As We Knew It

Dusky

Dusky

Succubus
Facts of Life is full! I will no longer be accepting characters for the Facts of Life storyline!


Your Story


“Alright! That took forever, but I’ve read all of the tabs, and I’m ready to make my character! Where’s the CS?”


There isn’t one!


“Get the fuck out.”


No, it’ll be fun, I promise. What I ask is that you write about the day that your character first learned of the massacre in Aedra. Some more specific info is included below. This should convey all the usual information - background, appearance, etc - in a narrative element, which also lets me see how you write when roleplaying, rather than when you’re summarizing information. Make the character come alive for me and I’ll be a happy camper. I’m not going to put a minimum paragraph or word count on this, but I’m very doubtful that anything under five paragraphs could get all the information across very well. This will serve as your application in place of a CS.






  • Your application will be the morning after the massacre. While technically your character would have learned of it as it happened, the large amounts of action and gore don’t necessarily lend themselves well to character exposition. So. Your character hasn’t slept all night. They’ve seen horrible, horrible things, probably lost people they loved, and the town is in shambles around them. Everyone is in the town square sitting quietly together, in a state of shellshock. Go.


    Suggested Character Roles: Mayor/Mayoress, Doctor, Rendelese Refugee, Farmer, King’s Illegitimate Son


Information to Include in Application

  • Name
  • Appearance
  • Personality and Background (through narrative implications, rather than outright statements.)
  • Mid- or long-term goals





Things to Know

  • Suggested Character Roles are not mandatory, merely there in case you’re having trouble brainstorming or quite like the look of one.
  • I am not taking character reservations.
  • If you have a question about characters, applications, or anything else, either PM me or post in OOC. DO NOT post in this thread.
  • I will accept one Shapeshifter. Exactly one, and no more.
  • I will accept five characters for each storyline, no more.
  • I will be accepting or rejecting characters as I receive them, so if you wait too long I can’t help you.
  • Darkness of Aedra characters should be very involved in the town, ideally in positions of some sort of importance, with a few exceptions.
  • Rustcrust Army characters should almost all already know each other and have grudges and feuds, heightening the challenge of working together as a cohesive killing machine.
  • Facts of Life characters should be politically important figures, even within the Council, and have other significant ventures to boot.
  • I will be most selective for Facts of Life - I will be most lenient for Darkness of Aedra.


I look forward to seeing what you come up with!


Darkness of Aedra Characters:4/5Rustcrust Army Characters:4/5Facts of Life Characters:5/5
 
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"Milord, more news form the Aedra Massacre." His attendant handed him several slips of paper as they walked down the long, cold hallway side by side, sheets filled with details he had no time to memorise. This event only meant one thing to Councilor Marcus Gregor Valentine, and that was more trouble. As Findal's Minister of Economic Resources, he felt . And somehow the pockets of high-standing political figures were filling, yet there was hardly a pence to spare from them towards the defences and sustaining of the country. Marcus sniffed unappreciatively, the money had to be going somewhere, yet almost no records were kept of these extraneous expenses, and those that were could be secretly altered.


Marcus had not disclosed his fears to anyone, but he suspected some sort of internal disorder, one that could very well be the seedlings of a coup-de-etat, or at least a rebellion of sorts. the council was weary, many had secretly claimed their discontent with the state of the nation, few attributed it to the king's decisions and decrees, while fewer still had expressed the desire to remove him, by force if necessary. This event at Aedra was some sort of provocation, whether internally or by the Rendel forces, Marcus did not know. but his informers and spies had told him of rumours of war in the air, but their source as yet remained unknown. This meeting of the Council would be his reaping grounds, gleaning what he could from the Members' statements and reactions. Marcus would note those who seemed a threat to the nation's wellbeing, make personal records of behaviors and motives, proposed plans and schemes. Marcus stopped and waved away his attendant, then entered the doors of the council chamber, made his way to his assigned box seat, and viewed the discussions already having started. Though any of them could possibly be involved, Marcus needed to know who, and how, and why any who could have some hand in the reason behind these events. Even himself.
 
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It was seemingly a basic truth that life was subservient to the greater power of ironic intention. Like some great God on high, irony demanded to be heard. As Halia rose on high from her desk, long legs assaulted by pins and needles, she gave a paltry curse at the God of Irony.


She knew that there were soldiers marching on Aedra. She had seen massacres first hand before and knew how the populace would respond. How both sides would withdraw into their corners and furiously consider all plans of action. But for once, Halia had decided to go against her own judgement and not invest her assets in the local crime rings. Now others had and her efforts wasted. Stretching the pain out of her legs and mind, she crosses her Fathers study and pulls on her coat. There was a council meeting to attend.


For the longest time, her Father had been the Kingmaker. Building fortune and fame on the backs of others in Findal. Nary a single soul in the government was without debt to di Luxa family, Halia inheriting the mantle as Father had himself institutionalized. Woe betide those without a son in the the lands of Findal, for now what was left of the family in Findal rested upon her shoulders. Probably what sent him to his false 'madness' in the first place.


Halia steps out the front door of her estate and into the waiting coach. It was all Father's doing this. He'd been playing both sides against each other for years while comfortably living in both. When he moved his full estate to Findal, he must have known a great deal of money would siphon out from Rendel. Halia never took his claims of madness seriously, thinking instead he had fled to the sanctum for safety rather than recovery. Her father was lots of things, a madman not one of them.


It hadn't been all bad though, truth be told. Having taken a seat upon the council and inheriting nearly all his assets had been a boon indeed. But unraveling the massive ball of thread had taken up much of her time as of late and now things were swaying where she didn't wish them. A tattered peace had to be rebuilt or at least held together long enough for Halia di Luxa to make some coin. Her branch of the family tree was the first to extended to the dual kingdoms and never would she wither and fail.


The street began to click and clack under the cart signalling an approach to the Royal Districts. The world was filled with puppets and only she was brave enough to play puppeteer. The only player to be found on both sides of the divide, Grand Councillor Halia di Luxa had her work cut out for her.

  • Name Halia di Luxa san Brigandia ven di Escrencia Aventuras
  • Appearance
    inquisitor_diplomat_by_vinogradovalex-d6ccsi4.jpg

  • A foreigner from the Islands of Viorla, Halia is the only child of the former Grand Councillor Vietro di Luxa. Vietro, being the first of his people to establish an estate out of the Viorlan stronghold has made quite the impact in his lifetime and that was directed down to his only child. Establishing a silent but powerful network of information, trade, spy work, and anything else that could get him ahead in life, Vietro remained a neutral figure in the growing conflict between Findal and Rendel. That is until he moved his powerbase from the various homes of lords who owed him favor and into the official upper districts of the Findal capital. After a few months, Vietro suffered a nervous breakdown and moved into a newly built sanitorium dubbed the sanctum though rumors abound that he is less a patient and more a warden. In any case, his entire estate was placed upon the shoulders of his daughter. A proud young woman, well educated and in a unique position to twist and turn things in both kingdoms to her liking. Up front she is generous and seemingly caring to those below her but in the council chambers many seem to see a different side of her, fearing a foreigners influence inside affairs not her own.
  • Establish a lasting di Luxa branch in both kingdoms, find out what her father is doing, long life of luxury.
 
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((Tactical text-wall inbound. Sorry beforehand, heh.))


Taylor Whitmore was by no means a patient woman.


And yet it seemed as though her life thus far had revolved around patience—around waiting. Waiting for the sun to break through the clouds on a dreary, grey day...waiting to grow taller, so that the neighbor boys wouldn't have to look down at her when they spoke, anymore, their eyes always seeming to glitter with quiet amusement...waiting for her hand to stop trembling whenever she picked up Father's hammer...


She could never stand it. Still couldn't stand it. Even as a child, the anticipation had always gotten to her, bothered her to no end. Because the worst thing about waiting was not knowing how long you would need to wait for, and Taylor was convinced that she'd spent every day of her life—all twenty years of it—waiting for something. Today was a prime example.


Sitting on an old stool, she rested her chin on her open palms and stared blearily out the window. The woman had been doing this for some time, now, and had long since given up on keeping track of the minutes as they went by, her mind telling her, with surety, that it was approaching the third hour. And she was bored, but the anxiety that gnawed at her nerves kept it from overwhelming her, focusing her attention on the window and the street beyond it.


