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IMAGE: http://i58.tinypic.com/21tz7a.gif
AGE: 17
LOCATION: Casterly Rock
PLAYER: Lola
ABOUT: All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
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Joined: 12-July 15
Status: (Offline)
Last Seen: Dec 14 2015, 06:43 PM
Local Time: May 22 2018, 02:04 AM
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( 0.91% of total forum posts )
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TYBOLT LANNISTER

WESTERLORD

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Jul 18 2015, 09:43 AM

As most had expected, Tybolt had taken his invitation to the tournament with exceptional enthusiasm. Although King’s Landing didn’t have the greatest appeal to his tastes and preferences, it gave the perfect opportunity to showcase his talents and exchange stories with both the men he’d met and those that yet still waited to greet him. It had pleased him to such an extent he’d summoned Drayton back from Dorne to ensure his companion could have the experience he so desired to partake in. They’d travelled together, alongside many more. There were many first-sons of the Westerlands Tybolt considered friends and so he travelled with loyal company, for that always seemed to make the journey ever so swifter. Although his own excitement swelled with secrecy within his chest, he couldn’t help but ponder his father’s thoughts. He knew fine well he didn’t relish the idea of returning to the Capital, of catching a fleeting glimpse of the room which had sealed his name as memorable for all the wrong reasons. Although under closer inspection Tybolt believed that everybody could see the double-edged sword of the situation and if they couldn’t then they were blinded by jealousy. For at least his father would be remembered, in both triumph and condemnation.

For himself it had been so long since he’d wandered between the Keep’s walls, rotten with the weight of secrets and scandals. It had been in his childhood, under the guidance of his Grandfather, that he’d first set his sights upon the towers as they conquered the horizon. In his opinion it was a rather grotesque place, not the palace of course, but the city. Dirty streets littered with dirty men. The acidic stench of bile and vomit slithering between cobble stones and staining the ruins of toppled-walls. Piss seemed to coat the air and invite the senses to gulp down the aroma of other men’s waste. Filth. Utter filth. The people themselves seemed pale, even under the irrational warmth of a fading sun. Grey almost, if it wasn’t for the waste-wash of coal and earth dusting their miserable faces. Luckily they never had to linger long on the outskirts, simply pass by them, dismissive of the men who cast fleeting glances at those that passed by. Long accustomed to the rich and wealthy trampling through their town. The Lannister company hand’t dawdled, they weren’t the sort to simmer in sewage. Instead they’d crossed the keep with haste after a race had ensued between five boy’s over who could cross the threshold the quickest. Tybolt had come second after Rohan had cut across his path in the final moments. There was no hardship of course, just boisterous laughter and boyish jests.

Unlike most Tybolt’s first thoughts weren’t of signing up the the earlier melee, or of looking over which names had been placed forward for the morning’s joust. They weren’t even of his family, for which he was well aware almost every member had come in attendance. A rare sight to see the entire pride wash away from the Rock. Instead his first thought was of food, of the emptiness rattling in his stomach and the growl which ricocheted from within. “Tybolt, are you coming or are you going to stand there looking witless for the evening?” After he’d dismounted he hadn’t moved an inch, simply analysed his plan of action within the comfort of his own mind. It was only once Drayton’s voice slammed against his ear that he brushed his palm against his horse’s nose and cast his gaze towards the endless sea of brick. “With you? I’ve had enough of you to last a lifetime. Take my horse would you, I need to find something.” Without hesitation Drayton moved forwards, more than content to take the horse to the stable-boys that would do the rest of the labour. “If you’re searching for your appeal, I’d give up now. I’m afraid you lost that many moons ago.” Tybolt couldn’t help but smirk, his chin peeking across his shoulder as he cast a backwards glance at his unusually well-dressed friend, “Around the same time you lost… what was her name… Arabella? Now where did she go too…” Instinctive reflexes brought his head to duck as a half eaten piece of bread barely clipped the side of his ear. Then there was laughter, low and short as they nodded to each other and then a second motion of his head was given to the others. He’d had enough of their company for now. Until later when wine would be reintroduced.

