For Thine Is the Power [France]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #2F2F2F; border-radius: 8px 0px 0px 0px; padding: 30px 0px 0px 10px;][STYLE=font-family: arial black; font-size: 128px; color: #EDEDED; line-height: 30px; text-transform: uppercase;] A[/style]

[atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #2F2F2F; border-radius: 0px 8px 0px 0px; padding: 30px 5px 10px 0px;] [STYLE=font-family: arial black; font-size: 40px; color: #EDEDED; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: -3px; line-height: 28px; margin-left: -4px;]THRONE FIT FOR A FOOL [/style][STYLE=font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 9px; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #EDEDED; text-align: justify; padding: 0px 15px 0px 15px;]❝ MY BODY HAS BEEN CLAIMED, SOUL HAS BEEN SHIPPED AWAY, WE WERE YOUNG AND LEARNING. STEADY HEARTS HATE TURNING. ❞ [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][atrb=vAlign,top] [STYLE=width: 274px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: #737678; padding: 5px; text-align: justify; border-bottom: #2F2F2F 8px solid;] █ HIC INCEPIT PESTIS: ”Here begins the plague.” The green and beauty of the land seemed to almost wither and sag beneath the heavy stench of death—laced among the bodies, metal, and burgundy tainted flesh that littered it. This wasn’t the first time that England’s rivers ran red and he was most certain that this wouldn’t be his last. War and scuffles between the brothers that subsisted here seemed almost natural with how often they occurred. None of them compared to this—at least, thus far. This was not the first of England’s losses, nor the last of France’s victories. This battle, however, was over, and England hadn’t won. There could have been so many reasons for this defeat. So many. At least a dozen possibilities—France was better prepared, England had grown weary from fighting Denmark and Norway barely a week before, or even simply the fact that he was still so young, hardly even prepubescent, and lacked the skill and strength to fight a grown man. And yet none of these explanations came to mind. None of them formulated in the young nation’s thoughts as he stood, pale-faced and numb, among the numbers of his dead—standing in ill-fitting clothing, armour, and leather padding. All that went through his mind was the resounding pain of losing something so precious—so vital. He ached everywhere. Already, the sickening warmth of blood could be felt pooling beneath his skin where large welts and bruises were rapidly darkening. He ignored the pain as the fierce adrenaline slowly weaned, barely noticeable in some places and absolutely burning everywhere else. Of course the part that hurt the most was the tender pressure beneath his breastbone where youthful pride subsided—stinging and spreading like poison through his veins, leaving only a chilling detachment in its wake. None had ever conquered him. Not entirely, anyway. Norway, Denmark, and Germany had only impressed themselves upon him; bled into his being, his language, and his people. It was nothing compared to what France had just accomplished—nothing compared to what that foreigner was going to do to him. The two of them had met before. A while ago when the long-haired bastard had once put on a front of friendly mildness—making promises that the once naïve England now knew were never meant to be kept. Or, had in the very least, given him a false sense of security. Hastings would be bloodstained for years to come, and England had nothing to show for it but defeat. He is not much more than a child, his too-big armour pinched when it moved about the thin frame it caged and chaffed against his skin. The weight of it dragged him down. The now torn cloak about his shoulders had been practically trailing on the ground and his sword had been gripped awkwardly, incorrectly, in fingers not large enough to properly hold it. He was young. And yet, even so, he had never tasted such vile defeat. He had never been conquered—not properly, not wholly. England’s eyes lifted for the first time in the long minutes since he felt the semblance of conquest so harshly within his chest. His gaze traveled past the dense weather, along the length of the cold grey chapel nestled like a jewel at the centre of the cruciform abbey. He felt him nearby. England tensed, though he stood his ground, waiting for what he knew would come. Waiting. And he was so achingly alone in the eerie field of death (not much different than before, really.) Flesh prickled as his eyes wandered among the deceased. His knuckles whitened against the warm, slippery metal, trying to stop the shiver from migrating past his thin arms. Change. He knew it was coming. He knew it was inevitable. [/style]

[atrb=vAlign,top][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/normaneng.png); border-radius: 5px; border: #2F2F2F solid 10px; margin-top: -10px;] [/style] [STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/normaneng.png); border-radius: 5px; border: #2F2F2F solid 10px; margin-top: 15px;] [/style][STYLE=width: 120px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: #737678; padding: 0px 0px 10px 0px; text-align: justify;] █ TAGS France █ DATE October 14th, 1066 █ EVENT Aftermath of the Norman Invasion █ NOTES First RP post. Yus! I hope it's okay. [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][STYLE=font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; color: #B3B7BA; padding: 5px 20px 5px 5px; text-align: right;] made by ayu of btn[/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,width: 450px; padding: 10px;][bg=121212][style=font-family: arial narrow; color: #515a69; font-weight: bold; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 16px; padding-left: 5px; border-left: 320px solid #515a69;]THIS IS A GAME.[/style] [style=text-align: left; color: #e4e4e4; font-size: 10px; letter-spacing: 3px; font-family: arial;]DO NOT TRUST YOUR EARS. WHAT YOU HEAR ARE LIES.[/style] [style=margin-top: 5px; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; color: #e4e4e4; background-color: #212121; padding: 5px; border: 1px solid #222222;] [style=zoom: 1; filter: alpha(opacity=70); opacity: 0.7; margin-right: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; width: 100px; height: 100px; border-radius: 10px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/francyicon2.png); float: left;] [/style]While William, the Duke of Normandy, had his eye on the English throne, Francis had his eye on England. The then child nation had been on his mind since their first encounter years before. Though the burning desire was there, especially when the damn country was so close within his grasp, he hadn’t acted upon it. Rumors floated about. The political talk surrounding what to do with their neighbor never came into full fruition. Contact between them from before was gentle and unassuming—played well by Francis’ reassuring declarations that “he would be there for him” and ”would never entertain the notion of using force against him.” France even promised to protect him from his brothers, a personal promise that was only for their ears. He never forgot England’s bright, wide-eyed expression upon hearing them. None had probably ever told him such things before. It was enough to almost make him feel guilty. Almost. Everything went to pot when England’s King Edward died childless. William, who had familial connections to Edward, saw his chance to finally gain what he thought was his birthright. And it was through William’s newfound obsession that Francis found the opportunity to gain his. Many years before when Francis had been a part of Rome’s household, he remembered well what the Romans thought of the island nation’s people and what his own people now said of them: filthy, barbaric heathens with harsh languages and ugly practices. England had the appearance of a small child then, while France looked around England’s current age. Nevertheless, Francis believed the opinions of the Romans to be slightly over-exaggerated the moment he met the scowling blond child with a worn bow at his side (Even if said boy had nocked an arrow towards him.) Such nice memories. Though he wasn’t entirely pleasant, Francis could immediately tell that the boy was terribly lonely. Beneath the scowl, there were unshed tears. Beneath the harsh exterior was a vulnerable child. When Francis had asked England if he was lonely, he only received an adamant “NO,” and then went to describe a group of fairies nearby. (Nonsense.) England had also appeared tense to the Frenchman, as if in constant wait of attack (from his brothers or the Nordics, Francis could only guess) and was never far from his homemade assortment of weapons. Despite England’s oddities, Francis immediately knew that he wanted him. He saw the potential. France could civilize him, give him culture, build him castles (even if their purpose would be to militarily control him), and even force an alteration of that brutal language of his. A complete conversion would be ideal... If England didn’t want to end his self-inflicted isolation, then France was more than willing to bring European influence to his shores. When the King of Norway also laid an exceedingly thin claim on the English throne, the Norman Duke saw red while Francis grew disdainful over Norway’s sudden involvement… but then the situation unpredictably worked in his favor. English victory against the Norwegians came at a great cost. England’s King Harold’s army was left battered and severely weakened. The perfect opening for France to close in to claim his would-be-conquest. All of these events led to this moment. It was a bloody, day-long battle. The Normans had brutalized England’s weary army. Francis vaguely heard that his commander had taken the former English King Harold’s body as some sort of macabre trophy regardless of the Anglo-Saxon peoples’ pleas, though he wasn’t paying attention. He was focused on the field behind the chapel. Ignoring the sounds of Norman victory, he sauntered closer to the field, alongside the stone wall. He saw England, alone and battered. Francis smiled. The warmth of triumph and dominance bloomed in the pit of his stomach upon actually seeing his accomplishment, standing there beneath a canvas of blood and brokenness. England would soon be his completely. Francis moved forward, revealing himself as he approached the boy. “Soumettre, l'Angleterre, comme les morts qui litre votre sol,”(1) he drawled unkindly as his eyes traveled to the dead at England’s feet, knowing full well that his words would not be understood. His smile took on a cruel edge as he stepped closer, reaching out to run his fingers along the edge of the young nation’s cloak, taking in the harsh detail of the Anglo-Saxon cloth. His fingers closed in, knotting it violently, pulling him closer. Switching to English, he spoke again. “Whether you like it or not, petit lapin, you are now mine to do with as I wish. You will submit to me.” It was now (or most likely never) that France knew he had to exert his control. It would be easier to crush whatever resistance remained. Though, of course, Francis really had little idea of how much truly lingered and would continue to linger for years to come. (1) “Submit, England, like the dead that liters your soil.” [style=color: #515a69; text-align: center; letter-spacing: 1px; background-color: #121212; padding: 2px;]TAGGING: ARTHUR | WORDS: 808 | NOTES: I luuved your post. I feel like I’m playing an rapist. D: Poor dear. Also, please excuse the most likely inaccurate French I’m getting from someone. If anyone sees mistakes, please feel compelled to correct me. ^^ ’ [/style][/style]