Really, she had nothing else that she needed to be doing. She had already swept the shop, and torn down the cobwebs that some busy spiders had made in the rafters. The ashes had been cleaned out of the forge, fresh coal left in their place, and the pliers and tongs had all been neatly put away, organized by size. Father's list of chores had been short, so Taylor had gotten to work on them right away.


And she'd finished two days ago.


Since then, the young woman hadn't done much but wait around for the man to return. It had been two days since he'd left for Aedra—two days since her completion of her chores—on some business errand. Her father was a well-known blacksmith here in Connerick, but traveled so often around the kingdom that Taylor felt as though those in The Capitol knew of his name. And why wouldn't they? The man was a marvel with a hammer, and could craft fine weapons; swords, axes, maces...they weren't in as high of a demand as scythes and weeding hoes, maybe, but were pieces of art in their own right, and could cleave a skull in a minute. Taylor had learned what she could from her father over the years, and was often praised her for her hard work and dedication, yet it seemed as though the only title she would ever have around the city was, and forever would be, “the blacksmith's daughter.”


It was annoying; a constant reminder of the heavy burden of expectation that clung to her shoulders. Father would sure as hell never admit it, but Taylor knew what he meant to do. It was a family business and, though his grandfather and great-grandfather would probably writhe in their graves if they knew of his plans, he had no qualms with handing it off to a woman. Provided that she was prepared for it.


Unlikely as it was that the florist across the street, let alone the entire city, would ever remember her name, Taylor supposed that she couldn't blame them. Her and her father looked a lot alike; they had the same dark skin—not unlike the walnut that made up the dresser in her room—and, though hers were much less pronounced, the same muscles, along with the same brown eyes, and the same half-smile that would grace their features when they spoke. Taylor's lips were smaller than his, however, and her face was rounder. She was also shorter, but liked to refer to herself as being “vertically challenged.” And while the man's hair had been thinning out for years, hers was in a shaggy pixie cut.


All in all, the resemblance was uncanny.


With a heavy sigh, Taylor leaned forward in her seat, her eyes still trained on the window's cloudy glass. Two whole days...and it was the afternoon of the third day, now, with nary a sign of her father, still. Perhaps she wouldn't be as worried if those horrid rumors had never started.


Word had reached Connerick just this morning, of some catastrophe that had occurred in Aedra...or perhaps the city-folk had known about it for a while, now, and she was the only one who had just found out. Either way, the streets were bustling with the news, and it was different from every mouth you heard it from; some said the entire village had been burned to the ground, while the people had been locked in their homes and burned with it; others said that the villagers had been rounded up and slaughtered, and their shops raided; she recalled one man had even told her that a few unlucky souls had been quartered by the invading troops' horses. It all almost sounded too horrific to be real, too sudden and barbaric, even for Rendelians. But Taylor found herself worrying all the same, and that worry had been steadily growing, creating a cold, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.


A few of the city-folk had mentioned something about an army that was being put together—a small, haphazardly-formed Division that was taking up post by the border. One of the neighbor boys, a childhood friend, had apparently left to join it, too. They were taking volunteers.


But for what? Taylor mused as she stared out the window. A war...?


No, maybe not a war...she'd heard nothing about real armies being gathered. But Findal was undoubtedly on its toes, now, and perhaps the destruction of Aedra was only the first of a slew of things to come.


And what of her father...?


As if acting on a sudden impulse, Taylor hopped off of her stool and snatched a pair of fingerless gloves off of a nearby anvil. She then dusted off her pants, worn as they were, tugged the hem of her sleeveless top down over her hips, and headed out the door.


Two days. Three, now. And while she'd been trying to be patient, her father had ended up in the midst of a tragedy. Taylor had no idea where he was, now, nor if he was hurt or—God forbid—even worse, but she planned on finding out, first by taking herself to wherever this Division was and getting some concrete information.


The woman was done waiting.

This is for Rustcrust, by the by. ^^
 
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The Darkness of Aedra





Trampling of feet, cawing of crows, mourning of relatives, crackling of fire. Cacophony of a desperate battle, the small town still gripped in the throes of destruction.


Then, a melody, a stringing, a plucking, a violin's bow drawn and guided by black-plated fingers across the wooden instrument's sinew with mechanical elegance. Onyx-colored sabatons, grime-encrusted, propelled the gargantuan frame without halt, each step carried out with pure efficient usage of energy as talon-like gloves caused the contraption to emit an artificial tune.


The music had no message, the strings had no emotion, each note carried out with pure precision, helmet-hidden gaze set straight forward without the slightest wavering. Amidst the carnage of the morning after the battle, the music seemed to make the chilling climate of the late fall even colder.


Fitting for the dead. Unfitting for the living.


Stares of fright, disbelief and suspicion are drawn towards the armored giant calmly walking amidst the remnants of the recent slaughter, merrily fiddling away with the violin, not an inch of skin visible through black plates covered with dirt and patches of rust, testament of unceased wandering, visage concealed by a sharp metal helmet, view beneath a single horizontal slit.


HAH_zpsvfbi05io.jpg



Abruptly, the "melody" ceased, the hand grasping the bow freezing in place, plated boots coming to a sudden halt. The helmeted head gave a twitch, hidden gaze jerking downwards to affix itself upon a corpse, the remains of a rendelese soldier, just another of which so many littered the streets.


Silently, the violin is stowed away with one clawed hand, as the other grasped hold of the human carcass, fingers wrapped around the head as the corpse is lifted up, gaze inspecting the punctured chest-armor.


Curious eyes soon turned to disturbed shrieks as onlookers beheld how the armored frame's free hand suddenly tore into the dead man's chest, eliciting small splotches of blood, digits digging through the meat with calculated care to grasp hold of the damaged rib beneath.


Injury caused by improvised weaponry. A handaxe as commonly used by craftsmen. Exsanguination.


Just as suddenly as the corpse had been picked up, it was nonchalantly let go again, the body hitting the street with a dull thud as fresh blood poured from the gaping hole in the chest. The bizarre giant simply began to resume his stride.


Corpses were not human.


Who are you? he would be asked.


Helbrecht. Knight of She-Who-Is-The-Lady. would come the reply carried by a bellowing, ugly voice, almost painful to the ears.


Why are you here?





To find the Lady.





Who is the Lady?





The Lady, She is the fairest of all, She is the light in the dark, She is the warmth in the cold. The Lady calls, the Lady demands. She is innocence and purity true, without peer nor rival. words almost mechanically emitted, like a mantra recited over and over in reverence of some deity, except the voice remained cold and without emotion.


What will you do?





I will search, I will serve. A knight must protect the weak and the needy.





Why?





To dream the impossible dream. To right the unrightable wrong. With kindness comes naíveté, courage becomes foolhardiness and dedication has no reward. If one can not accept that, one is not ready to be a knight of She.
 
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Rustcrust Army

​



The little figures were barely recognizable as they were - childish scribblings of misshapen shapes and lines joined together to form a pair lopsided people. Tiny smudges of wax littered the page, marking the places where small fingers had hastily attempted to erase mistakes - perhaps the wrong shade of green or a disproportionate head – within the drawing. Nigel gently stroked the bristly surface of his chin, his eyes narrowing exaggeratedly as he feigned criticizing the style of his daughter's artwork. A little girl, dark-skinned girl examined the process worriedly, her large eyes scrunched in concentration. Nigel continued to take his time, emitting small sounds of contemplation whenever he deemed necessary, smiling slightly as the little girl began to hop from foot to foot in anticipation. At last, the child's patience gave away.


"Do you like it, Papa?" The girl inquired impatiently, leaning over the mutilated arm of the moth-eaten chair in effort to force her father's attention. Her voice was laced with anxiousness; at seven she had not yet outgrown the stage in which a parent's approval meant the world. Grinning wryly, Nigel decided to treasure the time as long as he could.


"Ay, what did I tell you about harassing the armchair, Resa?" Nigel scolded half-heartedly, gazing at his daughter in mock offense. He swatted her arm insistently, prompting Resa to recoil in poorly concealed laughter. "This is a very special armchair," Nigel began importantly, for once tearing his eyes away from his daughter's drawing. "It came from my father's father, who in turn inherited it from his grandfather's father... The great Arturo - a man who, as you know, received it as a gift from the queen for his service's to the crown. It is to be treated with less respect than our king himself." Although such tale was likely a legend fabricated by Arturo in post-humorous efforts to be remembered and praised by future generations of Capillos, the fact never deterred Nigel from telling the story. His daughter shifted restlessly, before approaching him with an air of determination.


