jotun prince starter

The first time Gwyndolin had laid eyes on the Prince of the Jotnar had been an accident. He had been walking the halls of his father's palace, the strange and haunting figure of Gwyn's lastborn, silent and brooding as ever. None spoke to him, and he spoke to none, as the scales of his snakes slithered steadily over the marble floors. He carried himself with regality and elegance few could argue with, and despite the feelings of others towards him, and his feelings towards himself, for his repulsive and shameful nature, it was difficult to deny that the Dark Sun, Gwyndolin, commands a measure of respect.

And yet suddenly he felt so young and flighty when he began to turn a corner, only to see a distance away something very foreign and very, very blue, and very, very, very underdressed. With a sharp gasp and a soft hiss from his snakes, Gwyndolin retreated back behind the corner, peeking around- of course he'd heard of the political movements between his father and the Jotnar, a representation of people from some strange other 'realm' separate from his own, a place called Jotunheim. But it was the first time he'd seen any of them.

He'd heard it was a place of ice and chill, a world of blue darkness. It sounded terribly unappealing based on chill and emptiness alone, yet he couldn't deny the curiosity he'd felt the moment he'd heard of it, the desire to see what beauty it may hold himself. But he was equally curious about the people who lived there- The Jotnar, 'frost giants' they said other races sometimes called them. He'd heard they were large, like his own people, the Gods and their kin, and unlike the Giants that were usual in this realm despite the similar name. Their skin was supposedly a deep blue, frozen to the touch, and covered in strange ridges of unknown origin- a primitive ritual scarification, or a factor of genetics? He also heard they wore very little clothing, and that that had caused quite a stir in the court.

He could definitely see why! The man down the hall was certainly wearing terribly little, and was probably causing immense fluster for the dignitary he was speaking to. He was also very, very blue, and covered in those rumored lines, in a pattern across his body Gwyndolin couldn't hesitate to call strangely pretty. But he was much smaller than the rumors claimed- similar in height to a human, if maybe taller than average. Certainly taller than Gwyndolin if he'd allowed himself to be lowered on his snakes down to the point where he'd touch the ground had he true feet. Good thing he is not held to such limitations. He'd always found his adjustable height rather advantageous in giving a certain imposing figure.

The man's inky black hair fell about his shoulders, bejeweled and draped with gold, and despite his underdressed nature demanding attention(which left poor Gwyndolin flushed in the face and struggling to look directly at him), Gwyndolin's eyes struggled to leave his hair- at least until the man's face turned enough that Gwyndolin caught a glimpse of his eyes and gasped softly at the vibrant ruby red. But then those eyes began to pass over him, and Gwyndolin made himself vanish from sight, retreating back around the corner in less than a blink of an eye, encircling himself with a golden glow of magic that carried him yet further- back to his rooms. He was startled to find himself so out of breath suddenly- what had he to fear from a foreign dignitary, no matter how strange, that he couldn't bear to be glimpsed? Perhaps it was his near-nakedness, and the heat Gwyndolin felt in his cheeks. Must be.

It was only later he realized that the Jotun he'd laid eyes upon had been none other than Prince Loki, the son of Laufey, king of the Jotnar. The sight of him stayed burned in Gwyndolin's mind for a long while afterward, as much as he tried to ignore it. Anyways, he was certain he hadn't been seen, he was gone before the Prince's eyes had truly seen him. Hadn't he?


He'd laid eyes upon Prince Loki a few times after that, and none accidents like the first. He burned with curiosity, he told himself, unable to resist the allure of seeing a strange new race for oneself. And that was why he spied and peeked, slinking around in the shadows of his Lord Father's palace, to peer into his father's audience chamber as he spoke to the foreign host. From behind the curtains in which he hid, Gwyndolin pushed a few tassels dangling from the fine brocade aside so that he might peek through them better, to lay eyes upon the prince- not that it was Prince Loki in particular he was looking for! His eyes found the rest of the Jotnar host first, and they widened as he realized the Prince must be an exception to the divergence from rumor, as the rest were quite large- they were all a good match in size to Gwyndolin's siblings! Gwynfor must be elated for the chance to meet them.

But finally, between the massive blue figures, his eyes passing over their many ridges that each bore a unique arrangement, Gwyndolin found what he'd come to see: Prince Loki, and wearing clothes much more befitting of taking audience with Lord Gwyn. Gwyndolin couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief- he'd had quite a helping of naked man torso and legs the last time, and that was plenty enough for him. This time, though, he was near enough to hear Loki speak, and found himself surprised at how articulated he was- a true natural at the tricky language of politics that Gwyndolin often struggled with- oh, he could hand politeness and regality and presence well enough to pass through court manners, but the double meanings of things often escaped him. Prince Loki, however, wove his words as well as Gwyndolin could weave an illusion. He wasn't sure why he was surprised- except, perhaps, he'd expected otherwise from the rather... brutish looking Jotnar. Maybe Loki was something special.

But then those ruby eyes seemed to steadily move towards Gwyndolin's location, and he gasped when he realized he was about to be found out, and quickly ducked away out of sight. Surely unseen.