[style=font-size: 10px; font-family: georiga; text-align: center; letter-spacing: 3px;]TEMPLATE BY SAMARECARM OF OTE + BTN[/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #2F2F2F; border-radius: 8px 0px 0px 0px; padding: 30px 0px 0px 10px;][STYLE=font-family: arial black; font-size: 128px; color: #EDEDED; line-height: 30px; text-transform: uppercase;] A[/style]

[atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #2F2F2F; border-radius: 0px 8px 0px 0px; padding: 30px 5px 10px 0px;] [STYLE=font-family: arial black; font-size: 40px; color: #EDEDED; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: -3px; line-height: 28px; margin-left: -4px;]THRONE FIT FOR A FOOL [/style][STYLE=font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 9px; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #EDEDED; text-align: justify; padding: 0px 15px 0px 15px;]❝ MY BODY HAS BEEN CLAIMED, SOUL HAS BEEN SHIPPED AWAY, WE WERE YOUNG AND LEARNING. STEADY HEARTS HATE TURNING. ❞ [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][atrb=vAlign,top] [STYLE=width: 274px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: #737678; padding: 5px; text-align: justify; border-bottom: #2F2F2F 8px solid;] █ England never wanted to be conquered. He never asked for anyone’s aid to become stronger. That was his responsibility, his own affairs that everyone suddenly seemed so interested in plundering. Everyone wanted something—he came to believe after the Roman bastard smiled at him for the first time. That gentle smile with fierce legions at his beck and call. Everyone could keep their damned help. Everyone could keep their promises and happily-ever-afters. England had no need for them and he no longer believed in something so inane. So childish and stupid. Yet even as these thoughts raced through his mind, it was a child’s face that he carried and it was child tears running down his cheeks at the remembered slaughter, which he quickly wiped away, wincing as the armor scrapped at the cuts on his face. He shouldn’t be crying, he admonished himself. Crying was for the weak. He was not an infant that couldn’t carry his own. Still, the tremours didn’t tire. The fright refused to be banished from his heart as he felt a similar feeling that he had felt with Rome. Not the same, of course—not entirely. Rome crushed him, suffocated him. England could barely feel the chill in the surrounding air or the wounds over his skin. Adrenaline still course through his body and yet he could feel nothing. He could only watch as France finally revealed himself, slinking from the shadows of the abbey like some godforsaken snake out to swallow his prey. It was the first time that England ever tasted such bile in his mouth. It was the first time that he had ever felt such intense hatred for the man standing there. The Francis from before, seemingly gentle with his words and false pretenses, bore little resemblance to the cold smile that now replaced them. When England noticed that Francis was going to approach him, he couldn’t move. He felt rooted to the ground, heavily soaked by the blood of his countrymen. Heaviness formed in the pit of his stomach, knowing that there was no place that he could take refuge in. His brothers would probably just throw him back into the snake pit—glad to be rid of the little nuisance, no doubt, Arthur fumed in his head, ignoring that this might not have been true, but thinking it anyway. When the Frenchman approached him, England raised his eyes towards him, the green of them shaded with sullenness, with the bitterness of being beaten; his scowl deepened upon hearing France speak. It was nonsense to Arthur’s ears and the bastard knew that. He probably said something horrible—a part of England was a tiny bit glad that his jibe, whatever it may be, had practically fallen on deaf ears. Seeing the French bastard’s gaze travel to his dead, however; that caused his blood to boil. How dare he even look upon the men that he had a hand in slaughtering. Saying something about Arthur himself, that was fine, he could shoulder petty insults like he always had, but saying something nasty about his countrymen was a different thing entirely. That was sick. The moment Francis grabbed Arthur’s cloak and hauled him closer, the boy scrambled to get away from him, an instinctual mixture of panic and fight still running through his body. Arthur attempted to claw at him, anything to get free. A noise tore from his throat, sounding more animal than anything. He vaguely heard France say a few choice statements in Englisc—one of his languages—and felt a surge of anger upon hearing them uttered by his French tongue. Glaring at the blond, he spat, unsure if it had even landed upon his intended target as he twisted and dug his heels into the ground to get away from the vile man. “Let go!” he cried in Englisc, near-hysterical as he tried to twist out of France’s grasp. He felt the moisture of rage leak from his eyes. “Gad lonydd I fi!”* he yelled, unthinking, in Welsh. Would France harm his brothers too? Oh, god, was he going to hurt them... like how he was going to undoubtedly hurt Arthur? A different sort of sickness took over England and he felt a tad bit guilty for thinking something nasty about them just seconds ago. Perhaps if he occupied the bastard’s attention— “I will not! Cankerous—filthy—murderous—swine!” He switched to Englisc once again, green eyes connecting with the Frenchman’s—so wide, bright, and loathing. *Leave me alone! [/style]