"Yes," She said exasperatedly, pushing a lock of dark, curly hair behind her ear - much like her mother once had. "I know, Papa; you tell the story to anyone who feels sorry enough to listen... But what about my drawing?"


"Oh, but of course!" Nigel exclaimed in revelation, once again examining the artwork carefully. "These things require patience, Hija," He informed Resa knowledgably, before proceeding to give his declaration after receiving a painful jab to the arm by said girl. "Alright, alright, perhaps less patience is required these days... Let us see, this line here?" Nigel indicated one of the stick-figure's torsos. "Melds flawlessly with this wondrous curve there," He pointed to the figure's lopsided arm. "And this shade of green... I have never seen such a beautiful green as - "


There came a loud pounding at the toy shop's doors - the force so great that it caused a porcelain doll to topple from its shelf, the small, delicate head cracking sickeningly on the hard wooden floor. Drunken, jeering voices called out to them, their words barely recognizable. The massacre of Aedra had begun.


- - -


Sobs rang throughout the small village of Aedra - an ambience rich with impending terror. The streets were littered with the bedraggled forms of corpses, their limbs spread at unnatural angles, while smoke from the soldiers' fire spiraled mockingly into the morning sky. All of these contributed to the growing nightmare that the villagers were living... But it was the smell that truly haunted Nigel. Burning flesh, polluted air, alcoholic remnants... They came together to form a nauseating smell that had already triumphed over the stomachs of many. Nigel feared it would soon defeat him, as well. But not now. Not yet. He had work to do.





He stepped over the broken fragments of his carefully crafted toys - wheels separated from the wooden train, the arm of a broken doll, stuffing torn from a plush dog. Each toy tore at his heart. Each toy was nothing compared to the thing that awaited him in the other room.





Nigel crouched over the tired form of his broken daughter, running his dark, calloused hands through the tangle of her hair. He felt numb, completely devoid of emotion. He wished he could cry. Tears were better than nothing - they were feeling. Nigel lifted Resa up in his arms; her body was still warm. He would take her to the small outlook - a hill which stood over the village, away from all the screaming, so she could rest without disturbance. Nigel eyes fell across a small, colorful paper, discarded on the floor... The drawing. He knelt down, scooping the paper up in one hand, before tucking it away in his clothing. It was impossible to think back to the night before. He could only remember his daughter's final whimper, and vigorously stabbing the Rendelian soldier that approached him, continuing even after the man was clearly dead. Nigel couldn't go on living in the village. He felt as though he was a shell of the man he once was - purposeless. It was only a day later that he found recruits were being selected to embark on a brigade against the enemy. He joined without hesitation, if only to escape the memories that plagued him.
 

The Darkness of Aedra
Alistair, Nomad, Warrior of Nowhere

​



He walked among them, skirting the bodies and pools of blood. The stench left a taste of rust in his mouth, but he held back from spitting and his gut was well-used to such things. His hands were clenched into fists and buried in his armpits. He wasn't cold. He'd never been cold, ever. Not even when he had found himself in the far north. Probably thanks to his mother, he supposed. He blinked and shook his head. Most of the bodies had been moved. Those who had been residents, anyways. Moved by either friends or family. The soldiers... they had stayed, left to rot on the street. A few had been smart, stripping them of anything useful. Alistair had done the same, when he could. When no one had been around. No matter what had happened or where you had come from, desecrating a body was no small matter.


As such, he had gained a small amount of currency and some weapons. Besides his sword, which was slung across his back, the handle near his right hip, and his long bow, he didn't really have (or have the need of) other weapons. Alistair was a simple man. Well, not exactly a man, but... well, you get the point. And so, he had come across quite a few things he had found odd, the first of which were the weapons. The Rendel Soldiers (as he could tell by the crest they bore) had had weapons a less intelligent man would consider that of mass destruction. But Alistair knew better. He had been to Rendel. He had seen these things in action. Twice, now, if he counted last night. He bent down and picked one up. A smaller one, one he hadn't seen before. These were new. They had a much shorter range than that of the other ones, the rifles. These... well, he saw fit to call them Hand Cannons until another name could be founded. He looked it over and pocketed it, making sure no one saw. In his experience, he had found it helpful to keep more than one secret weapon in reserve.


He adjusted the cloth on his face, that covered everything from the nose down, and continued on his way, heading towards the square. The wailing of woman was like the sound he supposed Sirens would make, though he supposed that a Siren was like a Banshee, but only at sea. Dismissing this thought, he continued on. As he drew closer, he could hear the profound silence of quiet children. Children should've been playing in the street, not mourning the loss of parents when they still had yet to understand the facts of life. He passed through the square, edging around bodies or men, women, and even children. He had been young when he had lost his family. The family of Nomads, which had been led by his father, a man exceptionally gifted in the ways of magic. Alistair, on the other hand, was not... unless you counted the magic within him. It had taken him many years, under both the tutelage of his tribe and on his own, to master that magic. To control it. And even now, in times of extreme emotion, he still lost control. Like last night.


He hadn't fully changed, and for that he was thankful. It allowed him some measure of control. But he had still had a difficult time discerning from friend and foe in that form. Not fully man, not fully beast, but something... else. He had harmed no civilians, though. Only the soldiers. Tearing through their meager armour... ripping out their throats with his teeth... He shook his head. Best not to dwell on memories like that. Best to keep moving forward, to never stay in one place for too long. But... it was in his blood, was it not? His father, the Chief of a tribe of outcasts, now long dead... His mother, a protector of the land and all those that dwelled within... and he, Alistair, the Warrior from Nowhere. The Nomad. The Knight with No Land.


He had had many names in his years, long as they were. Not as long as that of his Mothers People, but longer than that of Humans. Even now, he could feel himself aging. He had five years, at the most, before he began to look like a normal human. In five years, he'd be... sixty. Sixty years old. He looked down at his unwrinkled hands. No liver spots. Many scars, pale on his tanned skin. He looked like a young man at his peak; at his prime. What should he do? Continue on, as he had always done? Or stay and do that which his heart yearned for? That which his entire being wanted to do? Alistair made his way through the square, the thoughts bouncing around in his head only interrupted by the unending mourning.


He came to the edge of the square, the people behind him, the main road ahead. He kept walking, of course, until he got to the edge of town. Not a big one, but one that had just survived something no one should ever have to go through. He stared ahead. The main road. He glanced behind. The town of Aedra, covered by an unseen cloud of Darkness. He turned to stare at the town, drawing his sword as he did so. It was an elegant thing, made of an unknown alloy. He was told that it was a thing that could cut anything from diamonds to the air itself, but only if the wielder had been found worthy of such things. Alistair had never truly believed such things, but he had always wondered... was he worthy of this blade? Were it's legends true? He knew not the stories in their entirety, but he knew that every myth had some basis in fact. Hell, wasn't he the living representation of such things? A man who could turn into a wolf. A legend, yes. A myth, yes. A fact? Undoubtedly. Alistair stared down at the sword some more, remembering the words his mother had spoken when she had gifted it to him. The only time he had ever met her. "Yes, this sword decides whether or not it's wielder is worthy of it's power. But so does the wielder." He pulled his eyes up, staring at the town.


And made his decision.

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Grigori Stojan

Rustcrust Army

One month ago


"Nothing is the most frightening thing you will ever meet, Stojan."


"Yes, when I look at my empty wallet, I certainly do feel quite a fear overtake me." Grigori Stojan answered, smirking to the woman with him, who masked her laugh with a cough.


"I look at you, Stojan, and I wonder how the gods have skipped over your existence in the list of suffering. You certainly haven't had your share of loss." Anastasiya threw more kindling into the fire.


"I didn't and still don't have much to lose. Besides, you know," he shrugged, "your wondrous beauty."


"Always the charmer, Stojan. So, how are things between you and this girl you say you've taken a liking to?"


Grigori didn't reply. Instead, he reached into his pocket and extracted a gold ring, with a small ruby inset upon it. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, to the light, so that the item was most obvious to Anastasiya. At the speechless expression of his friend, he spoke. "I plan to ask her once the next circuit is completed. Perhaps, in a month's time? What are your thoughts, eh?"


"I don't know what to tell you, Stojan."


"Ana, we've been friends since day one. Both of us came to Aedra together, to find new life, and we found it. I need your opinion on this, my friend. If I, Grigori Stojan, were to get on my knees as such," the man rose from his seat, and took to one knee, extending the hand that held the ring, "and declared my neverending love for you, what would you say?"


