09-24-2018, 12:34 PM
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It was quite a demanding task to reject his bastardy, which could be credited to the fact he was a bastard in the unfortunately literal sense, and so Alistair had never attempted to pretend he wasn't exactly who he was. The arlessa was not as impressed with his sincerity of character. Alistair wouldn't blame her, because he had enough wits about him to recognize it was embarrassing to have him around with all the rumors about his birth circulating, but he wished she could extend him the same courtesy. What was he meant to do? Defy time to travel to the past and ask his father to please refrain from canoodling with the starstruck maid? He did not make a conscious decision to enter the world as a bastard - he wasn't that sort of sod, but he was the sort who had a fondness for living, bastard or no. Or so it went when he wasn't disliking his circumstances entirely.
It wasn't his favorite subject to brood over. He preferred to think about lighter things, such as pretty ponies and roses and anything that did not care he was illegitimate. Cheese, for instance, did not care he was a bastard.
His life was not so simple, however much he pleaded the Maker for it. He did quite a bit of that, actually: clutching his mother's amulet, asking the Maker why his father had to tumble the maid, and if it was at all possible for the arlessa to bump her head and forget she hated him. Nothing worked, of course. Too much selfishness, too little prostration.
In a fit of childish rage, he had thrown the one tether between himself and his mother at the wall. He could still feel the gnawing dread in his gut in that beat prior to it striking the stone and shattering. If time-travel were possible, he would rather rectify that than sternly tell a king to canoodle elsewhere, or he might also redirect himself from becoming hopelessly lost. Reason number three thousand and forty one for never leaving Alistair in charge: he could lose himself in a matter of seconds, along with pants he didn't even wear.
"Do witches live in meadows, or are there not enough creepy trees? They must have some sort of rule about that. 'Dwell not where you aren't kept awake by creaking wood and beady bird eyes.'" The red-hued creature sighed. He could only amuse himself for so long before his sanity left with his pants.
It was quite a demanding task to reject his bastardy, which could be credited to the fact he was a bastard in the unfortunately literal sense, and so Alistair had never attempted to pretend he wasn't exactly who he was. The arlessa was not as impressed with his sincerity of character. Alistair wouldn't blame her, because he had enough wits about him to recognize it was embarrassing to have him around with all the rumors about his birth circulating, but he wished she could extend him the same courtesy. What was he meant to do? Defy time to travel to the past and ask his father to please refrain from canoodling with the starstruck maid? He did not make a conscious decision to enter the world as a bastard - he wasn't that sort of sod, but he was the sort who had a fondness for living, bastard or no. Or so it went when he wasn't disliking his circumstances entirely.
It wasn't his favorite subject to brood over. He preferred to think about lighter things, such as pretty ponies and roses and anything that did not care he was illegitimate. Cheese, for instance, did not care he was a bastard.
His life was not so simple, however much he pleaded the Maker for it. He did quite a bit of that, actually: clutching his mother's amulet, asking the Maker why his father had to tumble the maid, and if it was at all possible for the arlessa to bump her head and forget she hated him. Nothing worked, of course. Too much selfishness, too little prostration.
In a fit of childish rage, he had thrown the one tether between himself and his mother at the wall. He could still feel the gnawing dread in his gut in that beat prior to it striking the stone and shattering. If time-travel were possible, he would rather rectify that than sternly tell a king to canoodle elsewhere, or he might also redirect himself from becoming hopelessly lost. Reason number three thousand and forty one for never leaving Alistair in charge: he could lose himself in a matter of seconds, along with pants he didn't even wear.
"Do witches live in meadows, or are there not enough creepy trees? They must have some sort of rule about that. 'Dwell not where you aren't kept awake by creaking wood and beady bird eyes.'" The red-hued creature sighed. He could only amuse himself for so long before his sanity left with his pants.
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ALISTAIR THEIRIN: [size=9pt]shaking like a leaf underneath your family tree ═══════════ BIO
