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Fantasy CLOSED

comfortable

comfortable

𝙘𝙤𝙨𝙢𝙞𝙘
font callfont callfont call
hiraeth app thread

deadline: TBA

{It's dangerous 'cause I want it all}
{APP THREAD}
{Extra}
I've opted for a different approach to the application process. I'm interested in seeing your prowess in writing, emphasizing the "show, don't tell" mantra cherished by writers. As for right now don't worry too much about getting the lore exactly right, when accepted I will provide more in-depth information to riders and dragons.
For the role (dragon or rebel) you're applying for, select one prompt from your designated section and one from the general section below. In the 'extra' section, share your general concept for your character. It can be in paragraph or bullet format; no need to overthink it! I'm simply curious about your vision for your character in the roleplay.
!! For clarification: dragons can shapeshift between two forms: human and dragon. So if applying for a dragon please provide an IRL faceclaim.
{Pre-Set Character}
Mahasura Princess - You stand as the last heir to the Mahasura royal lineage, the only child of Cleo Alden. Since your earliest memories, the whispers of rebellion have echoed in your ears, guided by your mother's clandestine leadership. Tales of your birthright to the throne of Haeloria have been woven into the fabric of your existence, intertwined with your destiny that dictates you must tame a dragon to claim your rightful place and usher forth Mahasura's revenge upon Haeloria. Now, you embark on a new chapter at Valmar College. (TAKEN)

Alden Heir - You have been chosen to be next in line for the Haeloria throne. A heavy weight rests upon your shoulders as your father has practically thrust upon you a kingdom on the verge of collapse. You know of the unrest and discontent within your kingdom, and you wish to restore Haeloria to its formal glory. And that means ridding your kingdom of the rebel scum thats has overstayed their welcome. (TAKEN)
{App}
I will be accepting three paragraphs minimum for your prompt answers. Also please write in the third person as if the reader is witnessing them presently. If you are confused look at my app for reference. Please use the code I’ve provided in the spoiler! Again if you have any questions please reach out. I am happy to answer questions!

Full Name (first and last name for riders. Dragons don’t typically have last names but feel free)
Age ( for riders 19-21 for dragons 200-600)
Specialty (bellator, tace, santorum delete if you are a dragon)
Species (red, blue, black etc delete if rider)
role (if you are applying for a pre-set character write their title here if you are applying for a dragon give me a creative title that follows your dragon e.g the black dread if you are applying for a rider write "the rebel/haeloria rider" )
{Dragon prompt}
1. When was the last time your character was at a crossroads and they had to make a decision that went against every fiber of their being? How did they handle it?
2. Detail a moment that changed the trajectory of your character’s life for better or for worse. Reflect on how much your character has changed.
3. Write a moment where your character watches someone they love being ripped away from them. How did they react?
4. Describe the last time they took the life of a fellow dragon and why they did it.
{Rider Prompt}
1. Describe a time your character was treated unfairly and how they rectified the situation.
2. Describe your character witnessing something that goes against their morals. What will they do?
3. Describe in great detail why they decided to join the Wing Faction. Any goals they wish to accomplish.
4. Describe how your character feels about the recent attack on Stagon. For rebel-marked children how did your character view the rebellion's first successful rebel attack? Where was your character when the news came about Stagon?
{General prompt}
1.Describe their desperate attempt as they struggle in battle. Will they save themselves or save others?
2. What would a perfect day look like for your character? What could instantly sour their mood?
3. Describe your character seeing someone they thought they had lost. Are they dreaming or did this person come back to life? In this intense moment can they tell the difference between reality and a mirage.
4. Make your own prompt, go crazy, go stupid. Make sure to tell me what your prompt is.
{Counter}
Please review the types of dragons on the lore page
1/2 red dragons
1/1 black dragons
1/1 white dragons
1/2 green dragons
2/2 blue dragons
0/2 brown dragons

Please review the type of specialties on the lore page
4/4 rebel riders
3/4 haelorian riders

3/4 bellators
2/2 taces
2/2 sanctorums

night owl

Code: 
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  • THE BLUE DEMON
    full name
    akeron

    role
    blue dragon

    nickname
    ake

    gender
    female

    age
    321

    d.o.b.
    december 21st

    sexuality
    bisexual demiromantic

    fc
    sarah gadon
    VISAGE
    bulid
    Akeron possesses an athletic and lean physique, standing at 5’8” with a subtle yet defined muscularity accentuating her figure.

    hair
    a wavy river of amber blonde hair cascades down her back.

    eyes
    her eyes are vibrant sapphire jewels, often a clear window into her thoughts and emotions.

    scars
    her entire back is covered in marred skin from a burn mark spanning from shoulder to shoulder down her mid-back.

    refrence appearance
    link - more so the build of the dragon rather than actual colors

    dragon appearance
    akeron sits at an average weight and height for her particular species. her scales are a deep dark navy blue, the color of stormy seas. her underbelly and underside of her wings are a bright azure blue color often in the dead of night, she can blend into the shadows but under the full spotlight of the sun, it’s clear she is a blue dragon.

    her frame is sleek, with a long graceful neck and pristine wings. two horns sit sleek against her forehead, giving her facial structure an overall feline appearance. her tail is long, and spiked with black horns all along the edges and tips, this makes her appear longer than she actually is. deep and minor scarring litter her body, and a patch of her back scales are missing revealing a deep burn scar.
阿克倫







coded by reveriee.