Anastasiya gave him a look that bordered on both mirth and hatred, before scoffing at him. "Do you swear off talking to other women?"


"Oh, milady, what a way to rid all the eligible maidens in the world of a rugged, handsome rogue such as I! But their pain is nothing to mine if I do not have you, so I, Grigori Stojan, will swear off charming the bloomers off the poor womenfolk."


"Get off your high horse, Stojan." Anastasiya gave him a push, sending him sprawling on the ground, both of them laughing. She drew in a breath, and sighed, calming down. She gave her friend a smirk, watching him as he scrambled to his feet, dusting himself off. "I say go for it, Stojan. You've got nothing to lose, right? Besides my wondrous beauty?"


"Yes. That's just it, Ana. Nothing to lose." Grigori said quietly. Had his friend not turned away to feed the fire with more kindling, perhaps she would have seen the forlorn expression on the man's face as he gazed at her adoringly.


One more month. He'll propose then. Just one more month.


~~


Grigori gripped the ring in his hands, its warmth from being stuck in his pocket causing a peculiar feeling to spread across his body. They were so close to home, and he was so close to finally presenting this gift to the lady he had long only had eyes for, despite his reputation. How would Ana react? He had never seen her cry, so that result was right out of the picture. Perhaps she would strike him on the head and call him an idiot. Perhaps she would sit there in silence, glaring at him with those sea-blue eyes of hers that he often found himself drowning in. He feared her rejection, most of all. If she were to say 'no', what would he do? Ana was wrong when she said he would fear nothing the most. He feared that dreaded answer the most. He certainly wouldn't recover from that easily. Were it any other girl, any other maiden that passed him by, he'd not have minded. But Anastasiya? He would sooner drop dead. He sucked in a deep breath and swung his arms to and fro, attempting to calm himself down.


Anastasiya and Grigori, two foreigners who had nothing in their lives but each other ever since their childhood. Finding only comfort in Anastasiya's wisecrack remarks and her usually calm disposition towards anything at all, Grigori fell in line with her and they became close friends. Grigori became the funnyman of the duo, with his silver tongue and his gift of speechcraft, while Anastasiya, being the more analytical of the two, became the smarts. Somewhere along the line, their country fell into dark times, and both of them came to Aedra, seeking refuge. Grigori wasn't sure how Ana felt about him, seeing as how guarded she was, even with him, but her presence gave him some reprieve in harsh times. He never showed it, but he did have times when he felt his efforts were for naught, that it would be better had he just given up there. Each time he thought this, however, his eyes would linger over to his friend, who worked tirelessly at stacks and stacks of papers, and he was reminded just how important she was to him, just as much as, perhaps even more than, himself. Somewhere down the line, Grigori realised that Ana was more than just a friend, and the place she held in his heart was more than just one reserved for close acquaintances like the ladies he flirted with in his downtime. From that moment, each time he looked at her, or even glanced towards her direction, she would steal his breath away, and he would find himself sporting a strange, dreamy smile. Not too long ago, just a month, he had purchased a ring, the one he held now, from one of his fellow traders, ready to finally take their relationship just a little bit further.


It was so close. Aedra was so close. Just past this hill, and he would be greeted with the small town, a sight to behold indeed. He was always happy to see that same sight every time he completed a trade circuit, since it heralded the sight of the lady whom he was so taken with. This time, it would be an even greater joy. "Alright, Stojan!" He clenched his fists and pumped them up into the air. "No time to think negative! Ana's waiting!" He hefted the backpack on his back, and waved to the others to keep up, and he scaled the last few metres of the hill.


What greeted him was not the sight he expected. The sound of clanking made the other traders look up from their hike, and found Grigori's backpack tumbling down the hill towards them. Grigori himself was nowhere to be found, having already sprinted down the hill towards the devastation that was Aedra, with only one thought in his mind.


There was no one. The house they bought together, using their hard-earned cash, was in shambles, the inside torn apart, furniture broken, doors caved in with brute force. What was worse was that there was no sign of Anastasiya. That veritable nothing grasped at his heart, gripping it as tightly as his hand did on the ring in it. "A...Ana?! Are you there?!" He cried out futilely. He had to try. They'd been trying. They'd never stopped trying, and it got them this far. He HAD to try. "Ana! Anastasiya Jaroslav! Gods damn it, this isn't funny! I'm supposed to be the funny one! You're ruining our symbiotic relationship!" Even his attempt at humor in the situation was weak, the desperation having seeped into his normally callously cheery voice, causing it to crack, as he flung open what doors were left untouched in the house.


There was nothing. He found nothing. Grigori left the house, searching the remnants of Aedra, checked with the bodymen. So desperate was he to find his friend, his to-be fiancée, his only true friend for all of his twenty-three years, that he personally examined each and every body that was found. And so desperate was he to cling on to that last hope that Anastasiya Jaroslav was alive that he enlisted into the Rustcrust Army to find her. Maybe she had been taken prisoner, he reasoned with himself, maybe she had been captured. There was logically little to no chance about that, given the heavy number of casualties in the attack.


But he had to try. Nothing frightened him. Her words were true after all. Nothing was his greatest fear. He needed something. That glimpse of something was all he required. Until he received that something, he had to try.
 
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Impossibilities, things we claim can not ever happen, because for whatever reason we claim to see fit, they fly in the face of what we see as naturally or properly possible.


One of these very real impossibilities has apparently taken place in my home of Aedra, and I fear that my family was unlikely to have survived. It is a bitter pill to swallow, knowing the loss of those you loved, and the uncertainty of the future. I can still remember the days spent as a bright-eyed bairn always worrying the parents. After all, it was unusual for a lass such as myself to have been so violent and active.


I still remember the days after working the fields, when all the bairns would gather up, lassies in one group, lads in another. All the lassies would play house, or talk about silly things, while the lads, and myself, would away and run through the streets, playing tag, or having play fights with sticks, or real fights when the play fights got too out of hand. That didn’t change, and from the news I’ve gathered, and what the fine-clothes back home have to say, it is unlikely it will anytime soon.


But still, since I heard of the attack the memories have failed to stop. I remember the taste of blood and dust as I rolled through the dirt with Julian, a vicious brat whose father taught him that women deserved to be mocked and needed to stay ‘in their place’. The satisfying smirk I wore like a badge of honour as his mate Barach dragged him off after I wiped Julian’s face through the dirt. And the sting of my father’s belt after he found out.


Then there was Siobhan. A nice enough girl, if a fair bit too lofty. She was my neighbour, and always held dreams of finding a beautiful man to sweep her away to a better life. She was so upset to see me leave, and I pray to whoever may listen that she did find her way to a better, and safer, life before Aedra was hit. Besides, she helped put me on this course with her conniving to get me to meet Uriam.


Stupid, stubborn bastard of a boy he was… and my first experience with courting. I remember how much he enjoyed toying with my hair, his compliments on how it looked like freshly ground cinnamon, and how he loved how it with with my soft ‘chocolate’ skin. He would always point out that my eyes dazzled like emerald, and the way he'd roll my name out with his accent 'Muir'. I'd never wanted to avoid those from anyone more than I wanted to receive them from Uriam.(For whatever reason this disappeared from my post) I always decided he was lucky. For reasons I could never fathom, he was the only boy I didn’t want to beat the hellfire out of for treating me like a girl.


He was the first time anyone other than my parents knew me for myself. He understood my need to prove myself, and never sought to hinder that. Sure he’d make his comments and jibes, but only ever away from others. In public though, he never complained or grew upset. Not when I’d put him down when playing ball, nor when I’d put the faceprints of those who would trouble us into walls.


I like to believe that he still held the emerald set ring I’d managed to save up to buy him, my promise of a return


That is, perhaps, what I miss most, but the harsh reality is that Uriam is more than likely dead. He became a hunter, and with his protective attitude, it wouldn’t have surprised me in the slightest to know that he gave his life to try to protect our home. He, like I, wanted to save people with his life, but unlike myself, he remained in Aedra, and I left.


That was time ago enough that I can’t even remember the years. Nor my birthday, nor anyone else's. We toss ages around at times, but from the looks of the one’s that have been here longer than I, well I sometimes wonder if they even know anymore.


But that was all then, and now all there is to look forward to is the future. Uncertain as it is, I expect my commander to start sending me on more scouting missions, as that tends to be his most oft used orders in my presence. All in all, I prefer the more solitary missions anyway. I find it hard to get along with the other soldiers more than I’d like.


