully, staring at her somewhat wide eyed. The parchments in his hand crumbled in his fist and he leaned back, hips against the front of the desk, and exhaled the kind of deep breath that screamed tired relief.
He allowed himself that moment. Just a short moment, to sit the parchment down on the desk and rub his eyes with his now free hands. His shoulders slouched, some of the tension he'd been holding since the night of the ball finally leaving them. Then he took another breath to collect himself, and turned his full attention back to her.
Crossing the distance between them, he wrapped one arm around her shoulders and the other hand tangled it's fingers through her hair, pushing her hair away from the scars while simultaneously pulling her toward him, against his chest. "Whatever you need, I'm here."
Post by Regan Lassiter on Mar 31, 2023 12:01:49 GMT -5
Regan let him. She buried her face in his chest, clinging to him like he were the ledge of a canyon she was about to fall into. Her breathing didn’t slow. Her skin was feverishly warm to the touch and she trembled ever so slightly in his arms. Regan didn’t know what she needed. She knew what she wanted, but needing and wanting were two very different things.
Eventually, she tipped her chin back to look up at Warren though she continued to cling to him. Anger still churned behind her eyes, fed by the fire that always burned hungrily within her.
Warren looked down at her, his eyes catching hers. He was surprised she didn't already know. He was sure the King would have told her, would have seen her first before anyone. "She's dead." He confirmed. "It was Bex Brekker. I believe Commander Usher would have preferred to have kept her alive a little longer, but she attacked us and the guard cut her down."
Post by Regan Lassiter on Mar 31, 2023 13:24:18 GMT -5
Regan did, but she wanted to hear it again. Wanted to envision the witch’s body falling as it was hacked to pieces. Regan wished she could have done it herself. She could almost taste the blood on her tongue, feel the flesh beneath her fangs as she sank into the woman’s body.
“You got me out,” Regan said, gaze flickering over Warren’s face. She was looking for something in the lines of his face, in the arch of his brow, and the rugged cut of his features.
“I should have been faster,” he muttered, still frowning. “I’m sorry I wasn’t. But how —“ he slid his hand down to her face, scanning every scar. Compared to the way she looked when he’d handed her over to Cassian, she was practically good as new. “I know our potions didn’t do this. How did you heal so much so quickly. Are you okay? Do you feel alright?”
At first the relief had been simply for her survival. Now that he knew she was alive, he could concern himself with everything else. And he had questions, but he didn’t want to bother her with all of them. She’d just returned and the last thing he wanted to do was bombard her.
Post by Regan Lassiter on Mar 31, 2023 15:22:43 GMT -5
Regan shuddered as Warren’s hand dropped down to her face. For a moment, she thought she was going to cry. She could feel the hot, angry tears boiling behind her eyes, reaching a pitch before they subsided.
“The king called in a favor to the prince in Arynn Frey. Fixed me up—well, as best as could be done, anyway. But I’m fine…” Regan trailed off, still holding onto him with what could only be described as desperation. Her gaze drifted over his face as if she too were tracing every line.
"As best as could be done?" He narrowed his eyes slightly at her, brow furrowed, lips turned even further downward. Even as she said that she was fine, he could tell she wasn't. And who would blame her? Even if the woman was used to being put into dangerous situations, dealing with dangerous people, what had happened was sudden and violent. It had happened at the least expected time, by the least expected people. And had the King not been able to take her to Arynn Frey, Warren had no idea if she would have lived.
"I think the Prince did a fine job. You're as stunning now as you were when you walked into the ball. Which, by the way, I did not get the chance to compliment you on. A little belated, I suppose, but better late than ever." He shrugged but only minimally, making an effort not to move so that she wouldn't feel she needed to let go. His thumb grazed her temple, a light touch because he doubted she would tell him if touching the scars along her face hurt or not. "Regan, it's okay for you not to be fine. Most people would not be fine right now. Talk to me."
Last Edit: Mar 31, 2023 21:44:03 GMT -5 by Deleted
Post by Regan Lassiter on Apr 1, 2023 10:40:47 GMT -5
Warren’s calm and care was equal parts soothing and agitating. As Warren spoke, Regan grew increasingly distracted, tears still close to the surface. No, she wasn’t fine. She wanted to set the world to burn; to tear her prey to pieces and be devoured herself. Warren’s gentle touch only stoked that fire. Catharsis—that’s how she’d described it before—but now the word seemed insufficient to capture the hunger that the full moon was tugging to the surface. To give in to it promised to erase all the anger, insecurity, and fear. The angry tears started to fade, but her eyes still burned as she fixed her gaze on Warren.