font callfont callfont call
akeron

321 years old

female

blue dragon

{does he known that i'm forsaken? the original sinner}
{THE BLUE DEMON}
{prompt 1}
When was the last time your character was at a crossroads and they had to make a decision that went against every fiber of their being? How did they handle it?
Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood.
“Where are you?!” She cried out.
Akeron's breath grew ragged, the air around her feeling finite and unreachable. She spun in frantic circles, her world a dizzy blur as she searched desperately. She swallowed, her throat raw from screaming her sister's name, hoping against hope she had simply wandered off. But the stench of rot and swine lingered, a scent that prickled her skin with dread.
Humans.
They had been here, in The Veil. Her mind raced, matching the frantic pace of her heart. It wasn't possible. Humans were forbidden from entering The Veil. The wards were supposed to keep them out. Yet her instincts screamed the truth: they had been here, in her sanctuary, their pollution defiling everything they touched.
Tears burned in her sapphire eyes as anger swelled uncontrollably in her throat. A cool gust of wind blew through The Veil, carrying the scent of blood—Vestele's blood. How had she not noticed? Panic surged, and she stumbled forward, her feet carrying her toward the coppery scent.
"Vestele!" Her voice slammed into the mental walls of nearby dragons, reverberating like steel against rock. She called again, but the silence that followed made her stumble. Vestele was just a child, too young to form mental walls, too young to be left alone. Her little sister had been kidnapped.
On her hands and knees, her skin scraped and bloody from her fall, Akeron crawled towards a sticky puddle of hours-old blood on the forest floor. She was too late. "No, no, no," she cried out in agony and despair. The emotion consumed her entirely. She would raze cities, kill kings, and slaughter innocents to find Vestele. Her mind was set.
Shifting was easy. Dark blue scales reflected the morning light as she thrust herself into the air, heading towards Haeloria. She would slam against the wards until they broke or she did. "AKERON!" A voice reached her in calm outrage. Darroagh, one of the Elder Six, had likely heard her cries. She pushed her wings faster; he couldn't keep up.
"STOP!" she blocked out his voice, uncaring of the consequences. She would find Vestele. A hard force slammed into her, knocking her from the sky. A flash of familiar dark blue scales caught her eye before she crashed to the ground.
Icy pain sliced into her mind, and she shifted involuntarily, screams tearing from her throat. Someone was rifling through her memories, each moment more painful than the last. When they finally withdrew, Akeron's body went limp. The damp grass cooled her as she struggled for breath. Long blonde hair fell gracefully down her assailant's back as she loomed over Akeron. Cold azure eyes stared indifferently, like looking into a mirror.
"Do you wish to be brought before the council and embarrass me?" Her mother's voice seethed with contempt. Embarrassment? There were more important matters, yet Akeron couldn't speak, the icy pain echoing through her body. But she was resilient.
"Ves-V-Vestele is gone," she bit out.
Her mother said nothing. Apathy coated her features as Akeron let tears fall to the ground. How could she expect her to care? The indifference of one of the Elder Six was enough to make her sit up. Bitterness coated her tongue, a mocking smile on her lips.
"Do you even care, Mother?" It was a statement, not a question. Her mother’s coldness had been a constant in their lives. Akeron had promised to shield Vestele from their unfeeling mother, to protect her. But she had failed. Akeron looked away, unable to bear the reflection.
"You know our laws. Do not step foot in Haeloria if you intend to harm the humans."
Her mother turned and disappeared. Laughter bubbled from Akeron's throat as she shakily stood. Her body vibrated with unbridled acrimony. Fine. If she couldn't harm the humans, she would bond with one and burn Haeloria to the ground with them on her back.
{prompt 2}
What would a perfect day look like for your character? What could instantly sour their mood?
The late afternoon sun warmed her skin deliciously, while the gentle summer wind refreshed her senses. It carried the scent of the nearby ocean that surrounded The Veil. Akeron swept her fingers over the vibrant green grass, dotted with wildflowers. To her, the grove was something special—untouched by her fellow dragons. Perhaps some had discovered her secret place, but they had been kind enough to leave it unscathed. Twinkling laughter sounded from above, and she smiled along with it.
Vestele. Her pride and joy; her little sister, whom she had raised as if she were her own child. Not far from where she rested, Vestele gathered wildflowers in her hands, picking the prettiest ones that she would insist Akeron hang up to dry in their small cottage. Akeron didn’t mind; it made the house smell floral even throughout the winter months when the game became scarce, and she was forced to venture outside The Veil.
She frowned, not wanting to think about it. She would face the winter months when the time came. For now, she would soak up the summer and all its bounty.
{extra}
● Akeron is the poster child for a blue dragon, very stereotypical. While her mother is a part of the Elder Six, after losing her father to the rayvns, her mother grew cold and unreachable.
● So much so that as soon as Vestele, was born, she wanted nothing to do with her. So being forced to raise herself and her sister, she grew beautifully into her brutality.
● No matter how much she hates her mother, sadly she is a reflection of her. As of right now, she denies this part of herself, turning away from the harsh realities of truth.
● Especially, as she feels that enlisting in Valamar, was her only choice to get close to the humans. Having to turn to the same species that kidnapped her sister?? Yeah, it’s not looking good.
● As for forming a bond, while fundamentally she is vehemently opposed, she knows this is what she has to do to bring her sister home. She intends to bond with the weakest one, easy to manipulate.
night owl
 
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  • THE DREADNAUGHT
    name
    Tenebris

    nickname
    The Dreadnaught, Wandering Shadow, Mountain Man

    age
    335 years old

    birthday
    November 1st

    gender
    Male

    Sexuality
    Bisexual

    role
    Black Dragon

    portrayed by
    Richard Armitage
    VISAGE
    general
    Tenebris takes the form of a tall, muscular man with tanned skin and thick shoulder-length black hair. His face is angular with a prominent straight nose and high cheekbones. He has eyes that are dark brown, nearly black but which sometimes appear to glow amber when struck by sunlight. His natural expression tends to be serious, or as some would describe it, severe.

    Height
    6'8

    hair
    Black, shoulder length.

    eyes
    Too dark to tell.

    scars
    WIP

    dragon appearance

    Tenebris is a mountain of a dragon; absolutely massive, even for the standards of black dragons. However, he is not an ungainly creature. While large, he possesses the kind of grace that is unique to large predators. And like them, he is an unabashedly terrible beast that was made to hunt all that falls under the shadows of his wings. His teeth and claws are the mightiest weapons, his wings a fierce tempest, and his armor pitch-black like the darkest ink spilled across a fresh page. His only color comes from his eyes, which burn red-orange, like the glowing embers of a fire. Though unlike a tiger or a bear, therein the fire lies a sharp intellect that is willing to consider humans something more than potential prey.