Alas, my day dreaming was coming to a close as I neared my target area. As I came closer I let out a sigh as I reached back and rested a hand on my crossbow, another on a bolt, steadying my breath for what was to come. Ignoring the wind whipping my hair about I moved forward silently.


Coming closer to the group I was sent to track down, I immediately recognised the four men as part of the Rendelian Empire’s army. Most likely flighty drunkards and fools that had run when they were routed from Aedra. Lifting my crossbow, I stepped out from the thicket of tree I had been concealed in and immediately let fly the first bolt, finding it’s mark in one man’s throat. With grace and speed I had accrued through constant diligent practise I reloaded and fired the second bolt, burying it in the chest of the next Rendelian.


The third man cleared space before I had time to reload, but his gait, stance and swing were all off, haphazard due to the alcohol he had been consuming. Side-stepping easily, I pulled a bolt out and drove it into the fool’s eye and left it as I left him to his screaming. A second bolt in hand and a third shot was all it took to put an end to the final, too drunk to stand soldier.


I watched as the life fled from his body and his hands fell to his sides, his right having a finger bearing such a familiar sight. Reaching down, I plucked the oddity from his finger, my heart plummeting as my fears and emotions rose.


And I broke. Tears fell and my body trembled as my vision neared the ground. My mission could wait, the world could burn, but I needed this. Just one last time, I needed to be a girl, to be told I’m beautiful, and to feel the love of someone washing over me.


There, resting in my palm, caged by my desperate fingers, sat all my hopes and dreams, and all my love. Closing my eyes as I curled up with Uriam one more time.


Funny… I always heard soldiers never cry.
 
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Storyline: Facts of Life


Eight years ago


notice. Instruct patrol to report to Findal Fort for further orders and payment pro rata for services rendered.


Signed and Sealed,


General Clayton Patricks-Ackery of Fief Marksford


Master of the Horse





Joseph stared at the missive in his grasp. Certainly, when this assignment was given, he had found it beneath him and his men. What need was there to remain undercover while looking after a runt of a boy in this simple place? The villagers had been wary of their intrusion until his patrol started to shed expectations of a regimented life in the countryside. His men had come to fit in with these hardy, sensible folk. In his last report, he even accounted how the local militia took some advice from them. Yet a week later, this had been delivered to his hands.


The courier teetered a few steps away.


Joseph folded the letter back up, setting it down on his desk. "Looks like you could use a meal or two." He tipped a handful of coins into the eager lad's palm. The courier gave a roguish salute before spinning out of the room, clattering down the steps to the tavern bar.


There wasn't much to write back: "Orders confirmed," and a perfunctory note to ensure the courier received his allotted seasonal clothes and pay from the fort.


When he headed downstairs himself, the runt of a boy was in the hall. "You're leaving." It was not a question. He was less a runt and more a boy now. Even his hair, likely mussed from a passing courier's greeting, could not make his gaze any less solemn.


Joseph descended the last few steps, his hand sweeping down the bannister to fall to his side. Would his own children grow up to be like this, with sweet, round faces but knowing eyes that made him feel both older and younger? He answered the little man. "Off at dawn." He knelt down, and the boy's lips quirked. "So you up for one last round? Or do you say nay?"


"You say nay,"said the boy, reaching out expectantly.


So he did, settling the child on his shoulders before whinnying, rearing up like a steed until the boy let out a whoop at the sudden closeness of the ceiling, and they sallied off into the streets to issue a challenge to a fellow plain-clothes'd soldier who swept up another boy-knight from the gathering children already clamouring for a turn. It would be the patrol's last jousting tournament in Aedra.


In the Aftermath


He stared at the red rope slung low between two posts. The flimsy barrier before the Council chambers somehow had more stopping power than than the guards at each elbow. One of the guards cleared his throat and spoke in an admirably clear voice. "General, if you would."


Surely this was a mistake. Or had his usefulness run out? He let the guards escort him back down the steps.


Before they were half-way down, door creaked open. Joseph turned to see a councilor's aide poking his head out. "Oh, Secretary-General."


"Austin?" He made to approach, but the aide shook his head and side-stepped the rope and posts. The pair of them strode off purposefully, leaving the guards behind.


Once they were out of earshot, Austin spoke without looking at him. "'S off the docket, this one. His Majesty's not said--well. Business as usual in that regard." Joseph found Austin always spoke too fast. "But they'll call for you soon enough. In two, three. Three days, I'd wager."


Joseph stretched and rolled his neck, hiding the drop of his shoulders. In all honesty, his military position had become largely ceremonial since his father retired. He was an executive advisor with little connection to his executive. Advising the council instead had given him purpose."And for three days I'm to?"


"Tend to usual business. Spoil your children, appease your wife. Business as usual," said Austin briskly. They rounded the block. Likely for Austin to return to the chambers through a side entrance.


"Right," managed Joseph. "Much obliged."


At the next corner, they strode off in different directions, each as purposeful as before.


Summons arrived before dawn the next day, requesting Joseph prepare a tactical briefing of his reports from eight years ago.


Name: Joseph Patricks-Ackery of Fief Marksford


Titles: Secretary-General, Master of the Horse


Appearance


Nearing his forties, Joseph is not as trim as he once was. His dark military uniform with gold braid and polished buttons hides this well enough, though it strains a bit round his middle. He keeps his sideburns neatly trimmed according to current Capital fashions.


Aspirations:


Support financial backing for Findal's defenses

cautious support for technological advancement

Protect his family

nuclear family being his wife and two children, an elder daughter and a young son


visiting his city apartment when the summons were made

Protect Fief Marksford

not bordering Rendel


managed by his wife and his father

Find a suitor for his daughter
 
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Johanna Conner


The High City was positively buzzing the last few days. Word had trickled out that an impromptu council meeting had happened, one that only involved a select few. The exact nature of what had been discussed behind those doors had been guarded carefully, frustratingly so for Johanna. She had scolded the cooks, the maids and just about anyone else who were looking to gossip from frittering away time to mind their place. If their betters felt they need not know, it was not their duty nor right to question it.


It was Johanna's job to find out, for Ridgell of course.


The only thing she had managed to wring out was that a full council session would be occurring soon, presumably to wait for others who were not in City High to arrive. If it wasn't for the worry of whatever was soon to be unveiled, Johanna would have been inclined to commend their quiet handling of what had happened.


Two days after the attack


She was upstairs writing a letter asking for a local physician to come by. One of the household maids was suffering from a wracking cough deep in her lungs, for now it hadn't spread but the girl was bed ridden for the time being. It was at this time before the sun had reached its zenith that a guest had arrived. Johanna knew Reynard's itinerary for the day, there was no such appointment at this time.


Exiting the study she cut off Mueller as he was briskly heading to their master's study, where he would be enjoying a light blend of coffee imported from the south. Even before she spoke, Johanna could see he was irritated and worried by her. An attitude she was perfectly fine, so long as they submitted.


"Excuse me, there's a visitor her for our lordship."


Wearing a smirk she stood perfectly still in the doorway, if push came to shove there was no physical contest here. Not that Mueller would dare risk becoming disheveled in such a manner.


"Who is it?"


A brief pause, she could almost see through his hooded eyes and into the mind behind them weighing if it would be faster to wait her out or just answer the question.


"One Marcus Finch."


A swift nod in response and she melodramatically pulled aside with a flourish just to fluster him some more. No doubt he was withholding the man's status and title from her, but a name she could work with. Particularly a name Johanna knew she had heard before.


For the time being she took up position in the hallway outside of the study, offering a quiet greeting to Marissa who was standing watch outside of the door. Unsurprisingly the woman didn't offer any noticeable response, she and her brother were both dour individuals. Lifewards for Reynard from a family that had been indebted to the Ridgell family since time had begun as far as Johanna knew. She was jealous of how close they worked to their lord, but the fact that their whole life had been constructed around this duty gave her a measure of respect for them. They did not directly owe their lives to him after all.


By the time Mueller returned with Finch close behind she noted with no small amusement the redness in his face was showing the strain the running back and forth so quickly had taken on him. It might be a good idea to reintroduce calisthenics into the retainers schedule again. Such exercise would be of benefit to Finch too, the tight midsection of his buttoned up coat did nothing to hide this fact. It took a moment but she recognized that face. A little older, a little thicker in the reddish beard but she knew the chancellor's favored lackey when she finally seen him. If he was here it meant either Reynard was not important enough to meet in person or the chancellor was too busy with other duties to call a meeting with him.