“I don’t want to talk—” Regan whispered in a plea as she pulled Warren closer. She took his hand by the wrist, pulling it from her scars and dropping it firmly to her waist instead.
Warren's drive toward people he cared for, more often than not, was to protect. Over the years, he had learned that there was more than one way to do that. The Warren of twelve years prior had only known how to physically protect someone. To shield them, to fight for them. His wife's death had taught him a valuable lesson; some people need help in other ways.
Regan was complicated, at least to Warren. He wanted to be a comfort to her, but he didn't know how. He wanted her, but he didn't think his feelings were genuinely returned. He'd grown to care for her regardless. To appreciate her strength and persistence. He'd been determined, after last they met like this, to keep their relationship platonic unless she decided to agree to a more formal one. Not only for the sake of himself, his house, and his family, but for her sake as well.
The ball had changed that. Who was he to decide for her what was good for her sake and what wasn't? He could only decide for himself, but what did he really want? Mostly, just to take care of her. Selfishly, perhaps. But he couldn't bring himself to reject her a third time.
So his fingers tightened around her waist, making certain she remained close. The arm that had been wrapped around her shoulders shifted upward, fingers slinking through her hair at the base of her head and tugging it slightly to the side to better expose the scars to him. His lips dipped down to her jaw, to kiss along the scar that led up to her ear. When he got there, he'd whisper to her. "Then don't talk. If this is what you want, we're going to do it my way."
Post by Regan Lassiter on Apr 1, 2023 11:58:35 GMT -5
Regan was, for all her complications, a very simple creature. She indulged her animal desires despite the consequences that came with them. Regan had never stopped being the needy child, the one that reached for affection with grabby hands, never trusting it would last. Thinking that now was forever was the mistake she’d made with Logan—in an office, not all that different than this one. She’d made it again with Rhysand, and with Keelan, and with Grant, and on and on until finally—finally—she’d learned her lesson.
In the end, 'now' was all that you could count on. And now, she needed the world to stop. Regan didn’t want to think; she wanted someone else to do it for her.
Warren tugged on her hair and Regan shuddered in his arms, a soft growl vibrating through her body. There were risks involved in all of this, whether Warren realized it or not—fire safety among them. But his grip was strong and commanding, so when he whispered in her ear she nodded with eager, docile compliance.
As soon as she nodded his heart began to race, but his hands remained steady. The one on her waist slid down, pulling the edge of her shirt upward to slip underneath it. Her skin was hot to the touch, which he assumed must have something to do with what she'd showed him in the forest, but he was unbothered by it. In fact it was comforting in a way, like settling down by a fire after a long day of working in the cold.
That same hand continued upward, fingers tracing along her back lightly, just grazing her skin. His lips, in contrast, moved down, kissing the skin beneath her ear and down along her neck to her shoulder. His feet carried him forward, forcing her to move backward. He'd guide her toward the desk that had been behind her, that of his assistant's. With one foot he pushed the kids chair out of the way and it tumbled over onto it's back. The hand that had been in her hair swiped the desk free of whatever might have been on it, then wrapped around her hips and hoisted her up to sit on the edge.
Once she sat there comfortably, he pulled his lips away but kept his eyes on hers as he reached to pull her shirt off.
Post by Regan Lassiter on Apr 1, 2023 18:52:43 GMT -5
A low, satisfied growl hummed in Regan’s throat as she became putty in Warren’s hands. She fought the urge to reach for more, to charge toward what she wanted without patience or restraint. But Warren’s terms had been clear, and for now, Regan honored them. His way. The chair clattered to the floor and Warren’s papers were strewn about the room. Regan started to forget to breathe.
1…2…3…
Regan perched on the edge of the desk. Her wide dark eyes looked up at Warren with all the needy hopefulness of a beggar. There was a flicker of hesitation in them, one that crackled with light once her shirt dropped to the floor. The scarring on her face was nothing compared to the crooked continent of lined and wrinkled skin on her chest. Regan felt the tearful, angry storm churning in her head again. To still it, her fingers went to Warren’s buttons, unhooking one after another with practiced proficiency.