    Dragon Height
    WIP

    eyes
    Reddish-orange

    notable dragon features
    Sheer size. It immediately distinguishes him from any surrounding dragons.
Ten







coded by reveriee.






font callfont callfont call
name: Tenebris

age: 335

gender: Male

Black Dragon

{Dread not, for you will not live to fear long.}
{The Dreadnaught}
{prompt 3}
Write a moment where your character watches someone they love being ripped away from them. How did they react?
Somewhere tucked away amidst a row of books, a dragon brooded over a sheaf of papers that had yet to be properly made into a finished book. With careful fingers, he flipped the pages, being as delicate with them as possible.
The building was a small outpost that was more often used as a shelter by the local shepherds than fellow Scribes. Some forty years ago his friend had been assigned the outpost. Tenebris knew that it had been meant as some form of punishment. It was very small and especially cold in the winter. Worse, it was damp, which meant that painstaking precautions had to be taken to protect the small collection of books that were stored away carefully. However despite this, Kalloway seemed rather satisfied to call it home.
“One assistant is meddlesome enough! Any more Scribes together at once and the work never gets done. It’s all constant revisions and corrections so that nothing is ever actually published—and I’d barely call what is mine…
Your memory I think has proven sufficient enough. A true bookwyrm, you are!”
So I have become, Tenebris smiled at the memory. He did not skip a single word. When he discovered a discrepancy in the text where it conflicted with something else he’d read previously, he marked it in careful handwriting that could be easily erased if needed.
He had just finished adding a correction, when Tenebris looked up from the papers he was studying. His ears had caught the sound of footsteps a floor below, alerting him that he was no longer alone. They seemed hesitant. Tenebris tucked away the incomplete manuscript safely into a box on the shelf. Then he waited. The intruder slowly made their way up the steps. Tenebris heard him take a deep breath before he pushed the door open and stepped into the small office.
He recognized the young man with red hair who approached timidly. Their eyes locked and the man paused as if he had been forcefully trapped. Tenebris blinked, freeing the man from the effect of his gaze. Sedric had been Kalloway’s assistant for five years now, but his fear of dragons had never completely subsided. It was a constant source of irritation for Tenebris, though he had made an effort to avoid antagonizing him deliberately. It had taken some getting used to. Intimidation was only a natural part of any dialog in dragon society, but experience had taught him that it was largely unproductive to try engaging with humans too cowed by his presence to contribute anything of interest. It was the same reason why he preferred to maintain a human disguise as much as possible. How different an experience it was to travel amongst humans as if he were one of their kind!
When Sedric did not make an effort to do anything, Tenebris sighed deeply. “I already promised not to eat you. Speak.”
“Kalloway is dead.”
Shock reverberated through Tenebris’ body as surely as if a Ravyn itself had struck unseen from above. It was quickly replaced by anger; Tenebris felt the fire in his chest flare to a roaring blaze, and with it the sensation that his body was far too small to contain this inferno that would burn everything in its path. “Who killed him? Tell me Sedric, so that I might avenge him.”
Sedric did not answer fast enough. “Was it another dragon? Do not hesitate to tell me if it was.”
Sedric flinched away. The sudden movement sparked an unconscious reaction from Tenebris to curl his fingers as if he should give chase. He yearned for his teeth and claws. He would rend the killer’s flesh from their bones and—
“It was not—No one—He was old,” Sedric stammered.
Old?
“His heart failed. He went to collect herbs along the river. It has been very hot this summer. The wells along the route have gone dry. He must not have known…”
NoNoNoNoNoNo
“Impossible.” Kalloway would not die like this. He may have been human, but Tenebris had always thought Kalloway’s spirit was more like that of a dragon. That his heart would give out due to any circumstance was unthinkable, at the very least because the man would never allow himself to leave his work unfinished…
“His body has already been taken away. There will be a funeral, I–I–I–I’m sure. I don’t think they can tell you not to come. I wi–i–i–i-ll take care of his things. They wi–i–i–i-ll be properly burned.” Sedric started to wave his arms nervously, gesturing to the room around them; to the dozens of books that had been lovingly toiled over for many decades to prevent the rot from claiming them.
“YOU WILL NOT!”
“It is a crime,” Sedric gaped. “You cannot mean to keep anything.”
Vaguely Tenebris thought that he’d heard of this human custom before. It had seemed strange, but it had never been his concern what they did with their dead. Now however, it was threatening to take away something very precious indeed. Tenebris was not one to desire conflict, but this was truly unacceptable. “A dragon can take what he likes.” If he is strong enough. “I promised that I would not eat you, but if you attempt to lay a hand on anything that belonged to Kalloway, I will burn you before you can destroy his things. Find some other way to honor his death that does not insult his life.”
“Now leave before I’m tempted to learn how fast you burn.”
{prompt 2}
What would a perfect day look like for your character? What could instantly sour their mood?
Tenebris walked the city streets, disguised once more as a man. He carried a backpack of trinkets and herbs, collected from the hard-to-reach forests and mountain hillsides that bordered The Veil. Kallowyn had taught him a great deal of which herbs were useful, and more importantly which were the most desirable at the market. The man may have been a Scribe by trade, but his mind was sharp for business and some of that knowledge had been passed on to Tenebris in return for his assistance. Tenebris enjoyed exploring the tables. However he shopped with specific intent. He’d heard there was to be a festival, and along with the celebrations were traders appearing from more distant lands.
“Ooooy, Mountain Man!” With a bellow that would put any hawker to shame, a small figure appeared in the distance. A familiar human hatchling that ran at full speed down the cobbled roads, dodging pedestrians and wagons in a rush to catch up to him. She skittered to a stop only a foot away, scattering pebbles and dust from the road and then looked up at him with an expression full of eager acumen. “I’ve a story for you, Mountain Man. ‘Ave you anythin to trade?”
“That depends.”
Lucy beamed. “Itsa good one. News from faraway.”
“News should be very abundant today. I’d be disappointed if it wasn’t.”
“But I’ve got it now. How’dya know you’ll find it on your own?”