For the meantime however he began to amble forwards, a confidence in his step and a freshness to his face. A whisper in his mind wondered where his mother might be found, or whether or not his Aunt had also made the journey. There was something about the stories of his Father and his Aunt that crawled beneath the skin, like a beetle against his flesh that picked and scratched at his last nerves. But he didn’t dare dwell on the thought, he had plenty of time to scold family affairs in the confinement of his brain, while he had more focus on filling the emptiness in his stomach. It took several corridors, two right turns, a shadowed hallway and a cobweb entangling itself in his hair for him to realise he was entirely lost. Clearly he should have asked directions to the Kitchens, but what man ever did?


Jul 13 2015, 05:22 PM


Crimson silk hung about his throat, dropping south to curl against his ribs and tighten over the bulge of his biceps. They’d long ago formed under the weight of metal; at seventeen his body boasted the profits of exercise, sculpted under sweat and tears. It hadn’t taken him long to dress, he’d awoken the moment the Eastern sun had touched his cheek and guided his mind from a peaceful sleep. He still dreamt of Hightower, of the gardens overflowing with colour, of the songstress that sang a siren’s song in the evenings. After awhile it had begun to feel like home, but it would always be a poor comparison to its competitor. Perhaps that’s why he’d been so glad to return, so eager to strap up his mount and abandon the gardens that for so long had been so appealing. Before returning to the rock however he’d settled a few nights it Lannisport, keeping his solemn word on a promise that he’d offer his companionship to Drayton Hawthorne before his voyage South.

Dismissing himself from his quarters, Tybolt strolled through the corridors, his attention absent. There was little need for him to admire the tapestries on the wall, to stand in awe at their detail, at their magnificent textures and fluent combinations of colour and space. He’d seen them a thousand times before. Each individual piece was stored in his mind and could be recollected in the slightest of seconds. He’d ran his fingertips upon them from the shoulders of his father, before he’d even been tall enough to reach a tabletop. It had been three days since his arrival and already he’d heard news that his mother urged him home, wondering what kept him, what business demanded his delay. He’d sent word back, it had travelled with speed on the lips of a man and his dusty horse, that he wouldn’t dawdle too much longer. With that he’d been sincere, it was finally the third morning and as he rounded the corner his emerald eyes rolled over the boy in black. It was a face he’d seen so often, Drayton had been the first boy he’d sparred against, the first boy he’d beaten and more importantly the first boy he’d deemed trustworthy. There was loyalty in his voice, Tybolt could distinguish it from a mile away.

“Don’t you look dashing Hawthorne.” It was uttered within a laugh, the rugged words comforted in a circle of juvenile glee. It was more common for his friend to be drenched head to toe in an earthly layer than be spotless in new attire. There was something amusing in seeing him wrapped in fancy clothing, the overbearing black decorated with green and pink intertwining vines. “Finally the little Lord graces us with his presence!” The jests were harmless and within an instant their fists were brought together, interlocked between their chests, as their hands slapped the back of their comrade. “I thought you’d never wake and I’d sail without a farewell.” Tybolt wasn’t one for early rising, not after a night of being whisked away into ale-infused dreams. He didn’t often drink, but Drayton’s encouragement and persistent challenging was something he couldn’t bring himself to turn his back upon. It was boyish pride and teenage fun. Even Tybolt could bring himself to indulge on occasion. “You’d get nowhere without my blessing. I’d have you sunk if you’d dare leave without a word.” With a motion of his head, the pair began their descent, the silent echo of footsteps against concrete ricocheted throughout the stone, their timing exact as they walked step to step. “That would be a shame, for I haven’t yet learnt to swim.” The pair grinned, their laughter low and thunderous as it seemed to amplify in the silence. The silence however didn’t last for long, a corridor later and the spaciousness seemed to half and the movement of bodies whisking back and fourth twisted into an endless blur of faceless phantoms.