[atrb=vAlign,top][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/normaneng.png); border-radius: 5px; border: #2F2F2F solid 10px; margin-top: -10px;] [/style] [STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/normaneng.png); border-radius: 5px; border: #2F2F2F solid 10px; margin-top: 15px;] [/style][STYLE=width: 120px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: #737678; padding: 0px 0px 10px 0px; text-align: justify;] █ TAGS France █ DATE October 14th, 1066 █ EVENT Aftermath of the Norman Invasion █ NOTES Sorry this took so long! –feels bad— [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][STYLE=font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; color: #B3B7BA; padding: 5px 20px 5px 5px; text-align: right;] made by ayu of btn[/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,width: 450px; padding: 10px;][bg=121212][style=font-family: arial narrow; color: #515a69; font-weight: bold; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 16px; padding-left: 5px; border-left: 320px solid #515a69;]THIS IS A GAME.[/style] [style=text-align: left; color: #e4e4e4; font-size: 10px; letter-spacing: 3px; font-family: arial;]DO NOT TRUST YOUR EARS. WHAT YOU HEAR ARE LIES.[/style] [style=margin-top: 5px; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; color: #e4e4e4; background-color: #212121; padding: 5px; border: 1px solid #222222;] [style=zoom: 1; filter: alpha(opacity=70); opacity: 0.7; margin-right: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; width: 100px; height: 100px; border-radius: 10px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/francyicon2.png); float: left;] [/style]Such a feisty little thing. Normally such insolent behavior was enough to cause the Frenchman to calmly but effectively lash out until the impertinence had been quelled, but the little barbaric nation was still so young, he didn’t give it the same credence. It was true that France was currently doing much more to England than what the Nordics had ever done to him. The Frenchmen celebrated their victory, defiling the local monasteries, taking what valuables they held, and destroying any of the vile texts that they found nestled within. Such coarse languages would have no place in the new nation that France was going to make of him. From what France knew of the boy, whom the Frenchman was preparing to drag into the nearest defiled abbey for his own purposes, he didn’t understand a word of French but he was able to switch between Englisc, Welsh, Cornish, and variants of Irish and Scottish Gaelic very easily and did so on a regular basis. The boy was too multi-lingual for his own good, really, letting them all bleed into one another. They were all ugly, harsh-sounding languages, too, hybrids of Germanic and Celtic and Nordic tongues. France thought it was unbecoming. And any possession of France was never allowed to openly display such unflattering characteristics. "Je t'ai vaincu," France said coldly, tightening his grip over the Anglo-Saxon cloth wrapped around the boy’s neck, pulling harder. "Allons, Angleterre, ce comportement enfantin n'est pas convenable."(1) Then, looking back at the boy (still resisting, the little brat), spoke in his language so that he might understand him, though not saying quite the same thing: "Our battle is done. Take your defeat with dignity and I shall be merciful." And just then, France felt something warm and wet hit him in the face. It was quite a bit and it trickled down his cheek. His fingertips touched the wetness and pulled away to reveal saliva—the little fils de salaud had spit at him! France vaguely heard the boy beginning to cry out things in those disgusting languages of his and spots of deep frustration colored the Frenchman’s face. The boy’s antagonism was somewhat amusing at first, but that was quickly souring, replacing it with a cold sort of fury that he hadn’t felt in a long while. Something about this boy seemed to aggravate it much more quickly and hotly than others could ever manage to do. Wiping the rest of English boy’s filth from his face, France’s expression darkened as he roughly pulled the boy after him toward the cold grey chapel nearby. He cruelly hoped that the scruffy blond was being dragged through the bloodied soil of his countrymen, smelling and tasting his defeat in the mud. Thunder was breaking through the clouds overhead and France could smell the prospect of rain. The moisture of the atmosphere released even more of the scent of fresh death. It was a grim scene, indeed. He could hear the clash of battle-worn armor and the liquid clink of chainmail bouncing from wall to wall, back and forth, as he finally made it to the chapel while towing the extra weight of the child behind him. He hadn’t looked back to see his condition nor could he really decipher if he was being dragged or had managed to somehow get to his feet halfway through the struggle. The boy’s other languages ringing in Francis’s ears like some dreadful, broken record. ”You are to stop behaving like a child!” France demanded in disgust, having great difficulty with the child as he kept a firm hold over him. Even with England’s efforts combined with the previous exhaustion from battle, they both knew that what was going to happen was inevitable. This battle was a loss—and France was going to take what he had fought for. With great difficulty, France continued attempting to haul the boy up the steps, searching for the particular room with the stone altar that he had spied after the battle. It had a very ritualistic, pagan feel to it, and it gave France unsettling shivers. Soon, he would expunge those reminders of the past from England. He would instill good, holistic values into the boy. Upon finding familiar room once more, France glanced around, immediately seeing the accursed alter. Most of it had already been plundered and ruined. The French soldiers were long gone, probably looking for another monastery to defile. Again, France spoke Englisc very deliberately. “You are to keep your horrible languages to yourself, boy. One is plenty.” Translation (1) You lost to me. Come now, England, this childish behavior is not becoming of you. [style=color: #515a69; text-align: center; letter-spacing: 1px; background-color: #121212; padding: 2px;]TAGGING: ARTHUR | WORDS: 776 | NOTES: It's alright. (= Sorry mine took so long. [/style][/style]

[style=font-size: 10px; font-family: georiga; text-align: center; letter-spacing: 3px;]TEMPLATE BY SAMARECARM OF OTE + BTN[/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #2F2F2F; border-radius: 8px 0px 0px 0px; padding: 30px 0px 0px 10px;][STYLE=font-family: arial black; font-size: 128px; color: #EDEDED; line-height: 30px; text-transform: uppercase;] A[/style]

[atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #2F2F2F; border-radius: 0px 8px 0px 0px; padding: 30px 5px 10px 0px;] [STYLE=font-family: arial black; font-size: 40px; color: #EDEDED; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: -3px; line-height: 28px; margin-left: -4px;]THRONE FIT FOR A FOOL [/style][STYLE=font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 9px; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #EDEDED; text-align: justify; padding: 0px 15px 0px 15px;]❝ MY BODY HAS BEEN CLAIMED, SOUL HAS BEEN SHIPPED AWAY, WE WERE YOUNG AND LEARNING. STEADY HEARTS HATE TURNING. ❞ [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][atrb=vAlign,top] [STYLE=width: 274px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: #737678; padding: 5px; text-align: justify; border-bottom: #2F2F2F 8px solid;] █ England knew he had been defeated. He knew it, and yet he wouldn’t allow the notion to creep very far into his being. In his mind, he was still fighting to be free of the despicable bastard that was most likely saying horrible things to him in that foreign gibberish of his. Even if it wasn’t considered very normal (being so young, England had little idea, really) to continue fighting instead of submitting after such a thorough beating, England sure as hell would find a way to make it normal. He was never going to go down with a struggle! Even after being defeated. He would just pick himself up and go after him again and again. Even if he were to be weighted down with severe treatment and punishment, he was still going to fight. He was going to make it as unpleasant as he could for his subjugator—fighting every step of the way, saying and doing terrible things, and hopefully infuriating the brute to no end. No one was going to own him. Nobody. Hearing the Frenchmen prattle once more in his nonsense language made England grimace behind tightly closed lips. His molars ground hard. However, he said something in his own language, a translation perhaps? However, the words only made him feel sick, hot anger churned in his stomach. His scowl deepened and he refused to answer the filthy foreigner. Amidst the struggle as Francis continued to tighten his hold over him, a hot flutter of grim satisfaction filled him upon realising that his spittle had landed on the man’s face. Ha! Serves the bastard right! The feeling quickly dissipated when he saw the rage. Not good. Being young and impulsive, he failed to realise what could happen if he were to succeed in making the Frenchman angrier than he already was. Before he could react or even attempt to escape France’s grasp, he was yanked forward. The force of it knocked England to his feet and he was essentially dragged through the mud. Every time he tried to gain footing, his boots would slide against the wetness of dark crimson mixed with an earthy sludge while being pulled forward hard. He cried out and shouted nonsensical things in frenzied defiance. The energy behind it was renewed tenfold when he realised that they were heading for the chapel. He thrashed and twisted in France’s grasp as he continued to be half-dragged, stumbling up the length of the aisle of the building. He heard the scrap and clank of his too-big armour against the wall as he continued with his struggle. The man was practically hauling him up the steps, treating him with less regard than a sullen child would with a ragdoll. Somewhere in the back of his panic crazed mind, he felt the first few sprinkles of rain upon his forehead where his sweat, blood-matted hair stuck. The sky was weeping within minutes; heavy raindrops could be heard against the rooftop as they continued through the corridors. England had no idea where France was taking him or why he was even being dragged through the chapel corridors of all places. Maybe it was out of convenience? Maybe it was simply because it was the closest building that offered shelter from the rain? The last possibility didn’t seem very plausible. The look in France’s face held more solemn purpose than to simply avoid the elements of the earth. Swallowing tightly with fear of the unknown, England leaned further away as Francis seemed to have found the room he was looking for. Peering around, the sight of the defilement of the sacred room brought a knot of tears to Arthur’s throat. All of the beautiful things that hung on the walls or were hidden away were either gone or destroyed. These things were precious to England; much more so than any foreigner who wouldn’t understand the heavy meaning behind these items. The only things that seemed to remain largely untouched were the dusty tombs—the outsiders probably saw no value in them, but they meant an infinite amount to Arthur. He had even watched some of them being created, slowly and meticulously by the monk scribes, their words, drawings, and decorations sketched with heavy dedication. He softly choked without meaning to, the violent images of these men's fates flooded his mind. Upon hearing France’s declaration that he was to no longer use any of his other languages, England dug his heels even further into the floor, opposing France’s ‘leadership’ once more, trying to wrench himself out of the older man’s grasp. “Go hifreann leat!”* England shrieked at him, switching to some form of Irish Gaelic. Pulling and yanking with new-found strength only found with adrenaline born from intense grief, he managed to wrench his arm back from France at long last, but felt pressure by the back of his neck the moment he got free that could only mean that he had been grabbed at once more by the foreigner. “Ke tha gerras!”** he yelled in Cornish, switching languages out of sheer defiance. Translations *”To hell with you” but carries the same meaning as “Go to hell.” **Something similar to/around the equivalent of “bugger off” or “fuck off”, but either way, it’s a pretty offensive way to tell someone to go away. [/style]