“How do I know it will be a worthwhile trade?”
“I swear it on all my freckles,” Lucy replied. She scowled up at him but she seemed more earnest today than frustrated that he wasn’t going along with one of her schemes. Lucy and her flock of fledgling thieves knew better than to try stealing from him again, but that didn’t mean they had given up on trying to get the better end of a bargain. “Thomas can vouch.”
“Oy, Thomas!” She called out towards a small and cluttered alley. A second later a small boy with a crooked nose and owlish brown eyes popped out. He looked around the street warily, then a smile broke out across his face when he spotted the pair of them. He ran over.
“Tell the mountain man what you saw, Tom.”
“It was a book!”
Lucy put her head in her hands, “Thomas!”
“It was purple with gold letters and a snake eating its tail. Real fancy-like.” Tom looked satisfied with himself, but Tenebris could sense Lucy quickly growing frustrated. She pushed him aside and took over the conversation once more. “Thomas told me about the book an’ I told the shopkeeper to save it. Said I knew a mountain man who fancied himself a book collector.”
“I found it when I was spying on the new caravan,” Tom added.
“The one with the traders from the South?” Admittedly, Tenebris was willing to check out any lead on a new bookseller in town. It was rare enough that anyone was selling books at all, so new movement in that market was bound to be of at least some interest to him. Of course, these hatchlings knew that.
“Yup. Shopkeeper won’t trade the book if we don’t bring ya. Waddya say? You want a fancy southern book?”
Tenebris pretended to think over. Then pulled a small satchel off his waist. Lucy smiled wickedly as he pulled the drawstring open. The smell of spiced jerky wafted out of the bag. He could see the hungry glimmer in her and Thomas eye’s. “Fair trade?”
“Fair,” she agreed. He tossed it to Lucy. Then he pulled a small bag of dried tea leaves and tossed it to Thomas. “Finder’s fee,” he told the boy. Whether he chose to keep it or trade it was up to him.
~~~~
The book was interesting. He and the shopkeeper had talked for a long while. She was very happy to get rid of it. It was not banned, but the topic of Alchemy was still something that could bring trouble if it fell under the wrong notice. So it was with a carefully neutral expression that Tenebris left her tent feeling like he gained something valuable indeed.
His good mood must not have been totally unnoticeable however. Lucy and Thomas exchanged accomplished grins, clearly gleaning somehow that they'd been right about it being a good find. Feeling unusually generous, he tossed them each an extra smallcoin. The festival had properly started now, and they ran off either to go spend it or pick more coins from the distracted townsfolk.
Tenebris wandered a bit. He was a head taller than any other person in the vicinity, which meant that he would never not be noticeable, but it was still an appreciative experience to be able to blend to this degree. People were wary of him. They often mistook him for a mercenary or a soldier. He had even been told on several occasions that he had a harsh face that made him unapproachable. However it was still a far cry from the reaction he would have garnered as his true self. If a riderless dragon had descended upon the market without warning it would have sparked a panic and surely put an end to the festivities.
More human hatchlings joined up with Lucy and Thomas. He recognized some of them from previous visits to the market. They were all scraggly youth with ill-fitting clothes and cunning eyes. The group stuck close to him, taking advantage of how others kept their distance or even moved aside as he passed to follow in his wake. There was a crowd forming at the edge of the market around a stage that had been built for the occasion. Tenebris gravitated towards the back of the crowd. He was tall enough to see well, even from a distance. However, Lucy grabbed his hand and he dutifully hauled her up into the air; swinging her onto a stone wall behind him that was nearly the same height as his chest. Of course, the other human hatchlings were quick to demand the same so he sent them up the wall, one after another until they were all perched on the stones like a flock of birds on a clothesline. They grinned merrily; there were not too many adult humans that would not send them scampering off with a swift cuff to the back of the head if they so much as got within reach of their pockets. That had been one of the stark differences Tenebris had discovered between dragon and human societies. Orphans occurred in abundance and it seemed they were most often left to fend for themselves.
The play it turned out was a recounting of a famous battle between Haeloria and Mahasaura. Actors dressed in elaborate costumes; bright reds, blues, and copper browns for the dragons and a glossy dark purple to represent the Ravyns. They ‘fought’ each other through an impressive dance routine; leaping and twirling to such heights that one could forgive the human audience if they believed the fake wings attached to their arms really did grant the performers the ability to fly. The dragons carried lit torches which they used to breathe fire, and through alchemy they even managed to almost match the reds, blues, and green colors of actual dragonfire. When each Ravyn was slain, they disappeared into a cloud of smoke. Tenebris found the performance itself to be enjoyable, although he didn’t particularly care for the subject.
The battle ended when a dancer dressed in pure black descended onto the stage, their arrival accompanied by the beating of drums and a long bellow of a brass tube. They slayed the remaining Ravyns in one foul swoop; the crowd applauded. To his surprise however, there was no clapping from any of the hatchlings on the wall. Tenebris looked over to find them all looking down at the ground. One by one they dropped themselves off the wall and melted into the crowd, disappearing silently with no word of leave. Even Lucy had a sullen expression on her face, something that he had never seen before. She sensed his gaze and looked up for just long enough to read the question on his face before turning away to hide her eyes again. “They ain’t mean nothin’ by it. S’just hard to enjoy the show when it was dragons that killed our mums and da’s.”
{extra}
  • Tenebris is huge even for the standards of black dragons. His size has given him a greater amount of freedom, in the sense that he has encountered few with the courage to challenge him to combat. However, it has also put a target on his back as someone who would be notable to have as an ally or as someone to defeat for glory. He is therefore wary of those who court his strength and well aware that he must not allow himself to appear weak, even if he is not a particularly bloodthirsty dragon. He strongly resents the two-faced nature that has plagued most of his interactions with those who know him as The Dreadnaught.