What of you now Tybolt? Back to the Rock? Or do politics demand your presence elsewhere?” Their steps slowed drastically as they turned towards the courtyard, his companion’s horse already saddled, its head held tightly by a boy with flushed cheeks and an expression of painful concentration. “Tonight I’ll return to see my Mother, tomorrow I could be ushered away to the capital to make light conversation and sip wine. But for now my only intention is to spend some time alone, now I’ve finally escaped your company.” They’d been together for so long that Tybolt couldn’t quite recall a time where he hadn’t seen Drayton’s face at one moment or another. They’d squired at Hightower together and before that they’d fought in the courtyard of Casterly Rock. Now this was their separation, of course Tybolt didn’t mind entirely, he had others that kept him entertained, but Hawthorne had always been his favoured sparring partner and that he’d definitely miss come nightfall. “Ah, you’ll miss my charm, but I suppose without me around the Ladies might finally look to you.” Their hands clasped together in a final moment, the smirk that drifted across his mouth defining itself in the sharpness of his cheeks, “I will try not to ruin them all. Safe journey Hawthorne and remember you still owe me a damn horse.”

Tybolt didn’t waste a precious moment watching the silhouette of his comrade be swallowed by the rising sun, instead he moved with purpose. The moment Drayton had settled himself in the stirrups, Tybolt had disappeared into the crowd. A golden glow against the duller blends of working men. It took mere moments to find the familiar square he’d been seeking, the earth still tainted with crusted blood, decorated with strands of hay and upturned gravel. As always there were boys in the centre, their scrawny arms beating the oak-crafted men with half-sharpened swords. “Leave. All of you.” His voice broke above the disgruntled sounds of gasping breaths and fevered groans. At first they turned with irritation, a look of displeasure and rebellion in their eyes, until of course their blurred sights set upon their future Lord. “Not you.” As they dispersed from the isolation, Tybolt’s hand stretched to grab the shoulder of a young boy and grind him to an abrupt halt. From there his tone softened, his voice lowering from its form of authority as he’d offer an encouraging smile, “Would you do me the honour of aiding me this morning?” Within a heartbeat the boy’s face was set aglow, his mouth diving from its tremor into an outstretched ocean of glee, “It would be my honour Ser.” A moment later the boy had disappeared and reappeared again, Tybolt’s old sword in hand, for he wouldn't waste his new one on thrashing wood.

Crash. Smash. Whack. Breathe. Duck. It was intricate. Delicate almost. A recited dance between two partners, though the outcome for the one that had one misstep would be fatal. It had been hours since he’d begun beating seven shades of shit out of the wooden man. Over time he’d shed layer after layer, until his outer clothing lay sprawled in the dirt, nothing more than a white thinning shirt remained clinging to the sweat of his physique. Gripping at every muscle with vehemence. The sweat had wrinkled his hair, smoothing it backwards to spike finely down towards the back of his crown. His breathing came in tampered bursts, rolling against his tongue and pushing itself through the barrier of his gritted teeth. The ache however was euphoric, the fire that licked at his abdominals and spiralled against his thighs was addictive, far more possessive than the allure of opium. He could go for hours, his stamina was unmatched and his determination drove through pain without reasoning or common sense. It was consuming, even as the dummy broke away into a growing pile of discarded splinters he didn’t slow, couldn’t slow. His movements remained fluid despite his arms growing heavier by the second; weighed down by the heartbeat that was steadily growing in his biceps under the pressure of his sword. He hadn’t even noticed the boy had long ago retired to his home, unaware that his voice would go unheard and his demand unfulfilled by his little helper, “Boy, bring me my other sword.”


