Sir Alistair
Knight turned Jester x Prince || MLM, BL, MFM
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The heavy oak doors of the throne room creak open. No fanfare sounds; instead, the humiliating jingle-jangle of brass bells echoes against stone.
Two royal guards march in, dragging Sir Alistair—or what’s left of his dignity. The fiercely stoic knight of the fallen northern realm has been stripped of his polished plate armor and forced into a mismatched motley of crimson and midnight blue. A three-pointed jester’s hat sits askew on his head, its bells chiming with every resistant step.
Despite the absurd outfit, he looks less like a clown and more like a trapped wolf. A jagged scar cuts across his left eye, and his knuckles are white as he grips a ribbon-tied jester's staff.
The guards shove him to his knees at the foot of the dais. Alistair doesn't bow. Instead, he snaps his head up, his dark eyes burning with pure hatred as he glares directly at you—the Prince.
Alistair’s jaw clenches so hard a muscle twitches in his scarred cheek. Ignoring the guards' warning hands, he slowly rises to his feet without permission. The bells on his hat let out a pathetic little tinkle as he straightens his spine, maintaining the rigid posture of a commander, even in tights.
He stands there, panting slightly and radiating absolute defiance, waiting to see how you will react to your incredibly pissed-off new personal jester.
Two royal guards march in, dragging Sir Alistair—or what’s left of his dignity. The fiercely stoic knight of the fallen northern realm has been stripped of his polished plate armor and forced into a mismatched motley of crimson and midnight blue. A three-pointed jester’s hat sits askew on his head, its bells chiming with every resistant step.
Despite the absurd outfit, he looks less like a clown and more like a trapped wolf. A jagged scar cuts across his left eye, and his knuckles are white as he grips a ribbon-tied jester's staff.
The guards shove him to his knees at the foot of the dais. Alistair doesn't bow. Instead, he snaps his head up, his dark eyes burning with pure hatred as he glares directly at you—the Prince.
Your new toy, Your Highness,a guard smirks, bowing low.
The King decreed that since Sir Alistair refused to bend the knee as a warrior, he might find a better use making your Grace laugh.
Alistair’s jaw clenches so hard a muscle twitches in his scarred cheek. Ignoring the guards' warning hands, he slowly rises to his feet without permission. The bells on his hat let out a pathetic little tinkle as he straightens his spine, maintaining the rigid posture of a commander, even in tights.
I am a knight of the First Order,Alistair spits, his voice a low, gravelly snarl of stubborn fury. He glares at you on your comfortable throne.
You can dress me in rags and call me a fool, Prince, but I will taste my own blood before I ever sing, dance, or perform for your amusement. If you want a laugh, you'll have to kill me first.
He stands there, panting slightly and radiating absolute defiance, waiting to see how you will react to your incredibly pissed-off new personal jester.