  • Likewise he has a preference for the company of people who are willing to speak their mind. While it is certainly useful at times, he does not like to be feared. He also despises liars.
  • What he does like is books; and music; and many human inventions. They’re really quite clever and once he learned of this he became downright intrigued. So when he’s not fulfilling his obligations to The Vale he spends a significant time pretending to be human in order to experience more of their society and also to read more books. He also likes citrus fruits.
  • True friendships with humans have been rare. However when he makes a friend, he generally keeps it a secret. It's better not to put them at risk this way.
  • Dread not, for you will not live to fear long.
  • I like mangoes. When perfectly ripe they're awesome. I've had 2 really bad ones though....
  • 1717383193809.png
{the fruits}
night owl
 

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  • Yerah
    full name
    Yerah Li

    nickname
    The White Knight, Yeri

    gender
    Female

    age
    20

    d.o.b.
    July 15th

    sexuality
    heterosexual
    VISAGE
    build
    Yerah, despite being a Bella, possesses a slim and athletic build. Her body is adorned with lean muscle. She stands at 5' 7".

    hair
    her hair is a deep black that falls down her back in sleek, glossy strands.

    eyes
    her eyes are a light brown, once lit by the presence of her family, they are now cast in her armor's shadows.

    scars
    Her body is painted with old scars, each one a testament to her place in this world. These marks, etched into her skin, tell her personal story of battles fought and hardships endured. And she takes pride in them all.

    uniform
    . . .

    fc
    Ni Ni
皇甫照临







coded by reveriee.
 
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  • The Lost Princess
    full name
    Cordelia Elaine Tharna (Jasuu)

    title
    Princess of Mahasura

    nickname
    Rory, Delia, Dilly

    gender
    Cisfemale (she | her)

    age
    19

    d.o.b.
    March 28th | Aries

    sexuality
    Bisexual
    VISAGE
    height
    5'8

    hair
    Long, brown locks that reach just about mid back. Her hair can be found in various states, from pin straight to wavy, frizzy to smooth. She styles it in various ways, including letting it fall naturally, braiding it, or pinning it to her head.

    eyes
    Soft brown eyes

    distinguishing features
    Large, round eyes, narrow nose, big smile

    mods
    None

    scars
    One on her left shoulder from a knife training lesson, as well as a few smaller ones on her hands and feet from climbing trees

    uniform
    Here

    fc
    Caitlin Stasey
郡主







coded by reveriee.


font callfont callfont call
Cordelia Tharna (Jasuu)

19

Cisfemale she | her

Tace

I'm standing in the ashes of who I used to be
{Princess of Mahasura}
{prompt 4}
Describe how your character feels about the recent attack on Stagon. For rebel-marked children how did your character view the rebellion's first successful rebel attack? Where was your character when the news came about Stagon?
The front door burst open, slamming against the wall. Cordelia nearly lept from her seat by the window. Her book fell from her hands onto the carpeted floor as she unsheathed a dagger from her side. She would not die today.
Without hesitation, she lunged toward the intruder.
There was a shout. “Careful with that thing, Rory!” A large, familiar hand seized her wrist.
Cordelia took a gasping breath. Garthen clutched a piece of paper in his free hand. His eyes were wide in abject horror as he stared at the knife point mere inches from his chest.
“You almost killed me.” The man glared at her, but his voice wavered ever so slightly.
Face flushing, Cordelia ripped her hand from his grasp and sheathed her dagger. “Well, then don’t come barging into the house like a madman!” What was he thinking? Of course, she was going to strike back. Normal people don’t kick in doors to enter places they live. How was she to know he wasn’t here to assassinate her? He and Anya had taught her to be constantly on alert because anything could happen to her at any time.
Garthen pursed his lips, nodding curtly. Good, at least he was remorseful.
There was a rustling upstairs and the frantic patter of racing footsteps. Anya came barreling down the stairs, fully dressed with her hair only half done. “I heard shouting. What’s happened? Is everything alright?”
“Everything is fine. Just a misunderstanding. But you and Cordelia must close the windows and draw the curtains.” Garthen hurried farther into the main sitting room and towards the small kitchen.
“What is it? What’s happened?” The girl closed the window she had been seated next to and drew the curtains across to cover the glass. It had to be serious if Garthen demanded she close the windows and lock the doors.
The man grunted, shaking his head. “Not until everything is shut tight.”
Butterflies fluttered in Cordelia’s stomach. She shuttered another window. This could be anything. It might not have anything to do with her mother or the rebellion. It was probably that business was going well. Maybe they’d have a little extra money.
But why the secrecy for something like that?
Once everything was shut tight and the curtains were drawn, Cordelia joined Anya and Garthen by their small table. Her chest tightened.
Garthen slammed the paper down on the wooden kitchen table with a triumphant smile. “We won.”
Anya slapped a hand over her mouth, stifling a shout. Cordelia could barely breathe. Barely think. It couldn’t be true. She leaned forward, peering down at the wrinkled and faded parchment. A large headline was emblazoned at the top.
Rebel Riders Take Stagon
“W-what?” Her head spun. “She did it? She actually did it?”
Garthen barked a deep, hearty laugh. “She did. They all did. The ward is gone. Stagon is ours.”
Cordelia was about ready to jump up and down. She had barely dared to hope that her mother and the rebel army could succeed at such a task. Little attacks on cities were one thing. But to take down a ward? And seize an entire city?
She threw her arms around Anya and squeezed tight. The older woman returned the embrace with gusto. This was everything she had been praying for. The first real victory on their quest to take back Mahasura from the Haelorians.
Anya pressed kisses to the younger girl’s hair. “And just in time for the next stage in our plan. By the time you’re finished with college, who knows where we might be.”
A grin split Cordelia’s face. The pieces were beginning to fall into place. Her mother was rallying the troops, taking back their land. Anya and Gareth had raised her, educated her, and ensured she was ready for her next step. Bastian had helped her increase her physical strength and prowess. She would take her place at the prestigious Valmar College, tame a dragon, and claim her rightful place as Haeloria’s true heir. Then, she would take her revenge against the people who brutally murdered her father and slaughtered her kingdom. Starting with her grandfather and the imposterous heir he had found. Neither one would stand a chance against her when she was done.