[atrb=vAlign,top][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/normaneng.png); border-radius: 5px; border: #2F2F2F solid 10px; margin-top: -10px;] [/style] [STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/normaneng.png); border-radius: 5px; border: #2F2F2F solid 10px; margin-top: 15px;] [/style][STYLE=width: 120px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: #737678; padding: 0px 0px 10px 0px; text-align: justify;] █ TAGS France █ DATE October 14th, 1066 █ EVENT Aftermath of the Norman Invasion █ NOTES Fast reply! (; [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][STYLE=font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; color: #B3B7BA; padding: 5px 20px 5px 5px; text-align: right;] made by ayu of btn[/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,width: 450px; padding: 10px;][bg=121212][style=font-family: arial narrow; color: #515a69; font-weight: bold; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 16px; padding-left: 5px; border-left: 320px solid #515a69;]THIS IS A GAME.[/style] [style=text-align: left; color: #e4e4e4; font-size: 10px; letter-spacing: 3px; font-family: arial;]DO NOT TRUST YOUR EARS. WHAT YOU HEAR ARE LIES.[/style] [style=margin-top: 5px; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; color: #e4e4e4; background-color: #212121; padding: 5px; border: 1px solid #222222;] [style=zoom: 1; filter: alpha(opacity=70); opacity: 0.7; margin-right: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; width: 100px; height: 100px; border-radius: 10px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/francyicon2.png); float: left;] [/style]France scoffed at the perpetual scowling face of the prepubescent. Looking at him, he really was rather adorable and would probably grow up into a somewhat attractive specimen—if not for that constant acrid expression, as if he hated the world and everything in it. Even now, the young thing was wearing a tight scowl, grits his teeth at every exchange, and looks back at him with such loathing. In France’s mind, this was nothing but a minor deficiency that he could repair. He could recreate the boy into something far better than some uncultivated infidel. France barely noticed that the rain had started. They could almost smell the moisture creeping in through the walls, hammering against stone and wood. Within the room, central to the chapel, France noticed England looking about, probably noticing the changes that had taken place, though his eyes were fixated on the tombs left over. France felt a small thrill of satisfaction knowing that his men had left them behind. These books were filled with the languages that he wanted to expunge from England, like they were some kind of poison. Of course he knew that the child had been heavily influenced by others, by Rome, by the Germans and the Northerners. With those brief periods of contact brought influences and subtle changes within his language. It changed England, perhaps even without him knowing. France knew what it felt like to slowly change in that most intimate and scaring way, especially when it was forced… and it was for this reason that he knew where to start with his new little captive. France more or less expected England to start another bout of insolence by shrieking other languages at him, most likely cursing at him or calling him names. His eyes narrowed slightly with annoyance at the blatantly ignored order. What he didn’t expect was for England to suddenly pull free from his grasp. Before he could get away for long, though, he was able to clasp him by the back of his neck right as he yelled in another unknown language. Mon dieu… If this is how he wants things to go, then Francis would do well to not disappoint the boy now, wouldn't he? A noise of frustration sounded from the back of his throat as he yanked England closer, glaring at him. ”Are those your defenses?” France snapped, shaking him slightly, his fingers digging, probably creating bruises at the back of his throat. ”Cursing at me in languages I do not understand will change nothing. This victory is mine, and I shall not be as indulgent of you as the others were. Learn now while you're young that the victor takes what he can from the battlefield.” The child should know very well who he was talking about. Norway. Denmark. Germany. Altering his grasp, holding the young teenager by the hair and pulling none too gently, France reached towards the two heavy leather-bound books closest to them, currently resting on the stone table; one was a Bible, it seemed, hand-written in Latin, and the other was a record book, also hand-written, lined with columns of figures—this one was in Englisc (what would be later known as Old English). France had a similar fate in mind for these reminders of the past that he had for the boy in his grasp. ”Even here…” France pulled England by the hair, towards the books and forced him to look at them. ”Une seule langue ne te suffit-elle donc pas?” he went on icily, switching back to French, perhaps for mere irony. "Tu ne comprends même pas le Latin, n'est-ce pas, petite Angleterre? La langue de la Grande Rome?" (1) He waited a bit for England’s response, wishing to see it for once since capture. In his attempt at pained mockery, his grip had loosened just a little on the boy as they leaned just a bit over the opened book… Translation (1) "Is one language not enough for you? You do not even understand Latin, do you, little England? Great Rome's language?” [style=color: #515a69; text-align: center; letter-spacing: 1px; background-color: #121212; padding: 2px;]TAGGING: ARTHUR | WORDS: 591 | NOTES: It isn't as long as I would've liked, but here it is. I had to put in a bookmark before Francis did something bad. >XD [/style][/style]

[style=font-size: 10px; font-family: georiga; text-align: center; letter-spacing: 3px;]TEMPLATE BY SAMARECARM OF OTE + BTN[/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #2F2F2F; border-radius: 8px 0px 0px 0px; padding: 30px 0px 0px 10px;][STYLE=font-family: arial black; font-size: 128px; color: #EDEDED; line-height: 30px; text-transform: uppercase;] A[/style]

[atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #2F2F2F; border-radius: 0px 8px 0px 0px; padding: 30px 5px 10px 0px;] [STYLE=font-family: arial black; font-size: 40px; color: #EDEDED; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: -3px; line-height: 28px; margin-left: -4px;]THRONE FIT FOR A FOOL [/style][STYLE=font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 9px; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #EDEDED; text-align: justify; padding: 0px 15px 0px 15px;]❝ MY BODY HAS BEEN CLAIMED, SOUL HAS BEEN SHIPPED AWAY, WE WERE YOUNG AND LEARNING. STEADY HEARTS HATE TURNING. ❞ [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][atrb=vAlign,top] [STYLE=width: 274px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: #737678; padding: 5px; text-align: justify; border-bottom: #2F2F2F 8px solid;] █ A sound of pain rose from Arthur when his hair was wrenched, closing some of the distance between him and the Frenchman. France, of course, yelled at him once more in the language England could understand, admonishing him for cursing at him in other languages. He only glared at him in response, his jaw taut and his gaze burning. England stopped twisting long enough to meet France’s eyes again when he mentioned the others. He meant Norway, Denmark, and Germany. England was familiar with all of them. Thoughts of the others were interrupted when France pulled him towards the stone alter and the books, opening them and forcing him to look at them. What irked England even more than France’s mention of the others was the man’s explanation for this distinct brand of post-battle cruelty. In England's mind, he had been through enough battles to discard the title of a naive, little child. Like most nations, his appearance had little to do with the Hell that he had gone through since the beginning of his existence. It was all he had ever known. But was there more? Was there something that England was missing? Was he really meant to be part of the world outside of his shores? He didn’t like to think that he did. He just wanted everyone to leave him the fuck alone. Nervous with what France intended to do, England craned his neck as far back as the hand holding him would allow, away from the text. His fingers tightened against the edge of the stone, feeling the pressure in the too-big gauntlets as he tried to push away from it. France said something else in French. Whatever it was, England knew that it was meant to be cruel, mocking perhaps by the somewhat amused light to his eyes. The boy dissented with a noncommittal grunt. “Thalla dham dh’ifreann!”* England said in response, switching to the language of his oldest brother, a Scottish inflection of Gaelic, trying to pull away once more. England had been gripped harshly by France for so long, he felt a distinct difference with his hold as they leaned over the tomes… it was looser. That was enough for him! He felt the movement of France turning to glare at him, no doubt, hoping to intimidate him into obedience. While he turned, Arthur used the moment to pull first into Francis’s clutch before hauling violently forward, swinging his armoured elbow at his chest. He heard it collide with France’s armour and most likely wasn’t hurt by the blow, but the unexpected jarring was hopefully enough to take him by surprise. Enough to let go of the handful of blond hair he’d had his fingers twisted tightly into. The moment, he was free, several strands of his hair were ripped in the still twisted grasp. He barely felt the pain as England darted away the moment he was free, ducking under Francis’ arm with the clear intent of fleeing. He would not always be like this, but for now, for a frightened child, it seemed that his only plan of retaliation was to run and escape. Before he could get far, though he felt his cloak get caught. Whether it was by something else or by France, England wasn’t sure. He whirled at whatever had caught his cloak and brought him level, lashing out in a near-animalistic defence, one of his metal gauntlets arching downwards. Translation * Thalla dham dh’ifreann = Scottish Gaelic form of “go to hell.” [/style]