Subsequent sights of Loki went much the same, Gwyndolin following news of audiences and following them, to steal a glimpse here and there of the cerulean prince who carried himself with an easy grace, draped with gold, emeralds, and rubies. He was starting to become certain that Loki might be aware of a watching presence, the way his ruby eyes seemed to drift closer and closer to Gwyndolin whenever he spied, but he always vanished before he was seen, he's sure of it. It takes maybe a handful of these little spy missions for Gwyndolin to realize he's not merely curious, he's smitten. The realization has him practically bedridden in embarrassment and shame. He's behaving like a flighty maiden! He hasn't acted like this since he was small, with a childlike crush on his brother's handsome first knight. It's been years since he's let himself entertain the embarrassingly childish fantasies of being swept off his metaphorical feet by some handsome prince or knight. He has his vows, after all. He mustn't forget that.


He stopped spying after that realization, but it wasn't the last time he saw Prince Loki. And this time, Prince Loki saw him, too, for the first time (so he thinks). Gwyndolin does not often accompany his family to the grand dinners they often hold, preferring his privacy and, he's sure, everyone else preferring he remains private as well. But for some occasions, he joins them, sometimes out of desire to be with them on important days, but equally often out of obligation- and the rare occasions his rather actually requests his participation in specific. This was one of those days, as his father requested the boon of his voice- what many faults Gwyndolin had, his father had always adored his singing voice, and was often eager to look past all else for the gift of it. And this evening he wanted to share that gift with their foreign guests. Gwyndolin couldn't refuse even if he wanted to- and in this, he is always overjoyed to comply.

He dressed in his finest, most elegant gowns, fine brocade silk trimmed with lace and draped with gold, tailored perfectly to nip in and modestly complement his figure here, hang off him in beautiful curtains there, a veil draped over his head under a golden coronet, his eyes hidden. He put on an air of reflective piety as he joined his family at dinner, keeping his head down, so that he didn't have to glance at the object of his mislaid affection. He knew Prince Loki was there. He heard his voice as he chatted up the Royal Family and other nobles. Idly, he failed to stop himself from wondering what the Prince might think of him, if he is repulsive even by the standards of the Jotnar, if Loki looked upon him in distaste, or cannot bear to look and turned his gaze anywhere else, or if he simply politely ignored Gwyndolin's existence like everyone else. He ate little, his appetite ever delicate but moreso now, until his father called on him to provide the entertaining gift of his voice.

He sang, blocking out his nerves, his shame and fears, let his eyes fall closed and his voice take over. The one thing he has ever been truly proud of, the one thing of beauty he truly has to offer in his father's golden world. The thought wandered into his mind of what the Jotnar, what Prince Loki, might think of his singing, and his voice wavers- luckily passing as a pretty vibrato. His voice really is truly divine, beautiful and otherworldly, and yet terribly sad, like his voice is incapable of producing anything happier than a somber note, even to an aria.

He sang for a while, while the rest keep eating and drinking and making merry, until he grew too tired to continue. He bowwed, let himself be applauded (the first surely his father, Gwyn always eager to clap for his songs), but kept his head down until he can excuse himself to retire early. He forced thoughts of the Prince out of his mind, and let himself rest.


He doesn't leave his suite much after that. He lets himself take it easy, relaxing and busying his hands and his mind, reading, studying, quietly practicing his sorcery or doing some needlework or other womanly craft. It works well enough- the brief obsession with the foreign prince fades away over the days, until Gwyndolin hardly thinks of him at all. Just a passing infatuation, already gone on the breeze. He hears rumours that most of the Jotun host will be returning to Jotunheim soon, the royalty among them, with friendly relations and promises of continued friendliness in the future. So, that is that, then... But there are quieter rumors, whispers that there are secret plans being passed between the royalty of deeper ties being made between their kingdoms. Something more permanent, reliable. A treaty o allegiance, he wonders? He's sure Father is trying to get them to promise to help in his quest to eradicate dragonkind.

Whatever it is, as long as his kingdom is safe and happy, it has little to do with him. As long as his Father is happy. Then Gwyndolin is happy. And currently, he is at least comfortable and in a pleasant mood, humming as he lounges upon a sofa in the large, comfortable sitting room of his suite. His dress is simpler than what he usually wears about the palace, more comfortable and less layered, but still very modest, elegant, and most importantly, decent. Just in case he receives a visitor- his brother, or father, a servant, the Lord's Blade, anyone. If he wished to be lazy and indecent he would stay in his room and lounge in bed in his sleepclothes. He wears little jewelry, though a sheer, delicate veil sits atop his silver hair and drapes over his shoulders, lace-trimmed edge just barely teasing at dipping into the top of his vision, over his eyes. His hands are busy at a lace pillow resting on the arm of his lounge as he leans against it, the only sounds in his room his own quiet humming, the gentle clatter of the bobbins for his lace pillow, a warm breeze fluttering his curtains and the distance twittering and song of birds through his open window.

He is relaxed, at peace in his space, and doesn't really expect any visitors, certainly not any that wouldn't knock first...