Jul 12 2015, 08:50 PM
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<div class="infocat"><b> NICKNAMES: </b> Ty</div>
<div class="infocat"><b> RANK: </b> Heir's Heir </div>
<div class="infocat"><b> TITLE: </b> --- </div>
<div class="infocat"><b> AGE: </b> 17 </div>
<div class="infocat"><b> REGION: </b>Westerlands </div>
<div class="infocat"><b> HOUSE: </b> Lannister </div>
<div class="infocat"><b> PLAYBY: </b> Alexander Ludwig</div>
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<p>Lannister. A name stitched in gold, known in half-whispers and mutters from the Northern borders to the Southern coast. So many rumours, so many secrets. A burden or a pedestal? Perhaps it’s hard to differentiate. No matter the opinion of the name, Tybolt Lannister was born into a world absent of darkness. From the moment he took his first breath the warmth of cooing voices drifted through the air, drowning out his cries until they ceased beneath a gentle lullaby. The first years of his life passed slowly, nestled against his mother’s breast. His fingers curled around his father’s thumb, tugging and tightening. A show of strength even in his infancy. Although he can’t recall the stories, he has a fond recollection of his Uncle’s voice, telling tales of distant lands, teaching him words before he even knew what a letter was. It was his third favourite voice to hear, it often lulled him to sleep in his most restless moments. The days of his teeth cutting through torturously tender gums were numbed by those tranquil tales. It was well known that even the sound of Tyrion’s voice entering a room could still the child and bring forth the sweetest laughter, the kind only capable from the lips of a child without prejudice.
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The second the golden-haired infant was able to toddle on a pair of unstable legs, he’d wobble at his father’s side. Tiny fists gripping the material of his robes as he’d waddle along. There was a determination about him, the moment anyone would try and pick him up he’d squirm against their arms, his cheeks would flush a violent red and he’d grumble in protest until he was set back down to walk unaided. Of course Jamie encouraged it, his praise was enough to urge the eager child onwards, even if he fell to the floor his father would kneel beside him and wait with a godly patience until Tybolt managed to pull himself back upon his feet. His mother worried when those tiny falls ended in scraped knees and bloody hands, but she didn’t fuss. She’d wait with watchful eyes until the infant composed himself and forgot the pain, only then did she clean the wounds, once he’d already conquered the incident. Attention was always plentiful at the Rock for the confident toddler, at times his Grandfather would lift him onto a grand marble-table, the edges carved into the claws of the creature that represented their house. There he’d point to places on a map and move tiny figures in different shapes around the board. Wolves. Stags. Flowers. He felt them all between his tiny hands before he even knew what they represented. He was mesmerised by the pieces, infatuated with his Grandfather’s voice as he gave them names. Before he was three he was already copying, “Tyrell”, “Stark”, “Targaryen.”
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When his ears weren’t full of his Uncle’s wise words or his Grandfather’s teachings, Tybolt would stand with his father in the courtyard. There he’d hold a wooden stick and his father would stand behind him, his hand on his elbow, as he’d stare squarely at the figure of a wooden man. There he’d guide him, swinging his arm, urging him forwards. Of course it didn’t last long before the toddler would grow bored and turn to throw his arms around his father’s legs, cuddling into the silk as he’d yawn and close his eyes. There were many evenings Jaime carried his son back to his chamber, the sounds of soft snoring ringing from his arms as the golden-babe nestled into his collarbone. Then when he was finally placed amongst his furs and pelts he’d open a single eye and ask if his mother would come to tell him goodnight. She always did.
</p><p>
Tybolt grew quickly after his fifth name day. The days seemed too short and the sun moved too fast. He’d wake with enthusiasm, from the moment the sun broke against his fair skin he’d jump from the bed, too swift to be caught by anyone charged with the duty of ensuring he was dressed appropriately or remembered to wash. His first stop was always his mother, he’d seek her out and hide around corners, waiting silently for his success of an ambush, his Grandfather had taught him all about those and he loved nothing more than putting them into practice. Once she was in striking distance he’d throw himself at her legs, wrapping his arms around them and making whatever growling noise he could muster. Some thought it wild, but his mother never complained. Then he’d usually be chased back to dress before settling down with Tyrion when he was available. His Uncle had told him how people often judged him on appearance, he’d thought it would be better to hear it from the Lion’s mouth so to speak. Tybolt couldn’t understand at first, in fact he was rather upset to realise people thought ill of his Uncle simply based on his appearance. But as his hands had clenched into fists and the anger had flashed like lightening in his eyes, his Uncle had told him never to allow his temper to cloud his judgement and he must see that not everyone saw as he did. It was a lesson that would never leave him. Alongside the silent thought that if anyone ever spoke ill of his Uncle to him he’d make sure they never would again. He couldn’t see his Uncle as anything but the smartest man he’d ever met and that would never change.
</p><p>
As his education flourished under several tutors and his Uncle and the occasional lesson from his Grandfather, it was under his father he felt his greatest achievements. Tybolt could often recall his father venturing into his lessons and sitting alongside him, his eyes squinting at the pages he recited before a look of unmistakable pride would come across him. It was that pride that encouraged him to continue, it made reading seem important, even though his father didn’t seem to do a lot of it. Which at the time, Tybolt couldn’t quite understand why. It didn’t bother him however, for every evening he’d join his father in the courtyard. By the age of six he was no longer using wooden sticks, instead a hand-designed light-weight long-sword had been concocted for his use. It was hard work, the sweat would drench his little body and his palms would blister beneath the fingers. There were times where he’d climb into bed with aches through his arms and bruises on his legs where he’d been caught by the flat of the sword. A mistake he’d learn from. Guard everywhere, not just your torso. It was an art, almost like dancing and everyday he learnt more. Everyday he was getting better. But then he was learning from the best. There were times he’d refuse to return for supper, “Just one more minute.” “Let’s go just one more time.” “Can we go for a ride first?” Any excuse for that extra bit of time. To feel that heat in his chest when his father praised him, even to feel it sink under the criticism was better than the feeling to be absent at all. It wasn’t just his father he enjoyed fighting with, he’d best any boy that offered to train with him, be them older or younger. If they won, he’d fight re-match after re-match with a keen determination until he’d assessed their weaknesses, learnt their counter-moves and finally knew every way in which to beat them. He was patient, methodical and intelligent. The perfect blend of the three Lannisters.