[atrb=vAlign,top][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/normaneng.png); border-radius: 5px; border: #2F2F2F solid 10px; margin-top: -10px;] [/style] [STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/normaneng.png); border-radius: 5px; border: #2F2F2F solid 10px; margin-top: 15px;] [/style][STYLE=width: 120px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: #737678; padding: 0px 0px 10px 0px; text-align: justify;] █ TAGS France █ DATE October 14th, 1066 █ EVENT Aftermath of the Norman Invasion █ NOTES DX [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][STYLE=font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; color: #B3B7BA; padding: 5px 20px 5px 5px; text-align: right;] made by ayu of btn[/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,width: 450px; padding: 10px;][bg=121212][style=font-family: arial narrow; color: #515a69; font-weight: bold; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 16px; padding-left: 5px; border-left: 320px solid #515a69;]THIS IS A GAME.[/style] [style=text-align: left; color: #e4e4e4; font-size: 10px; letter-spacing: 3px; font-family: arial;]DO NOT TRUST YOUR EARS. WHAT YOU HEAR ARE LIES.[/style] [style=margin-top: 5px; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; color: #e4e4e4; background-color: #212121; padding: 5px; border: 1px solid #222222;] [style=zoom: 1; filter: alpha(opacity=70); opacity: 0.7; margin-right: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; width: 100px; height: 100px; border-radius: 10px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/francyicon2.png); float: left;] [/style]This child just wouldn’t submit! Francis was well beyond irritated at this point and was getting close to simply lashing out at the other until he was too weak to put on his defiant front. Impudent little nation. Every little action, such as holding the child over the tomes was met with resistance, even with the way he craned his neck away from Francis’s touch. He could remember the first time he had been conquered, but not even he had been this impervious. Sure, he didn’t just take it without a fight, but he accepted defeat and did little about it until he was able to otherwise. Although France should have known that Arthur would have tried to run away the first moment Francis’s grip slackened, he had little time to react when the boy jabbed his elbow into his armor. The shock of it took Francis off guard and Arthur slipped through his fingers. Broken strands of the other nation’s blond hair remained in his hand. He recovered just as Arthur ducked under his arm, clearly intent on running as fast and as far away as he could. If he weren’t so angry at the moment, he would have found it humorous. He couldn’t very well just run after being defeated. His people were still occupied. Arthur was under Francis’s thumb whether he liked it or not. France launched forward, attempting to grab at the boy before he could get far, but was only able to snatch his cloak. What happened next took the Frenchman completely by surprise. Arthur had used the leverage—probably more out of instinct than actually knowing how he was going to go about this—and lashed out directly at his face. He couldn’t feel the pain at first. Adrenaline was pumping through his body at the prospect of a good chase and later struggle. He could feel Arthur’s gauntlets tearing across his skin. The warm blood came fast, bright and brilliant, wetting further still than France’s cheek, hitting whatever was closest to him, which happened to be England, the blood blotching his skin in the tiniest increments like shredded rose petals. France finally lost his temper and tightened his grip on the other nation’s cloak, hauling him against the stone table. The awkward clashing of armor nearly made him lose his balance again. (Stupid pieces of metal and leather.) Honestly, he didn’t understand why the boy was still fighting; he’d already had the holy hell beaten out of him. There was no use continuing this madness, Francis thought. "J'aurais dû me douter qu'un gamin comme toi ne saurait pas accepter la défaite dignement," France spat, long past indulging him by speaking in Englisc (the only one of England's languages he understood), the blood still seeping down his face. "Si tu n'es pas assez civilisé pour communiquer avec moi dans une langue que nous pouvons parler tous les deux, alors laisse-moi me faire comprendre autrement." (1) Slowly, while still holding the blond beneath him, leaning into him with half his body weight, his other hand reached behind himself, over his shoulder to the half-filled quiver of arrows still slung across his back from the battle. Pulling one out, he held the point of the arrow at the hollow of England’s throat briefly, before raising it slightly to make him lift his chin, tipping his head back ever so slightly. ”This is your last chance,” France said icily, going back to Englisc. ”I see no reason why we cannot come to an agreement, given that I have defeated you. You will accept me as your conqueror, and you will only speak one language—mine.” Translation (1) "I might have known a brat like you would not know how to take defeat in the proper manner. If you will not be civilized enough to even communicate with me in a language that we can both understand, then allow me to go about this in a different manner." [style=color: #515a69; text-align: center; letter-spacing: 1px; background-color: #121212; padding: 2px;]TAGGING: ARTHUR | WORDS: 591 | NOTES: Soo late! [/style][/style]

[style=font-size: 10px; font-family: georiga; text-align: center; letter-spacing: 3px;]TEMPLATE BY SAMARECARM OF OTE + BTN[/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #2F2F2F; border-radius: 8px 0px 0px 0px; padding: 30px 0px 0px 10px;][STYLE=font-family: arial black; font-size: 128px; color: #EDEDED; line-height: 30px; text-transform: uppercase;] A[/style]

[atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #2F2F2F; border-radius: 0px 8px 0px 0px; padding: 30px 5px 10px 0px;] [STYLE=font-family: arial black; font-size: 40px; color: #EDEDED; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: -3px; line-height: 28px; margin-left: -4px;]THRONE FIT FOR A FOOL [/style][STYLE=font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 9px; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #EDEDED; text-align: justify; padding: 0px 15px 0px 15px;]❝ MY BODY HAS BEEN CLAIMED, SOUL HAS BEEN SHIPPED AWAY, WE WERE YOUNG AND LEARNING. STEADY HEARTS HATE TURNING. ❞ [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][atrb=vAlign,top] [STYLE=width: 274px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: #737678; padding: 5px; text-align: justify; border-bottom: #2F2F2F 8px solid;] █ England felt the slickness of France’s blood against his face. His heart pounded hard at that moment. He wasn’t sure what to feel: sickness, horror, or even slight amusement at having finally hurt him back? The smallest of retaliations for what he had been through that day. The sick revelation of what he had done eclipsed the brief elation the moment he was hauled atop the stone alter. Their amour clashed, though Arthur could barely feel it. Only dread. France’s face was now a fit of rage and he knew that there was no escaping it this time. He had indulged him long enough. England’s finger’s whitened against France’s arms, as if attempting to pry them from his body. He knew it was useless. The older nation was stronger. This was his victory. The man spoke in his native tongue again. Arthur glared, still clearly ignorant of what was being said to him. A harsh grunt escaped his throat when Francis pushed against him, using his weight as leverage. He tried to wriggle away, but his torso, hips, and thighs were pinned. The heels of his boots scrapped hard against the stone and his hands continued to grip his conqueror. The adrenaline was beginning to leave him and in its place the previous weariness and pain that he had felt on the silent battlefield returned. He could feel the loss. It resonated in his heart, in his mind, and throbbed through his very being. His glare lessened by increments, but his instinct for struggle remained like a currently dulled, glowing ember; one that he would continue to foster. Hopefully for years and years to come. Arthur watched Francis reach from behind him, pulling out an arrow before pressing it against his throat. He couldn’t help but to raise his head just slightly as the end grazed against his skin. He still couldn’t move, but he averted his eyes, only hearing France switch to Englisc once more. His jaw stiffened when France began to name his terms for this so-called agreement. Arthur looked briefly at the gash on France’s cheek and a slow smile spread across his face – more to himself, but it was definitely there. The blood was still stark on his own pale skin, mottling as it ran and pooled in the dip of his collarbone. England’s eyes trailed back to the stern blue ones above him, the corners of his mouth now tightening into an insolent grimace. ”Na,” he said, deliberately speaking Welsh. “Níl,” then to Irish Gaelic, before switching to Cornish, his voice confrontational, ”Ny vynnav.”* He knew that was going to cost him. Everything that they did held a price. England leaned back against the stone alter, his scalp pressing tenderly against the hard surface. But his rigid gaze remained on France’s; waiting to accept what he had just swallowed with this form of resistance. Would he be tortured or maimed? Perhaps… That’s what England might have done if he were in France’s position. Even though he looked around twelve, maybe even thirteen years old, his much more substantial age showed. He had a partiality for violence if it achieved his means. This foreigner was probably no different. Translation * = (Welsh, Irish Gaelic and Cornish for "no") [/style]