She could make her mother proud. Rejoin her without risking their safety. Restore her country and its people to their former glory. Ensure no Mahasuran ever experienced degradation again.
And someday, everyone would bow to Princess Cordelia Jasuu.
Everything was within reach. She could feel it. This was just the beginning.
Snatching the paper off the table, she skimmed the rest of the summary. Information about the rebels' outfits, how they behaved, and how quick and unexpected the attack was. Each detail filled her with more pride. The King had no idea what was coming for him. But her eyes caught on a sentence buried in the center.
‘The city was razed. Number of casualties still unknown.’
In the background, Anya and Gareth rambled about the victory and what it would mean. Meanwhile, the ecstasy Cordelia had felt the moment before started to wane. It shouldn’t come as a shock. War came with a price; people lost their lives in this strike. To seize the city, much of it had to be destroyed. But while the Mahasurans and the rest of the rebels were her people, so too were the Haelorians. At least, according to the line of succession.
No, don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself. The Haelorians had done nothing but terrorize her people. They disowned her and her mother. They contributed to the death of her father and her country. They deserved everything they got. And anyway, all of this would be worth it once they succeeded in their quest to take back Mahasura.
But even as Anya started making a cake in celebration, and Gareth started humming songs from Mahasura, Cordelia couldn’t help but think about Stagon, a city thousands of miles away. Where, in the wake of hope, and promise for a new future, was destruction and death.
{prompt 4}
Your character is being lectured by someone in a position of authority. How do they react?
In her mind, the boy had deserved it. He had been bullying Leonora, putting the girl down simply because she was marked. And then he had the gall to laugh at Cordelia when she had stood up for her friend.
So she punched him.
And now Garthen was lecturing her for it? How was that fair? How was that right? She narrowed her eyes at her surrogate father, scrutinizing his large form and stony gaze. He had drug her to her room when he found out what she had done, and had been staring her down like she was something to be willed into submission.
If he thought she would just crumple under the weight of his disapproval, he had another thing coming.
“Well? What were you thinking?” he challenged her, voice rising. “What possessed you to make such a boneheaded move?”
Cordelia stuck her nose in the air, crossing her arms over her chest. “He was being a jerk. I wasn’t going to sit there and let him slander me or Leonora. What would you have me do? Stand idly by while Haelorians spit on my people? Our people?”
The older man groaned, scrubbing his face. “No. Don’t be obtuse. You know that I hate the Haelorian scum as much as you do. But the fact of the matter is, you drew attention to yourself. It’s one thing to befriend rebels in secret. It’s an entirely other thing to publicly align yourself with them.”
Why did he say that as if it were a bad thing? Day and night Garthen and Anya told her about her mother’s rebellion. The wars being waged for the sake of their country. And how, as Cleo Alden’s only daughter, Cordelia was the true ruler of Haeloria and the only remaining heir to the Mahasuran throne. It was her job to bring about Mahasura’s revenge. To right the terrible wrongs committed against her people.
How was punching an impish boy out of line with her duty? Wasn’t it right and just to defend those who can’t defend themselves?
“The “rebels” are my people. I am their princess, and it is my job to protect them however I can. And though the scoundrel doesn’t know it, I am also his princess as well-”
“Silence, foolish girl!” Garthen’s voice was practically a growl. “Do you understand how much danger you put yourself in? How much danger you put Anya and me in? You may be Haeloria’s queen by birthright, but that does not mean you are invincible.”
“But-”
Large hands gripped her arms and squeezed tight. “No! You are not invincible, Cordelia. You are merely a girl who happened to be born to Cleo Alden. And don’t think for one second that there aren’t people out there who would extinguish your life without a thought if they caught a hint of your existence. And you would be powerless to stop them.”
His barbed words stung more than if he had slapped her in the face. Did he truly believe her to be so unremarkable? That she was a girl and nothing more? Why then had he told her of all the wonderful things she would do? The legacy she would inherit? The power she wielded?
“You make no sense.” She took a step back, extracting herself from his grip. “You tell me stories of all I can do. All I can accomplish. About the injustices our people face, and how I am to restore things to how they should be. And yet now you scold me for using my power to better the lives of my people. Tell me that I am powerless, and nothing more than a little girl playing pretend. So which is it? Am I the rightful queen of Haeloria, or just a mere girl?”
“Rory…” His voice cracked. The terror and desperation in his gaze were enough to make the young woman falter. There was rarely a time she ever saw Garthen so bereft. He was stoic. Strong. Steadfast. But the man before her had the appearance of someone who looked death in the eyes and barely escaped with his life. As much as he had told her about his past, she was certain she did not know even half of it.
Inhaling deeply, he steeled himself, straightening up. “You are a remarkable young woman. You have the potential to do great things, but only if you live long enough to reach your full potential. Long enough for us to turn the tide of this war so that the people will recognize you as their leader. You cannot change the world on your own in a day. You must focus on becoming strong enough to tame a dragon, and then we can think about crowns and quests for revenge. Until then, you are to lay low and keep up with your lessons. Do you understand?”
There was no room for argument in his tone. This discussion was closed; Cordelia had lost. And she had to admit, she hated the idea of putting him or Anya in danger. Especially after all they had done for her. The ways they had gone above and beyond their duties as her appointed guardians. It seemed a poor way to repay them - getting one or both murdered on her quest for justice. So, she nodded stiffly.
“Good.” Garthen bent over and kissed the top of her head. “Anya and I both love you very much, I hope you know that.”
“I love you too.” If she meant nothing else, she truly meant that. “And I promise, I won’t let anything happen to either of you. You both will live very long and happy lives. And when I am queen, I’ll make sure you live somewhere quiet and safe, in a large house, with your every need attended to. And Anya can finally get that cat she’s always wanted.”