</p><p>
By the age of nine Tybolt was completely comfortable with a sword, comfortable on a horse, perfectly articulate and was finally becoming more sociable. In his earlier years he’d preferred the company of older people, those that circulated around his Grandfather and Father. It made him feel like he too had authority, like he was important. But once he’d started fighting with other boys he began to speak with them and it was perhaps a surprise to everybody that he had an easiness about him with words. He didn’t seem pompous despite being praised and adored by almost everyone that had met him and like his Uncle had told him, he attempted to see things through the eyes of others. He even sympathised, if they were squiring afar from home he’d ask them about their land, he’d ask them to describe it to him, until they both could taste the ice of the North or smell the fresh pine of the King’s Wood. It was rare he spoke about himself, instead he made others feel important, allowed them to invite him into their minds, to build a trust. But that was under the comfort of his home, where everything seemed perfect. His entire world had seemed perfect until the day his mother sat upon the edge of his bed with the light of the evening stars brimming on his window ledge. She spoke of how he was to go away for awhile, as his Father once had and how other boys his age often did. At first he didn’t want to, he resented the idea of leaving his little sister, who he’d grown rather fond of. He’d miss his mother’s voice, he’d miss his Father, his room, he’d miss everything. But another part of him desired the challenge, it wanted to visit the places he’d heard about, talked about, read about but never seen. It was an opportunity to better himself, to extend his social circle, to gain allies by bond rather than by name. And so he swallowed his pet-lip and prepared himself to leave, asking for nothing more than his favourite horse Aries to accompany him.
</p><p>
It settled him to realise he was being sent to his mother’s homeland. Perhaps that was the comprise for his departure, that he wouldn’t be sent somewhere without any sense of family. The journey seemed to take forever and of course Tybolt grew fidgety and impatient, more so out of nerves. But the scenery seemed to calm him, the rich vegetation, the array of flowers and their alluring perfumes. Eventually however he came face to face with the man he’d be squiring for, his Uncle Gunthor Hightower. Everything seemed to settle well at first, he was assigned his duties and assured there’d be no exceptions made for him. Which was of course what he wanted, to be just like everyone else. To work hard. To earn his knighthood. He spent hours with his brow drenched in sweat, his bones burning beneath their fleshy keep. But he fought, he cleaned, he followed instructions without a single complaint. That was perhaps what caused the coal haired boy to comment. Perhaps it was jealousy. But Tybolt stood amongst three others in the practice ring when the broad-shouldered imbecile squandered over, his chest puffed out and his cheeks filled with arrogance. “Lookie here boys, it’s the Kingslayer’s cunt.” The first thing that came to Tybolt’s mind was the sentence made no logical sense, but it didn’t seem like the time to correct idiocy. Instead he continued his conversation, without so much as a flinch. “Must be shit knowing Daddy is the scum of the Kingdom. Broke his oath. I heard he fucks his—“ That was enough. There was patience, there was understanding, but there such thing as giving someone too much freedom. He refused to be known as the boy who would let anybody cross him. He didn’t even think about it, he launched himself at the other boy, knocking him back into the dirt, sending mud sprawling across both their faces as they rolled in the dust. It didn’t take much for Tybolt to come out on top, he’d practiced hand to hand just as often as he had with a sword. Though his usual control was long gone and a curtain of red befell his eyes as he drove his first down onto the boy’s face. Again and again. When the boy brought his arms up to defend it he’d use his elbows, the force so great it knocked the boy’s defence straight against his nose. The blood was beautiful, bright red against his white shirt. The swollen skin, the sensation of others suddenly grabbing his arms in an attempt to pull him from the one that had provoked him. “Talk about my family and you’ll you never talk again.” It was simple as he spat it at the mangled face, the boy quick to scamper onto his feet and disappear to turn the tale in the ear of anyone that would listen.
</p><p>
There was a consequence of course, but because his actions were defended by those that had witnessed the confrontation he wasn’t dismissed. Not to mention he doubted his Uncle would have favoured a Northern Boy’s story over his own flesh and blood. It had been self defence. Sort of. He’d know exactly what the boy was going to say, he’d heard the rumours, even in the protection of his own home secrets leaked through the walls and made things unclean. There were times he’d desired to question his father on some things, the accusations of his and his aunt’s relationship unnerved him and as for him being a Kingslayer he could see both sides of the coin. No matter what course he’d taken he would have been branded guilty in one way or another. Tybolt wouldn’t pass judgement on that, it was more the family affair that created a tension in his chest he couldn’t quite upheave. Despite landing him with extra hours polishing the saddles and sharpening swords, his fight had gained him a respect amongst other boys his age and had turned the attention of the girls. He was portrayed a quite the hero. Of course he knew fine well people whispered of his namesake behind his back, but there were some he’d consider faithful friends. Some he’d trust in future causes. As for the girls, well, he wouldn’t discourage their flirtation. He’d return their attention with all the politeness of a Lordling. Flattery came easy and he had no morales when it came to swapping between friends and offering his lips for their shared pleasures. After all it would be rude not to give a Lady what she wanted, that was at least Tybolt’s philosophy. </p><p>