[atrb=vAlign,top][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/normaneng.png); border-radius: 5px; border: #2F2F2F solid 10px; margin-top: -10px;] [/style] [STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/normaneng.png); border-radius: 5px; border: #2F2F2F solid 10px; margin-top: 15px;] [/style][STYLE=width: 120px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: #737678; padding: 0px 0px 10px 0px; text-align: justify;] █ TAGS France █ DATE October 14th, 1066 █ EVENT Aftermath of the Norman Invasion █ NOTES God, that took so long. Sorry.. [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][STYLE=font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; color: #B3B7BA; padding: 5px 20px 5px 5px; text-align: right;] made by ayu of btn[/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,width: 450px; padding: 10px;][bg=121212][style=font-family: arial narrow; color: #515a69; font-weight: bold; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 16px; padding-left: 5px; border-left: 320px solid #515a69;]THIS IS A GAME.[/style] [style=text-align: left; color: #e4e4e4; font-size: 10px; letter-spacing: 3px; font-family: arial;]DO NOT TRUST YOUR EARS. WHAT YOU HEAR ARE LIES.[/style] [style=margin-top: 5px; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; color: #e4e4e4; background-color: #212121; padding: 5px; border: 1px solid #222222;] [style=zoom: 1; filter: alpha(opacity=70); opacity: 0.7; margin-right: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; width: 100px; height: 100px; border-radius: 10px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/francyicon2.png); float: left;] [/style]Pinning the other nation against the stone alter gave him a sick feeling of power. It was a common enough sentiment that came with his current position. As much as he loathed the other and liked to poke fun at him, there was also a part of him that was oddly a little taken by the violent island nation. Francis would never admit to that—never in centuries would he ever admit to that. But he also knew that England was going to hate him for this—and probably for what he was planning to do to him. He would hate him for a long, long time. Francis noticed the smile crawl over Arthur’s face as he looked upon the cut to his face. That little expression infuriated him; this boy was the only one in the world who could vex him like this with the smallest of movements. France’s hands tightened, but he tried not to reveal his displeasure at the indignity. Soon, he would give the boy something far worse than a mere scratch. His blood would run much more heavily than his own. The idea of being the first to successfully invade him was somewhat of a thrill to the older nation. He was certain that the others had barely even touched chaste little England. He was probably as fresh and ripe as the untainted wild nature of the land. Still keeping his weight against him, he leaned over and threaded his fingers through England’s hair even more tightly than before as he pulled his head back. The other hand still holding the arrow as he leaned further down until his face was finger-widths away from where his own blood had dripped down England’s throat as he loomed over him. The tip of his tongue dipped into the warmth before moving upwards, smearing crimson across his skin like a blank piece of art. Francis withdrew, his bottom lip now wet with blood as he smiled. There was always something fascinating about playing with untouched nations. The Frenchman could only sigh at Arthur’s response, using all of those barbaric languages each in turn. The defiance was more annoying than appealing to him. But his previous opinion of England hadn’t changed. He knew what he was going to be up against. And he knew what sort of reception and resistance he would receive from Arthur. Perhaps that, in its own twisted way, was part of the excitement. The boy was prideful; even at his young age, he held himself with an assuredness that few nations possessed. That’s what made England so tempting. So wonderfully tempting. ” Très bien,” France replied; his fist tightened in England’s hair, holding his head still as he raised the arrow from where it had rested at the base of his throat. Switching to the boy’s language briefly, he spoke again, his voice even and nearly stoic. ”Do you know how your wretched king died, little nation?” The spiteful smile resumed as he leaned in closer, speaking quietly. ”I’ve only heard about it in passing. Whether or not it’s true, it will be talked about for generations. I know you will remember the tale, England. You will always remember.” His voice became soft; the tone almost seemed intimate, as he plunged the arrow downwards, straight into the boy’s eye. [style=color: #515a69; text-align: center; letter-spacing: 1px; background-color: #121212; padding: 2px;]TAGGING: ARTHUR | WORDS: 554 | NOTES: [/style][/style]

[style=font-size: 10px; font-family: georiga; text-align: center; letter-spacing: 3px;]TEMPLATE BY SAMARECARM OF OTE + BTN[/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #2F2F2F; border-radius: 8px 0px 0px 0px; padding: 30px 0px 0px 10px;][STYLE=font-family: arial black; font-size: 128px; color: #EDEDED; line-height: 30px; text-transform: uppercase;] A[/style]

[atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #2F2F2F; border-radius: 0px 8px 0px 0px; padding: 30px 5px 10px 0px;] [STYLE=font-family: arial black; font-size: 40px; color: #EDEDED; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: -3px; line-height: 28px; margin-left: -4px;]THRONE FIT FOR A FOOL [/style][STYLE=font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 9px; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #EDEDED; text-align: justify; padding: 0px 15px 0px 15px;]❝ MY BODY HAS BEEN CLAIMED, SOUL HAS BEEN SHIPPED AWAY, WE WERE YOUNG AND LEARNING. STEADY HEARTS HATE TURNING. ❞ [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][atrb=vAlign,top] [STYLE=width: 274px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: #737678; padding: 5px; text-align: justify; border-bottom: #2F2F2F 8px solid;] █ England drew in a quick breath through clenched teeth; it almost sounded like a hiss as Francis leaned further down. His entire body grew as rigid as ice when Francis moved into the crook of his neck. He felt the Frenchman’s breath, hot and sticky against his skin where the scent of his blood rose. England’s fingers curled into his shoulders, trying to push him away, but it had little effect. A cold shiver went through him at the feel of the wet muscle against his throat. If he weren’t so distressed and irate at the moment, he would have thought that it felt rather nice. All the same, though, no one had ever dared to touch him like that and it made angry colour flare in his cheeks. Obviously he was sensitive to the smallest of things and had remained untouched by the others. He wouldn’t let them. Nothing could touch him… nothing… Something about the way that Francis was looking at him, though, greatly unnerved Arthur even though he couldn’t really identify it. It felt invasive and filthy—looking at him as a starving man might eye a slab of meat. If his mouth weren’t so dry, he would have spit at him again. Instead, he watched as France withdrew from his neck smiling an eerie blood tainted smile. Sharp nerves continued to flutter in Arthur’s stomach and he felt the blood rush to his face once more. The gruesome, nauseating feeling increased tenfold when he felt France tightening his fist in his hair, using it as a means to hold him still. That was never good. England squirmed a little when Francis spoke to him about his king who had recently passed. He hadn’t known how he had passed, as even the nations themselves were fresh off of the battlefield. All that Arthur knew for sure was that the Normans were in possession of his corpse and were probably defiling it as they spoke. His lips thinned tightly in a silent refusal to answer, even with Francis’s use of his language. His muscles tensed upon seeing the raised arrow. Little did he know, though, he would always remember this moment. As would his people. And then came the downward stroke… He didn’t scream immediately; rather, first he went completely rigid in France’s grip, his other eye wide open with shock, and then he gave a shallow gasp as it submerged far past the tip in his eye socket. He turned half onto his side, as much as he could, metal scraping against stone, with a low groan. His hand clawed at his ruined eye when he shrieked in no language, the cry arching and high-pitched and wavering. His blood dripped fast and bright over the surface of the table and the open pages of both books, coughing out the last of the scream before drawing a shaky breath and wrapping his fingers around the spine of the arrow— The left side of his face was far, far messier than France’s, stained almost completely crimson and sluiced through with clear tracks of burst vitreous humour. He was gasping shallowly as though he couldn’t breathe, but did not scream a second time. [/style]