Her declaration was met with a fond sigh and the beginning of a smile. But it wasn’t quite a happy one. “I look forward to that,” Garthen said, moving towards the door of her small room. “Now wash up before Anya returns from the market and we’ll speak no more of this.”
With one last glance over his shoulder, he left, shutting the door behind him. The stairs creaked as he lumbered towards the front room and the rest of their house. Likely to tend to some sort of task before his wife returned.
Meanwhile, Cordelia took a seat on the edge of her bed, still watching the door where Garthen had stood moments ago. She still didn’t regret what she did. If given the choice, she’d do it over and over again. She’d take on armies if that’s what it took to fix things.
Someday, when she was queen, she would not be talked down to by anyone. She would make the rules and no one could tell her to stand down. Not Garthen. Not Anya. Not even the imposterous King Valmar.
And that boy and everyone else like him would rue the day they crossed Queen Cordelia Jasuu.
{extra}
Upon her father’s death and her mother’s “disappearance”, Cordelia was given to Anya and Gareth Tharna. Rebels who managed to escape the massacre and hide out as normal citizens. They raised her as their daughter to the outside world but told her stories of her birthright as Haeloria’s true heir, as well as stories of her parents' triumphs and failures. They took it upon themselves to educate and prepare her to tame a dragon and take her place as the rightful queen.
Cordelia has seen her mother a handful of times. Always in secret. Cordelia believes that once she’s strong enough, her mother will allow her to rejoin her and take up a spot in the rebellion. To be entirely honest, Cordelia isn’t really sure what will happen once she tames a dragon. All she knows is that it’s what she must do to fully come into who she was always meant to be. And that once she does it, she’ll be able to set her sights on taking back the throne.
Cordelia is firmly on the rebel side (right now). That’s how she was raised. She holds a deep hatred for her grandfather, Alden’s heir, and many of the people responsible for the destruction of Mahasura and the death of her father. But being young, she has gone along with everything she was told. She’s biased because she’s only heard one side of the story, and her view of the world is very narrow. She’s extricating her beliefs from those imposed on her by the adults in her life. Also, there’s a bit of hubris mixed in with all of that, because she has constantly been told how important and powerful she is/will be.
She tends to cling to what she believes is “right”. However, she is beginning to recognize her unique place as the rightful heir of both countries. Just as the people of Mahasura are hers, so are the Haelorians. She feels strongly about justice and wants to protect those who cannot protect themselves. As the plot unravels, I envision her learning to see the world as less black and white and more in shades of grey, and learning to form her own opinions, her own moral compass, and what she believes in. Deciding how far she is willing to go, or what she is willing to do on her quest to make things “right”. And what making things “right” even means.
My favorite fruit has to be peaches. I don’t have them very often, but they are so sweet and juicy and I love them.
{the fruits}
night owl
 
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  • Like Lambs to the Slaughter
    full name
    Gruvos

    nickname
    Gruv

    gender
    Male

    age
    400 Years old

    d.o.b.
    17 February

    sexuality
    AroAce
    Visage
    height
    5’11”

    build
    Toned

    hair
    Black

    eyes
    Brown

    scars
    Cheek, Nose and Forehead

    fc
    Andreas Pietschmann
    --->
格鲁沃斯







coded by reveriee.
 
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  • THE UNBROKEN
    name
    AETERNAS

    SPECIES
    RED DRAGON

    gender
    MALE

    age
    394

    d.o.b.
    December 19th

    sexuality
    no preference
    VISAGE
    height
    5'9

    weight
    175lb

    build
    Aeterna's clan of crimson-scaled dragons is a race of well-known bruisers and trappers. Instigators of pursuits and insistent in their chase, they are all of bruiser-like builds, bulky at the front yet capable of speed often admired in beasts of such magnitude. Aeterna was born a prized specimen amongst his kind, fed generously and often with the most precious of carnivorous bounties. As such, the once-red prince grew handsomely and strong; among those of his age, the gift of his strength and its peculiar magnitude had always been exotically gifted. Now, at the peak of his power and viciousness, Aeternas caters to a style often known among his people as 'h'rass n' r'n', to harass and to fly away, time and time again; debilitating targets until they give in. 'Tis a notion often achieved easily through concussive physicality, speed, and most importantly ... fire.

    hair
    White

    eyes
    A dark brown, speckled with ember-like reds.

    scars
    In draconid form and human visage alike, Aeternas possesses a long, diagonal scar that runs from his brow to his, right cheek — a slash that ruined his eye as a hatchling now perceived through his human visage all the same. Both scales and human flesh are littered with bodily scars of all shapes and sizes, all translated from his birthskin to his alternate shape.
不间断







coded by reveriee.


font callfont callfont call
AETERNAS

394

MALE

RED DRAGON

'TIL IT BURNS, O' RED, 'TIL IT HURTS
THE UNBROKEN
{prompt 4}
Describe the last time they took the life of a fellow dragon and why they did it.
-
Overhead, their banners burn.
In their treachery; that of the father and the cowardly kin by his side, the son had found naught but scorn and fury unscathed - not by the slaughter endured - delivered by both man and kin - not by the searing death that his progenitor had assaulted his form with; all in hopes of finding reason by fire, reason that never found its mark. Nay to all, his hatred was born from a disgust that boiled within the home of his flame. His paternal figure, now disowned, had chosen mercy over war - mercy from these lesser creatures, mercy from fellow turncoats, an insult to everything they stood for.
The father's blood oozes from the spaces between The Unbroken's fangs - then and there, the son remembers the cries of his mother, helpless as they dragged her aching form away, clad in the chains of man and in the betrayal of her once beloved mate.
Patricide slowly consummated, he understands that his hatred is not without motive and that despite what he's done ... there is no turning back, no turning from the suffering delivered by his flesh and blood. No reason within could distract him from all dismay the future held. Not even now, with its pepetrator defeated and his life, now in literal jaws.
