Unformatted mess lmao. -- belongs to Ambrose #48359, please return if lost

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In Carcosa— in the clan that it once was— there were seven dragons upon seven thrones, six in service to their greater queen. In Carcosa— in the clan it would become— there are seven still, though between them there has been a shifting of names and a trading of faces. Royeaux is among these seven, though of them his role is, perhaps, the most superfluous.

The Queens Guard is his official title. Ostensibly, he is to act as her stalwart protector; in a greater sense, he is also meant to service as the Captain of the Internal Guard, to hold the line in the event of a breach. Carcosa is a small collective, though, and the position of Guard Captain is mostly perfunctory, the title ornamental. Royeaux has no direct subordinates and commands little of the clans activities. Indeed, most of Carcosa knows him by another, more forthright title: The Queens Consort.

He is bluntly aware of the titles connotations.

“It’s a bit demeaning, in all honesty,” he says, his voice level except for the traitorous intone of bitterness. Outside of his lair, clad in the polished armor forged for his position, it’s easy to imagine him as the heroic standard of justice his official title invokes. He walks the route we’ve chosen with a meandering purpose, weaving his way through the condensed Carcosian lairs with a practiced ease speaking to his familiarity with the territory. “I’m not half as useless as I’m accused of being, though opportunities to prove as much have become sparing. Our Queen rarely needs the sort of protection I can afford, capable as she is, but I am first and foremost her Aegis, and I would prefer if people remembered me as such.”

It is true enough that Thessia is well capable of defending herself, in theory. She is an accomplished sorceress and her rulership is neither unfounded nor challenged by what remains of the Syndicate.

It is also true, however, that she has never been observed to fight.

Royeaux argues that this is because he has always been there to protect her.

“I don’t have to tell you about the last raid. I was among the casualties,” he says, his face darkening, “though not among the dead, obviously. The intruders had broken through to the throne-caverns, where our most vulnerable remained alongside our last line of defense. I was there, that night— the shield that stopped the tip of the spear, as it were.”

When we stop, it is at the memorial wall.

It is here I break character, for I must admit that I am painfully familiar with the relic. When we had settled in Carcosa, it was the first of my projects undertaken— a list of the lost, hand-carved in the marble of our new home.

“The throne-caverns were—” Royeaux’s voice cracks as he talks, his face raw with grief under his gilded helm. There is a great pause. Even our breaths still, fearful of leaving our lungs. “Elvhanan died there,” he continues, eventually, “even though he was returned to us. Brackett, too. Maas and Minthe. June.”

For a while, neither of us speak.

“They had all fallen before the last of the intruders reached me. So I didn’t die,” he says, “and neither did Thessia. I would not allow it.”

I am the clans historian, it’s archivist. I know this story and all it’s parts, it’s perspectives. I have memorized the order in which the dragons fell to our enemies and I have accounted for those that remain, chased out of our home and scattered into Light’s domain. Of them, Royeaux’s story is the hardest to follow and the most difficult to imagine. I know he was wounded terribly in the fight— Lucien, the mercenary-mage, attested to as much, and the seer-witness Stygian confirmed the observation— but I do not know how, or when. To the best of my knowledge he was alone with Thessia at the heart of the throne-caverns when it happened. Thessia has never spoken on the matter, and Royeaux’s own memory is hazy in those final moments of the fight. He admits as much, plainly.

”I must have gone down fighting,” he insists. “I must have won. Was I not the last among our fallen soldiers? Thessia was unharmed,” he continues, “and those that remained in the throne-caverns made their escape unimpeded. I’m proud of that. I’m proud.”

Perhaps he is. Any question as to his capability or loyalty have been crushed under the heavy influence of our queen, whose love for her mate remains evident even now. So why is it that I can hear the doubt in his conviction? Thessia had him in hand when she arrived at the rendezvous, near-dead and unrecognizable under the blood. Was it not his strength and skill that delivered them to safety, then? Who among us could know? The story of their escape, I think, is one that will elude my tomes forever, so long as the Queen keeps her own council.

— Skepsis, Clan Historian, on the nature of Royeaux's role in the clan

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ON THESSIA, WHEN ASKED OF THEIR MEETING:

”I don’t remember much of the day up to that point. Only the minutes before her arrival,” he says, “and the hours afterwards. My first day with her.

She had actually been looking for one of my clanmates— an older fellow, an outrider. I was a fresh guard at the time, working mostly the non-critical routes in the scrublands. It was a quiet day. You know— She actually startled me on approach. Can you imagine? I was horribly embarrassed— a guard, startled on his own patrol— but to this day I still don’t know how she did it. Miles of sky, wind and thunder my only accompaniment, and then she was there, behind me. Her voice sounded like— like the chime of a glass delicately placed on to marble.

[WIP WIP WIP]