[atrb=vAlign,top][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/normaneng.png); border-radius: 5px; border: #2F2F2F solid 10px; margin-top: -10px;] [/style] [STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/normaneng.png); border-radius: 5px; border: #2F2F2F solid 10px; margin-top: 15px;] [/style][STYLE=width: 120px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: #737678; padding: 0px 0px 10px 0px; text-align: justify;] █ TAGS France █ DATE October 14th, 1066 █ EVENT Aftermath of the Norman Invasion █ NOTES [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][STYLE=font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; color: #B3B7BA; padding: 5px 20px 5px 5px; text-align: right;] made by ayu of btn[/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,width: 450px; padding: 10px;][bg=121212][style=font-family: arial narrow; color: #515a69; font-weight: bold; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 16px; padding-left: 5px; border-left: 320px solid #515a69;]THIS IS A GAME.[/style] [style=text-align: left; color: #e4e4e4; font-size: 10px; letter-spacing: 3px; font-family: arial;]DO NOT TRUST YOUR EARS. WHAT YOU HEAR ARE LIES.[/style] [style=margin-top: 5px; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; color: #e4e4e4; background-color: #212121; padding: 5px; border: 1px solid #222222;] [style=zoom: 1; filter: alpha(opacity=70); opacity: 0.7; margin-right: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; width: 100px; height: 100px; border-radius: 10px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/francyicon2.png); float: left;] [/style]The moment he saw England’s fingers wrap tightly around the spine of the arrow, Francis was quick to snatch his wrist before twisting it behind his back, now pressing the boy hard against the table and against those books. “Do not attempt to pull it out,” he snapped. “Foolish boy…” He could feel the other nation moving a bit after he had maimed his eye, probably trying to prevent the arrow from being forced any deeper. A gruesome sort of satisfaction hummed through the older nation upon seeing how much damage that he had inflicted on Arthur. The devastation of this loss had finally begun to physically show and he couldn’t help the warmth of dominance. It was only natural for their kind after a crushing defeat. But France didn’t allow it to show in his expressions... or at least he tried not to let it show. So far, he had only experienced growing frustration with England’s lack of acquiescence. It wasn’t really a surprise given what he had known about the young nation beforehand when he had been occasionally brought to the Isles by Rome. He had little mind to do such things to the boy then. But many years have passed since then. Centuries. And France was not who he was when they had first met. Nations changed with time. Relationships changed. As did their people—and they were ready to take and subjugate. It’s funny how nations change when they’re finally given power. France knew what he wanted and he was going to take it. It would be ridiculous to say that he did it out of anything more than wishing to attain the seemingly unattainable. ”Now then,” France went on in a low voice, his tone flat and emotionless, “shall we not try this again?” He wouldn’t be surprised if England said something to him in one of those base languages of his once more, so he wasn’t really going to wait for a reply. England needed to be broken if he had any chance of being molded into what France wanted him to be. He would have to break his defiance. At this point in time, Francis was not above using whatever means he thought necessary to cause those sorts of fissures in other nations. He was going to make an effort to extinguish every last Anglo-Saxony and Celtic reminder right out of England. The older nation would make him Norman. ”So foul-mouthed--” France muttered. ”--in all of your detestable languages, it seems. Really, though you might protest, I think mine is your only hope.” His mouth twisted into a hard smile as his words took a somewhat mocking turn. His fingers brushed along the undamaged side of England’s face, free of blood. It would take a bit of time for him to heal from that wound, but he would. It wouldn’t be too long before he would be able to see Arthur’s full glare once more. His thumb slipped beneath England’s chin, turning his face so that his unharmed side faced him. He leaned forward to trail his mouth against Arthur's cheek up to the lobe of his ear where he gently scraped the edge of his teeth. ”Let me teach you a little something of culture, England,” he whispered into the boy’s ear. He leaned down closer, metal on metal and blood on blood. ”Lay down your arms and learn,” he continued, still holding his hand behind his back. France reached beneath the boy with his free hand, quickly and roughly loosening cords and clasps, metal plates sliding this way and that, chainmail scraping against skin. At the same time, France reached over to grasp the spine of the arrow... [style=color: #515a69; text-align: center; letter-spacing: 1px; background-color: #121212; padding: 2px;]TAGGING: ARTHUR | WORDS: 605 | NOTES: -_- [/style][/style]

[style=font-size: 10px; font-family: georiga; text-align: center; letter-spacing: 3px;]TEMPLATE BY SAMARECARM OF OTE + BTN[/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #2F2F2F; border-radius: 8px 0px 0px 0px; padding: 30px 0px 0px 10px;][STYLE=font-family: arial black; font-size: 128px; color: #EDEDED; line-height: 30px; text-transform: uppercase;] A[/style]

[atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #2F2F2F; border-radius: 0px 8px 0px 0px; padding: 30px 5px 10px 0px;] [STYLE=font-family: arial black; font-size: 40px; color: #EDEDED; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: -3px; line-height: 28px; margin-left: -4px;]THRONE FIT FOR A FOOL [/style][STYLE=font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 9px; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #EDEDED; text-align: justify; padding: 0px 15px 0px 15px;]❝ MY BODY HAS BEEN CLAIMED, SOUL HAS BEEN SHIPPED AWAY, WE WERE YOUNG AND LEARNING. STEADY HEARTS HATE TURNING. ❞ [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][atrb=vAlign,top] [STYLE=width: 274px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: #737678; padding: 5px; text-align: justify; border-bottom: #2F2F2F 8px solid;] █ England groaned when he felt France twisting his wrist behind his back. His breathing hastened as he thrashed beneath the heavy, amoured body leaning over his. The wetness wouldn’t stop… the blood wouldn’t stop… He felt so useless. He was already weak from prior battles. Norway had weakened him before France delivered the crushing blow. All in all, he was still only in the body of a thirteen year old. Yes, he was stronger as a nation, but he still felt his limitations. His people were brutal, but they too were weakened, hungry in recent famines, and plagued in recent years. The contrast between the Francis that Arthur had first met when they were younger and the Francis that stood before him now was still baffling. When had he turned into… well, a fucked-up sadistic bastard? Perhaps he’d always been that way and the gaudy blond was just cleverer than he looked… and England was just that naïve of the intentions of others. Especially after Rome. Anyone would have known to do better after that old bastard. England’s lip curled when France asked if they should try this again. Try what again? The blond hadn’t a clue what the hell he was going on about. Or even what he planned to do. ”Go dtachta an diabhal tu!” England hissed at him (Irish). And then— finally switching to the tongue that they both knew—“Fuck you and your language! I would rather you cut out my tongue than make it speak French.” He heard France say something else, something about teaching him a bit of culture, before leaning down against him. England’s young mind clouded with confusion, not really knowing what he was hinting at. Whatever it was, it was probably another form of torture. He felt fingers tugging at and loosening his clothes, undoing the clasps and pushing the armour down against his skin, agitating the bruises and smearing mottled blood. England’s body grew taut and his uninjured eye widened when he realised what France was going to do. He had seen it enough to know. ”Na dean sin!” England shouted, struggling underneath him as much as France’s weight and the arrow skewered into his eye would allow. “Sguir! Arhoswch!” ”Keep your damned culture! I want nothing from you!” England spat, his loose hand pressed against his wounded eye, arrow shaft sticking out between two of his fingers. “Mae’n gas gyda fi—" He cut himself off abruptly as France's hand moved to the arrow and closed around it; taking a sharp inward breath, his entire body tensing in terror— "Ffrainc..." Not quite pleading, but his voice was quiet and nervous. Translations Go dtachta an diabhal tu (Irish Gaelic/ Literally 'May the devil choke you' which sounds archaic and not all that offensive – it most likely came across as more insulting in the actual language.) Sguir/arhoswch (Scottish Gaelic/Welsh: "Stop!") Mae'n gas gyda fi (Welsh: "I hate...") Ffrainc (Welsh: France...) [/style]