Marissa opened the door, the clinking of metal plates being the only noise aside from Mueller's tired breathing. A brief look into the study revealed nothing out of place, a lifeless fireplace, shelves, the front edge of a desk. Somewhere out of sight was Reynard and his second lifeward, . Just as quickly as that insight was Mueller ushered in, the door closed and the sounds of muffled conversation began. A sharp look from Marissa was all the discouragement Johanna needed from trying to snoop around any harder. Reynard would talk to her about the matter later no doubt.


It was just past fifty-three minutes before Finch was seen out of the room. She knew the exact time from the time keepers Reynard had imported, from Rendel no less. She hated the things personally, every piece of foreign ingenuity that found its way into City High was another threat to the Ridgell legacy and Reynard's personal fortune. Johanna had asked about them, why he had bought not just one of the device but five of them to scatter around the mansion. As if to torment a wider area with their ticking. He had told her to appreciate the craftsmanship that went into them, the representation of an entire culture developing in a different way of approaching problems. She did not understand what value that gave them, especially what would be the closest thing to competition outside their borders, but Reynard had not asked her opinion on the matter.


The general nature of what had transpired was not reflected on Finch's face very well. He was not angry at least, so whatever happened had at least ended amicably. This time when she approached the study, Marissa pushed the door open for her to enter. Inside the serving tray was already gone, she needed to make a commendation to whoever had done that. She hadn't even seen them go before her arrival. On the other side of the room from the desk was Migden, impassive and solid like a stone wall. Their lord was sitting at the desk, hunched over a paper he was writing on. The disarray of books and papers on the normally tidy desk, the quick pace in Reynard's writing, the numerous rumors and the announced guest disquieted her.


"Albrecht Hoffsender. Of the Occult Works guild. You know him, yes?"


He hadn't even looked up from his writing. Whatever it was, it had to be important. If the books hadn't been piled up she would be able to just make out what was on the paper.


"I do. I last saw him attending their meeting five-"


"Good. He is expecting a caller very late this evening, after which he will call an emergency meeting for their guild. I need you to make sure that meeting doesn't happen. Don't kill him. An accident would do just fine."


"Of course my lord."


She paused, in case there was some further instruction to be had. With one not forthcoming and emboldened by the frustrated curiosity that had gnawed at her for days now she chanced to ask directly.


"Beg your pardon my lord, but may I inquire what is going on? The whole city is whispering, about what is yet to be seen."


For the first time since she entered he looked up at her, flashing a toothy grin and brown eyes bright with excitement.


"Things are going to get interesting soon enough, Johanna. With a little fortune and a little direction, this will be a very good time indeed."

Agent2.png



Goals


Retire comfortably


Repay life debt owed to Reynard
 
Storyline: Facts of Life


Name: Titus Leandros of Leander's Watch.


Appearance: Titus is in his mid forties now, but his hair has already gone iron gray, cropped close in military fashion. Clean shaven, with hard, angular features and cold, pale blue eyes. His mode of dress can be generously described as austere.


Aspirations:


Secure a stronger future for his family, ideally placing them on the throne.


Improve Findal's standing, diplomatically and militarily.


Backstory/Personality





It's only gold leaf, but it reflects the fire beautifully; a shimmering aura in the evening air, cast by his breastplate. Titus folds his arms and furrows his brow as a steward enumerates supplies from somewhere over his shoulder.


"Irrelevant," he says, with a dismissive wave. "Where are the children?"


"My lord, we believe they're in the monastery six miles south of here."


"And the remaining Westfords?"


"We believe Ollivander took to the forest, my lord."


Titus nods, continues staring into the flames.


The steward squirms in the silence.


"Is there anything else my lord?"


Titus cups his chin and watches the west battlement of Westford Keep collapse. Someone fell from that wall, in flames. He watched that, too - all the way down.


"Ready six horses and find as many brown robes. The monks won't open the doors to soldiers."


The steward hesitates.


"My lord... the capital... You surely mean to take hostages? Wards?"


Titus turns, conflagration at his back, beating back the deepening night and casting his face in shadow.


"The line of Westford is ended, Jory. Their lands default to me. The council will make me duke..."


He pauses, glances across the dark moors, at the rising moon, and back to Jory.


"And the council can barely find their own arses with both hands and a map. What happens in the Reach is my concern alone."
 
Storyline: Facts of life


Name: Ardrian al'Nerin of House al'Nerin


Title: Earl of Kamlyn


Appearance: Ardrian is in his early thirty, with a short beard and long blond hair falling pass his shoulders, often tied back neatly in a braid. His features are slightly angular, his nose thin and delicate, his eyes dark green. Ardrian dresses to the lastest fashions, often favouring red, gold and brown, his coats always embroidered with a fox head on the left breast.


Aspirations:


Make profit


Advance his House's position within the court, thus gaining more trading and financial power.


Create and expand the al'Nerin trading empire.


Backstory


"What do you make of this? Surely the Council could not simply stand idle this time. Does this mean war?" Tadius asked, his face intent, his voice gruff with barely restrained glee. Lorgan silently examined the parchment once more, looking thoughtful. Ardrian and they were the only ones in his bedchamber, even his most trusted servants were sent away as soon as the news arrived.


He frowned disapprovingly at Tadius' almost eager tone. The man had been the captain of his House Guard and a loyal advisor for more than twenty years, but his readiness for violence, even the ones he did not start or participate in, sometimes grinded on Ardrian nerves. But he was right, of course. News of the incident had spread faster than the Council could contain it, all of Findal would be aware of it by now. No doubt somewhere, maybe even in City High itself, there was uproar of a scale rarely seen within the last hundred years. The Aedra massacre, though monstrous, was itself straightforward enough, but its implications were terrifying.


"That may depend on whether the attack was sanctioned or not. The Council is no doubt working to determine that right this moment, though I do not see how it could be done, or how it would matter. Rendel officials will of course deny any involvement, and the whole of Findal will believe what they wish. Our relation with Rendel was stretched thin as it was. This may be the last straw."


Lorgan spoke up at last, looking up from the parchment he had been holding. "You care little what peasants believe or don't. What have this news to do with us? What had you planned?" Ardrian gave the man a small smile. His advisor knows him well, as always.


"War, my friend, is an opportunity, one that had not presented itself for a good long time. And I mean to use it, bleed it dry. Al'Nerin's grain is nearly a quarter of Rendel's supply, and already each shipment is worth gold. Imagine what it would worth when trade routes are cut. The price would double, triple! Of course, other alternative routes must be found, ones less pleasant, but the risk would be necessary. There are yet more business ventures that could be exploited, right here in Findal or abroad. War might be fought with men and steel, but it runs on gold, gold that I intent to control."


"That is not very Findal of you." Said Tadius, though there was neither accusation nor disapproval in his voice.


Ardrian almost laughed. "My family had ever been this way, or had you not noticed? It was said that we were not one of the founding Families that lend their military aid to King Marquis the First, but merely rich merchants who provided his army with ration and supplies."


He could see the same conclusion already occurred to Lorgan, yet a slight frown still persisted on the man's features. "What of the chance that Findal should suffer defeat? The consequences then would be...disastrous." His gaze drifted toward the intricately carved fireplace of low burning ember, where above hung an object rarely seen even in the Royal Palace. A model of a Rendel powder musket he had received during a visit of a minor Rendel noble a few years back, its smooth and sturdy wood and steel surface glinting softly. The lastest innovation, he was informed, far superior to any known infantry weapon. One not only required a skilled craftsman to create but gold enough to fully equip an elite Findal Squad. And their horses. But if war was to come, doubtless the Rendel Royal House would be capable and willing to pay for a squad or two of powder musket. The result could be devastating. Even Tadius seemed uncertain.


"But risk is inevitable, friend. The gain is certainly worth it. Besides, we have Titus. The man is anything but not resourceful."


Lorgan sighed heavily, pushing himself to his feet. "I have always wished you would gamble something less than our entire wealth, Ardrian. What is it you want done?"


"Rumors, of course. I always start with rumors. Something nasty of the event in Aedra would do. How dead women were raped, how children were butchered and eaten, things of the like. Commoners, I found, could come up with worse details in retellings than I ever could. Once that is done, start securing as much grain as we could. The Council would call for a gathering soon. I will see to it that war comes. One way or another."