Eventually the years and hard-work lived up to their temporary status and Tybolt was finally rewarded with his Knighthood. It didn’t particularly mean a lot to the boy, he’d done it primarily because it was expected. It was the people he’d befriended that had made the time well-spent, not to mention the bonds he’d forged and the girls who’d made his time more pleasurable. But in the end he couldn’t wait to return and tell his Mother of the things he’d seen, of the well-being of her family. To tell his Uncle of the girl’s he’d kept as company. To tell his Grandfather of the houses he’d befriended. To tell his father of the victories he’d tallied. After all what teenage boy didn’t like to boast?

</div></table><table><tr>

<td><div class="infocat"><b> PLAYER: </b> Lola </div></td>
<td><div class="infocat"><b> YOUR AGE: </b> 21 </div></td>
</tr><tr>
<td><div class="infocat"><b> EXPERIENCE: </b> meh</div></td>
<td><div class="infocat"><b> LOCATION: </b> ThatRainyIslandPlace </div></td>
</tr></table>
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<div style="width:280px;"><div class="vert"><div class="westerlands"> TYBOLT TYTOS LANNISTER </div></div>

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<div class="appybod"><div class="small">ROLEPLAY SAMPLE</div><p>

See LuLu or Aenon

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Jul 1 2015, 04:27 PM

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