[atrb=vAlign,top][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/normaneng.png); border-radius: 5px; border: #2F2F2F solid 10px; margin-top: -10px;] [/style] [STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/normaneng.png); border-radius: 5px; border: #2F2F2F solid 10px; margin-top: 15px;] [/style][STYLE=width: 120px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: #737678; padding: 0px 0px 10px 0px; text-align: justify;] █ TAGS France █ DATE October 14th, 1066 █ EVENT Aftermath of the Norman Invasion █ NOTES Oh God.. poor Arthur. [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][STYLE=font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; color: #B3B7BA; padding: 5px 20px 5px 5px; text-align: right;] made by ayu of btn[/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,width: 450px; padding: 10px;][bg=121212][style=font-family: arial narrow; color: #515a69; font-weight: bold; font-size: 20px; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 16px; padding-left: 5px; border-left: 320px solid #515a69;]THIS IS A GAME.[/style] [style=text-align: left; color: #e4e4e4; font-size: 10px; letter-spacing: 3px; font-family: arial;]DO NOT TRUST YOUR EARS. WHAT YOU HEAR ARE LIES.[/style] [style=margin-top: 5px; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; color: #e4e4e4; background-color: #212121; padding: 5px; border: 1px solid #222222;] [style=zoom: 1; filter: alpha(opacity=70); opacity: 0.7; margin-right: 5px; margin-bottom: 5px; width: 100px; height: 100px; border-radius: 10px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/francyicon2.png); float: left;] [/style]Francis barely even offered Arthur a sideways glance at his words. ”You do know that I can arrange that, petit lapin. Don’t tempt me, for I’d prefer to put it to better use.“ Slightly amused lips curled at the innuendo, but he continued, “…For speaking, évidemment. Using whatever language I tell you to use.” He paused. His unoccupied hand reaching up to touch England’s unbloodied cheek, his thumb skimming along the edge of his face, down his jaw. He remembered when the nation was so young… when he was only a providence of Rome several centuries ago. That time seemed so faded and frayed—neither of them were who they used to be. England, as he was now called, had grown fierce. Anyone would have if their life suddenly consisted of invasion after invasion. The nations from the north probably thought him weak, but France wasn’t of the same persuasion. The little nation that they called “weak” was never fully conquered by either of them—if he was such a pushover, then there shouldn’t have been an issue with taking him, now would there? England had held his own well—well enough to have defeated Norway weeks before France had even arrived. And he even had enough left in him to give France a good struggle. Whatever the others believed, this child nation was not weak. Which made this victory more succulent. It gave him all the more reason to take England. "Non, nous ne tolèrerons aucune de ces langues grossières,” France breathed, releasing the clasp around England’s neck and pushing his cloak out of the way. He smiled at him icily and twisted the arrow sharply out of England’s eye. The clink and clatter of the arrow was nearly drowned out by the sudden downpour that France had barely realized was there. He could smell the moisture along with a thin residue of death. The land was ripe and unplucked—ready for the picking. Scrutinizing England; however, he wasn’t sure when exactly he wanted to indulge in his spoils. Now that he had loosened most of his armor, Arthur still wore his tunic, finely woven, but rough all the same—too much so for Francis’s liking. He also noticed leg coverings, something that he had probably adopted from the Saxons. Still a bit unsure of what he wanted to do exactly, he loosened the leather straps used to hold the trousers in place before hearing the soft rustling of the fabric against the floor. The knee-length tunic was still in place, still keeping quite a bit of the nation's modesty intact. Francis’s eyes were trained on Arthur’s face, watching for what kind of reaction he would give, one that probably would help him decide what to do in that moment, as he skimmed long, tapered fingers against his leg, slipping beneath the fabric while still keeping it in place. ”Tell me, mon petit—”

[/color] he murmured, his voice softer than before. The expression was stoic, not revealing anything. “—has anyone ever done this to you before?” As if to emphasize what he meant, his hand moved further, his fingers stroking the bare skin of England’s inner thigh.


[style=color: #515a69; text-align: center; letter-spacing: 1px; background-color: #121212; padding: 2px;]TAGGING: ARTHUR | WORDS: 528 | NOTES: This is waaay overdue [/style][/style][/td][/tr][/table] [style=font-size: 10px; font-family: georiga; text-align: center; letter-spacing: 3px;]TEMPLATE BY SAMARECARM OF OTE + BTN[/style][/center]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #2F2F2F; border-radius: 8px 0px 0px 0px; padding: 30px 0px 0px 10px;][STYLE=font-family: arial black; font-size: 128px; color: #EDEDED; line-height: 30px; text-transform: uppercase;] A[/style]

[atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #2F2F2F; border-radius: 0px 8px 0px 0px; padding: 30px 5px 10px 0px;] [STYLE=font-family: arial black; font-size: 40px; color: #EDEDED; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: -3px; line-height: 28px; margin-left: -4px;]THRONE FIT FOR A FOOL [/style][STYLE=font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; text-transform: uppercase; line-height: 9px; letter-spacing: -1px; color: #EDEDED; text-align: justify; padding: 0px 15px 0px 15px;]❝ MY BODY HAS BEEN CLAIMED, SOUL HAS BEEN SHIPPED AWAY, WE WERE YOUNG AND LEARNING. STEADY HEARTS HATE TURNING. ❞ [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][atrb=vAlign,top] [STYLE=width: 274px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: #737678; padding: 5px; text-align: justify; border-bottom: #2F2F2F 8px solid;] █ There was only a frown in response to France’s suggestion paired with the perverse proposition. England turned his head to avoid looking at him, his lips thinning, refusing to respond. Amidst the constant throbbing of his injured eye, he was startled to feel the gentle touch down the undamaged side of his face. More out of automatic reaction than anything, the nation peered over at France, watching and waiting for what he was doing. So far, France had a strange tendency to mix the violent and the gentle. It was more unsettling than if he had simply been causing him pain the entire time. Pain he could handle… anything else was a bit more difficult. Arthur flinched back when Francis’s finger’s reached his jaw. He didn’t want to be touched like that. It made little sense. Francis hitting and stabbing him did. At least, in this setting it did. Apparently England hadn’t held out well enough. It was one battle. One fucking battle that he had lost. But it was one battle that would permanently change him. He wondered how it would have been if Norway had won instead of France. He at least would have had the sense to not play these stupid games with him. France, however; seemed to have a disturbing taste for them. Perhaps for his own amusement. England barely had time to react before he realised that France was going to roughly pull out the arrow. His pained cry filled his throbbing consciousness. He barely heard the small things like the clatter of the arrow on the ground or the torrent of rain outside. His stomach turned with heavy sickness. There was a lot more blood, all over the opened book beneath his face and down his cheek. After the initial shock had passed, Arthur felt his cheek stick to the blood-soaked pages of the book. His fingers gripped at the edges of the leather cover, holding onto the tome as though it was his only solace, the only thing he could cling to –the manuscript written by one of his own. The heady stench of blood drowning out all other senses, Arthur was barely aware of the fact that Francis had partially undressed him. The realisation of it came fast and hard when the skin of his legs felt the cool air, raising unsettling bumps along his flesh. The air was chilled with a sudden uncertainty and dread. This Arthur hadn’t really thought would happen… The others never touched him—never took him. Perhaps it was naïve to think that no one ever would take him against his will. He automatically tried to withdraw from the hand that had glided beneath his tunic, but he had nowhere to move. The stone alter at his back was already digging into his spine. He heard the older nation’s voice above him, a little more somber than before, it seemed, as he asked him if anyone had ever done this to him. England paused. No. No one... But he wasn’t sure how to answer... If he answered truthfully, then would it give the bastard more amusement over all sorts of firsts that he had accomplished this day? Or—if he answered falsely, would Francis simply take him roughly and inflict more damage? He wasn’t sure… Arthur was ashamed of the uncomfortable quiver that went through him when Francis touched his inner thigh. It felt so foreign and wrong that he couldn’t hide the discomfort from his face. His legs clamped together as he tried to turn away from him. ”No…” his voice, broken from use during battle and torture, finally rasped—both in answer to Francis’s question and in aversion to his touch. [/style]

[atrb=vAlign,top][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/normaneng.png); border-radius: 5px; border: #2F2F2F solid 10px; margin-top: -10px;] [/style] [STYLE=width: 100px; height: 100px; background-image: url(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n222/amoline/normaneng.png); border-radius: 5px; border: #2F2F2F solid 10px; margin-top: 15px;] [/style][STYLE=width: 120px; font-family: verdana; font-size: 10px; line-height: 11px; color: #737678; padding: 0px 0px 10px 0px; text-align: justify;] █ TAGS France █ DATE October 14th, 1066 █ EVENT Aftermath of the Norman Invasion █ NOTES It's alright. xD [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,background-color: #EDEDED;][STYLE=font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; color: #B3B7BA; padding: 5px 20px 5px 5px; text-align: right;] made by ayu of btn[/style]