Turning his back, he gazed out his windows as the door shut behind him. Could he be that heartless, wasting lives of thousands for his own profit? But the thought faded as soon as it came, Ardrian unable to find anything within himself for sympathy to men he had never met, and had no intention of meeting. It had always been thus, after each grave decision, he questioning his morality. And each time he had seen power's weight, and unknown lives devoid of significance.
 
Name: Nero Bear


Title: Bastard son the King


Appearance: Nero is his early twenties, a muscular, well-built, tall man who stands to 6'2". His hair, brown, is long coming the back of his neck and is typically kept in a ponytail. His face is covered with a brown beard. Nero looks the part of a frontier man.


Aspirations:


Nero is a man who had already given up on life. He had no aspirations other than to live out his days in quiet and peace in town of Aedra. Now that has been shattered, new aspirations will be developed and become clear as the roleplay progresses.


Just beyond the brush of the forest of Aedra was a strange sight, a grizzly bear lay there on the ground. Standing over it were two men. The grizzly rested, it's head in the grass, being treated by the town doctor. Most would have been terrified to see a grizzly bear, much less stand next to one. They were dangerous, aggressive creatures which had been known to kill many a man who dared to enter their territory. Thankfully for the two men standing next to the beast, it was no wild grizzly bear that rested in the town square, but the King's illegitimate son, Nero Bear.


Nero was a bear shapeshifter, having been since birth. For obvious reasons, he kept his shifting a secret. There number of people who knew of abilities was few. Besides himself there was his old friend and mentor, Hal, who had looked after Nero and his mother since Nero was a wee lad.


When his mother disappeared, it was Hal who took him in and raised him as his son. Hal was a hunter, the only one in Aedra, and had trained Nero has his apprentice, teaching him how to track animals, live off the land, and more. Hal, along with Nero, sold their goods to townsfolk in Aedra or traveled to Connerick to deliver it. Although it wasn't known, Hal had been a close friend of the King in his youth, serving in the military for a time until his age wore long. After his retirement, he served the King, discreetly, taking in Nero and taking care of him as the King could not.


The town doctor was the only other person in Aedra who knew of Nero's condition. When Nero had been injured once while a wee bear, Hal had been forced to seek medical help, lest the boy die. Thankfully, the town doctor harbored no ill will towards shapeshifters. He frequently said that he would help anyone, whether they be from Findal or Rendel, Connerick or Feen. The man was swore to help any in medical need.


"There, I've removed the bullet," the doc told Nero, leaning down and talking into the bear's ear to make sure he could hear him. "I want to wrap the wound, but I'm going to need you to shift back to do it. I don't have enough to treat a bear." Nero nodded his furry head in understanding. The bear began to shrink, fur shriveling back up to reveal peak human skin. Where before there had been a grizzly there was a now a nude man.


"Is he going to be all right doc?" Hal asked the doc with a measure of concern on his face.


"I'd keep away from any heavy lifting or shapeshifting for a few days, but it should heal just fine," the doc replied as he finished wrapping the bullet wound on the side of Nero's chest. With the wound patched up, Hal tossed Nero some clothes he had collected from their hut. One of the unfortunate things about shifting into a bear was that clothes didn't survive the change unless Nero removed them first.


"Hell of a risk you took kid, running at those soldiers like that," Hal scolded Nero as the doc collected his things.


As Nero gingerly rose to his feet, wincing slightly at the pain from the wound as he stood, he cast a look of disbelief at Hal. "You're going to get hound me for that? For saving those people? Without me, everyone might have died!"


Perhaps it was the passionate fire that burned with each man, or perhaps it was something else entirely, but as soon as Nero finished, Hal immediately jumped on the offensive, beginning to verbally chastise Nero for almost getting himself killed. Nero, in return, starting arguing back, bickering louder and louder with Hal.


"Gentlemen. Gentlemen! GENTLEMEN!" The doc spoke louder and louder until the two men finally quieted, both turning from their shouting match to look at the doc. "I think we have all suffered enough we have we not?"


The doc's words stung, to both Nero and Hal. In the woods, it was easy to forgot that while they had made it through alive, there were others that had not been so fortunate. Not to mention the countless homes burned and buildings destroyed. Aedra was in ruin, and here they were at each other's throats. For now, both men only nodded at each other, a single action that had a deeper meaning. They would put aside the argument for the present, but both had not said their piece yet. The argument would return in the future.


"Now, if you two are done, I think it best we get back to the town and see how the rest of the folk are holding up. There is much, much to be done, and we will need your help now more than ever." With that, the doctor picked up his bag, and began the trek back to the town center, with Nero and Hal following behind.
 
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Name: Juri Isdrup


Appearance: Juri is only 19, but he's a strong lad who stands at a respectable 5'10". His hair is a long mess of blonde that falls past his shoulders, with two braids framing his face in front. His skin is much fairer than the standard dark tones of southern Aedrans, making him stand out in his own way. He keeps himself clean shaven but that's mostly because his beard doesn't want to grow in like a northerner's beard aught. Is he bitter about that? Mmm... could be.


Life Goals: Get married, raise a family, move to a safer plot of land than right on the damn border with Rendelese yahoos.


Change. That was the one thing Juri's father never shut up about: change. That one word had bred more impassioned speeches and drunken rants than he could care to remember. It's what woke his father up in the morning, what he ate and drank when beer and bread were not at hand. It's what inspired him to court Juri's mother despite her sordid past, to build a life and a family with the woman he dared to love. But most importantly, it was the thing that brought Juri's family out of the cold north and into the fertile south.


Juri was barely more than a year old when his family moved away from their cold little village of Isdrup. His father, mother, brother, and he had packed what meager belongings they owned and sold their land to broker passage with a trading caravan. A few months of travel later and they finally saw the tiny hamlet of Aedra for the first time. His father spoke of it like it was a vision from God on high, a promised land that would finally grant him the change that he so desperately sought.


But nothing really changed. Juri's father had left Isdrup to get away from the harsh living of the cold north and the constant infighting of it's people. Instead he had merely exchanged cold weather and violent grudges for harsh summers and border disputes. None of Juri's family were prepared for the drastic climate change that awaited them, nor were they expecting the people of Aedra to be so snobbish and unwelcoming. Perhaps it was due to Aedra's close proximity to the border that caused the locals to be wary of strangers. Juri never knew for sure, but after meeting the natives of Rendel first hand he couldn't blame them. Still, even with tensions high Juri's father kept lauding the area as a paradise compared to Isdrup. Juri was just a kid when they left so who was he to argue? And the villagers warmed up to them eventually, welcoming them to the community in their own way. Things were good, and for a time Juri thought he could see his father's change cresting the horizon of their lives.


And then it happened. The soldiers came at night, staggering under the curse of inebriation and poor judgement. They came bearing weapons, horrible things that boomed like thunder and spat fire and metal. The screams came first, the flames soon followed. Juri wasn't sure what had happened, nor could he remember much of that night. What he did remember was grabbing his axe and running with his father and brother into town. The rest is a blur of fire and blood, a cacophony of violence until the noise finally dimmed and the smoke began to clear. Bodies littered the street from both sides of the conflict, and Juri's father and brother lay among them.


But the soldiers had fled, and so the day was 'won' for those that cared about such things. All Juri saw was destruction, a punctuation mark at the end of a long missive of violence and ignorance. For years the Rendelese had been harassing the smallfolk of Aedra in escalating degrees of contention. The Aedrans had fed that anger in kind, seeing fit to cause trouble when their young men hopped the border to partake in Rendel's wares of flesh and spirits. The cycle never changed, and the most logical conclusion of that cycle had finally come to pass. Now Aedra was a smoking ruin of what it once was, with half it's property destroyed and the crops still ablaze to mingle with the fiery dawn. And still, even with their mindless abandon, this was no different than any other time Rendel's soldiers decided to visit.


Change? To Juri that word was a myth, a fable to quiet children before their bedtime. He would clean his wounds and his body, he would bury his family, bury the dead, and then he would see to the town. His father's lumber business would be needed for the repairs, and Juri was the only one left to manage the work. At the end of the day, he would be doing the same thing he'd been doing for the last 14 years of his life: work wood.


Nothing had changed, and nothing ever would.
 
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Name: Anthony Smithson


Title: Doctor


Appearance: An average-built man in his mid-forties. Anthony constantly looks tired and depressed, with sunken, pale eyes, short light-brown hair, and chin-stubble that never becomes a full beard. He wears a plain white shirt and grey pants, and his sleeves are always rolled up.


Personality: Anthony is a quiet, no-nonsense man who likes to be blunt with people. He's also a bit of a downer, and more or less trudges his way through life, with no friends or family to derive some sense of purpose from. He's bound by his duty as a doctor to willingly help people who are in need, but never really seems to enjoy it.


Aspirations:

  • Continue doctor-ing duties
  • Travel abroad, at some point (he's never been outside of Aedra)


"You're going to have to work with me, here, Mister Riley. If you won't let me do my job, I won't be able to help you."


The man in question—a spry, middle-aged fellow by the name of Will Riley—merely stared up at the figure that hovered above him and grimaced in anticipation of what was to come, his forehead glistening with sweat. It was strange, really, how the promise of pain could make even the strongest of souls snivel and tremble in fear. Almost laughable.


But Anthony wasn't in a laughing mood. Had the situation been different, he might have let out a chuckle, albeit a quiet one, but it was what it was, and he was feeling more exhausted than he could remember having been in months.


With a sigh, the doctor turned his head and looked over at the only other person in the room; a young man who had, up until now, been keeping himself posted by the door.


"You, boy. What did you say your name was, again?"


"James, sir," he replied, his voice thick with anxiety and prepubescence.


Anthony nodded a little then turned away from him, waving a gloved hand in a general direction. "Right. Grab a chunk of wood off of that shelf, over there, and bring it to me. It's by your head."


He did as he was told, seeming lost for a moment before he bent down and picked up a small, palm-sized piece of wood. In the meantime, Anthony fished what looked like a rag out of his pants pocket, twisting it up so that it'd make for a decent tourniquet. He then leaned forward and tied it around Will's left arm, right below his shoulder; everything beyond that point was nothing but mangled flesh, torn tendons, and exposed bone, a prize from the man's noble-yet-foolish scrap with a drunken Rendelian soldier. The cuts and bruises that littered the rest of his body paled in comparison.


No...they weren't soldiers. They were roaches, the doctor bitterly mused as he tightened the knot he'd just made. Disgusting, swarming roaches...


Will let out a pained grunt, the fingers that belonged to his still-functional hand digging into the edge of the table he lay on. In retrospect, the reaction was a good thing—it meant that the nerves in his other arm were still intact—but the limb itself was beyond salvation, and had to be removed. Anthony had told him as much when he had come in, this morning, and it had taken a good hour and a half to hammer the truth into the man's thick skull.


Then again, that had been his life for the last couple of days. With the tragedy that had stricken them, Anthony's place of business had been booming with activity. People had come in with all sorts of injuries—blows to the head, broken ribs, ruptured spleens, severed limbs...the list went on and on. And Anthony had dealt with them all, somewhat thankful for the chance to be able to help so many people, if not a little overwhelmed by it; for once, that damned apothecary around the corner wasn't getting more business than he was. Herbs and pills were of no use when your goddamned guts were falling out.


And here he was, now, a full day later, with the agonized screams and sobs of women and children still ringing in his aching head, his eyes forever gaunt and sunken in his aged, worn face.


What a life he led. It could've easily been worse, though. With no wife and children of his own, Anthony liked to think that he had been more or less spared from the hell he had seen others go through. Being alone had its advantages.


James came running over to him and handed him the wood, and Anthony took it, looking it over for a second or two before placing it in the sweaty man's mouth.


"Bite down on this," he instructed, sounding as though he was going through a particularly tiresome routine. "It isn't much, but it'll do. I'm running low on painkillers and need to conserve as much as I can until I get my hands on some more."


"But...b-but..." Will spluttered, looking on the verge of panic before Anthony cut him off.


"We've already discussed this. It'll hurt like a bitch, but you'll get through it. Scream as much as you need to."


Done speaking, Anthony gestured toward James with a slight jerk of his head, and the boy understood right away, adjusting some makeshift straps around Will's legs before leaning down to hold his healthy arm to the table. The doctor and the man's eyes met for a moment, the latter biting down hard enough on the wood to make it splinter. Then he gave him a nod, and Anthony nodded back, reaching under the table to retrieve the bonesaw.
 
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Darkness of Aedra: Sophie-Anne Milligan





The barn was gone. So was most of the house. So were Mama and Papa and nearly all the sheep and the crops. It seemed to Sophie-Anne that she herself might also be gone, but she couldn't really be sure of that.


She sat haphazardly on the ashy ground, staring numbly at the cuff of her grimy, ragged nightgown. Just a few hours ago, it had been pristine white, in perfect condition, if a bit ill-fitting. The girl herself had been cheerful, bright-eyed, all knees and elbows after her most recent growth spurt; a bundle of motion and chatter. She'd talked to everyone about everything; even to the animals when she was doing her chores. Papa said they didn't talk back, but Sophie knew better- they always did, just not with words. She understood things, like how there was a certain way chickens eyed you when they're checking if you have food and a certain way goats talk when they can't find their babies. That was as good as talking, as far as she was concerned, and it was just rude not to respond, and she didn't care if people thought she was crazy.


She was silent, now. She had wandered back home (home? Was this still home?) from the woods an hour or two ago, and had not moved a muscle since allowing herself to collapse in (what had been and no longer was) the yard. She would not, could not, go near the barn. Her parents had tried to release all the horses when the soldiers set it ablaze. The soldiers hadn't liked that, she supposed. She didn't want to think about it. She hadn't wanted to think about much of anything, not since Mama had nearly dragged her outside-


go sophie run to the woods take the dogs gogogoNOW





And there was fire, and the horses screaming, and the pigs were already loose and running away.


Sophie ran. The dogs followed. She heard her Mama crying out, the soldiers laughing. She did not look back.


She stayed in the woods until the dogs started to wander back. Her parents were where the barn used to be. So were some of the horses. A few weren't, she thought, but it was hard to tell with the fire and all. Blue the cow was dead. So was the old bull. Nancy-cat was nowhere to be found and neither was the donkey. The pigs and goats that weren't killed had all run away, but that was all right. It didn't matter if they got into the crops, not anymore. There weren't any crops to get into, anymore.


The dogs were all right, anyway. Daisy the big gray sheepdog wandered around, sniffing here and there, the nameless new hound-puppy trailing along behind her. Beau the mastiff stayed close to Sophie, coming in close to rest his big chin on the motionless girl's shoulder. Sophie started a little, one hand automatically reaching up to pet the dog, brushing against her hair. It had been longer, before, but she'd gotten it all stuck together with sap from climbing trees and Mama had had to cut it, so now the tight curls floated around her head like a little brown cloud. She was a pretty little girl, all the same- that's what old ladies always said- such a pretty little girl, such a lovely child. And it was true- her face was delicate, elfin, a premonition of the young woman to come. Her eyes were wide, luminous, liquid-brown. Her skin was chestnut-dark, her smile bright and striking. The nose was small, the mouth delicate. Her face was expressive, sometimes painfully so. Now, it was blank.


Beau shifted, throwing her off balance. She caught herself on her free hand, and finally stood, looking towards the house. It hadn't burned completely. Her room was all right, and so was some of the kitchen by the looks of it. Her parent's room was okay. The cellar was probably intact. Her brother's room was gone. She frowned at that. What if he came home finally? Where would he stay? She crossed her arms over her stomach, feeling her eyes begin to sting. She hadn't seen him in months, and now the two of them were all that was left of their family. A distant young soldier and a lone twelve-year-old girl.


As if her movement had broken a spell, life slowly seemed to return to the farm. Two sheep and four goats came back, the donkey following meekly behind. Blackberry the cow returned. The young bull and the pigs were still missing, but they'd come home eventually if they were alive. Even Nancy, still heavy with unborn kittens, slunk back to twine herself around Sophie's ankles.


The girl stooped to lift up the cat. She'd likely give birth soon, she'd made her nest in-


In the barn. In the barn that was burned down. It was burned down, and now where would Nancy have her kittens?


The thought finally broke through the numbness that had enfolded Sophie. Nancy had no place to give birth, there was no shelter for the animals, and all the fences were ruined. Her parents were dead, who would help her to bury them? What would they have wanted her to do? How could she manage to keep the farm? She had to keep it, it was hers, hers and her brother's; her brother who was far far away and maybe wouldn't come back ever and what was she going to do for poor Nancy?





For the first time since the soldiers came to Aedra, Sophie-Anne began to cry.
 
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