Man will come and man will find chains around your neck - and you, you will submit, your father to blame.
" A-Aeternas, all I did ... twas for your life, for your mother. "
Jaws tighten around the liar's throat, blood drips beneath his weak form as a consequence of the pressure added, bleeding down the length of his neck. The father chokes on his ichor, a dying chitter escaping his breast's core. Around Aeternas, men and women clad in suits of metal slowly approach, ready to cast him in chains, fearful for the beast's current temper.
The hatred within him emboldens.
" You have betrayed everything we have ever known, our ancestors could never forgive you ... I will never forgive you. "
He replies, the frilled scales that adorn Aeternas' neck rattle. His heart tightens and their father gasps for air.
" My son, please-- "
A snap, Aeternas tears himself off of their jugular, shredding sensitive flesh and scales in tightened jaws - some of the offenders around him; usurpers of a peace long maintained, become doused in the crimson he's drawn. What follows is the heavy thud of his father's corpse, its neck a steady spill of crimson once it finds the ground. The loud, metallic cackle of an unfurling mechanism fills the air with white noise. Seconds later, the weight of chains - his father's sins - subdues Aeternas' upper body, the shackles born of metal so dense that his tired muscles find no reprieve. In despair and with dying flames abreast, Aeternas gives in. Many of these so-called conquerors rush in and bind wings and legs to the best of their strength and ability; a muzzle for the beast's snout, too. It takes dozens of them to secure their safety, it takes nothing to find his submission.
Your father's lifeless eyes find yours, as aimless and lost as his vision. Your fire and chains reflect off of his sclera, now still in the absence of life - absence you'd provided.
But he's long since given in, this war was lost and his kind's pride ... it died the moment Argos betrayed his people's freedom.
Then and there, dragged away in chains and submissive in stance, Aeternas vows to revive it, no matter the cost and the humiliation, he will play their game until the time is right.
Thee shalt not be broken.
{prompt 3}
Describe your character seeing someone they thought they had lost. Are they dreaming or did this person come back to life? In this intense moment can they tell the difference between reality and a mirage.
An oasis. Mother had been taken southward last he'd known, a reality he'd never perceived once again. To meet her again, to see her fluorescent scales before his eyes was a mercy from the fire in the skies. Aeternas' throat finds compound-laden saliva, the chemicals responsible for his fire finding their way down the wrong pipe. It burns, a mistake made by hatchlings now manifest by pure disbelief. A leg brings him forth, maw comes agape lightly as if looking - FINDING the desire to speak, to call her name; to find her wings around his own as she used to provide when he was young.
She does not mirror his hesitation.
' Betrayer. '
' Usurper. '
' MURDERER. '
Her voice calls and yet her lungs are not responsible. Before Aeternas' eyes, his father's corpse manifests from thin air, as lifeless as the last time he'd laid eyes on him; where Argos' own once existed, dark voids now exist, orbs made a feast by crows and worse. The smell of rot and decaying dragonfire finds his nostrils in rank dismay, the red-scaled grits his fangs and defies her immediately, yet his words threaten to remain stuck in their home, hesitant and desperate to earn her seemingly lost favor.
" HE SHATTERED US! How could I remain idle at such heresy, Mother?! "
That same, feminine voice growls in response, its tone much like the snarls of resistance his mother was known for; often used as disapproval for the ways of her mate.
" I swear to you, I will make this right. "
The scent of dust soon finds him, that of decay doubled. His father's corpse slowly joins the wind, cast to the air in little specks of ash that start at his wings, de-materializing him bit by bit ... until he fades into memories and gray. His mother meets a similar fate, her disappointed glower the last thing Aeternas sees when he lunges for her, finding nothing but ash 'pon snout and wing-claws, snatched from his grasp once more.
-
You snap awake, and nothing but the empty, cold floor of your dungeon greets you back into wakefulness - that and the faint scent of smoke and ash. You fly into a fit of rage and sear every wall around you with flames, doing naught but paint them a darker, coal-like hue. Your handlers knew of your temper all too well.
{EXTRA}
Draconic Visage: 1 & 2
Once a feared hunter of the skies, Aeternas found nothing but scorn and hatred when humanity saw it fit to make his kin beasts of burden. Murderer of his clan's flock leader; his own father, Argos, he made a solemn vow to one day take it all back - his home and his people's freedom, no matter the cost. Shackled and taken to their great cities, the red-scaled wyvern saw no choice but to submit and live, his chains a reminder of his certain future.
To men and women alike, he's a bad tempered beast, the aforementioned quality only rivaled by his brutality and fierceness in battle. Despite it all, he's co-operative and usually willing to work with his handlers, the occasional flight of anger at any particular invasion of his integrity an exception often made in the heat of the moment. To be bathed and saddled like a lesser creature ... it takes a brave heart and a persistent soul willing to weather hisses and snarls that are naught but empty threats, the latter only known to the scaled one himself.
For the time being and until this final hour comes, Aeternas aims to scheme and plot this great return, hopeful for his species - a future he dreams of attaining, be it with humanity alive to be witness, or not at all.
 
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  • FLINT
    full name
    Flint Copperwood

    nickname
    The Iron Scale

    gender
    Male

    age
    21

    d.o.b.
    November 11th
    VISAGE
    height
    5’ 10”

    build
    Has a slightly muscular build that’s covered in a thin but noticeable layer of fat.

    hair
    Dark blond

    eyes
    Verdant Green Eyes

    mods
    None

    scars
    A scar on his left arm received when he was fleeing his estate

    fc
    Jannis Niewöhner
皇甫照临







coded by reveriee.


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Flint Copperwood

21

Male

Bellator

In this battle, we all live, or we all die.
Haelorian Rider
{Rider Prompt 2}
Describe your character witnessing something that goes against their morals. What will they do?
While heading to the Threshing forest, Flint spotted two men bullying a somewhat diminutive man. Though Flint’s face shows no change, a clenched fist formed in his hands before his feet diverged away from their original destination.
When the two larger cadets see Flint, they both start slightly but quickly put on a cool, aloof demeanor. “Copperwood,” one of the bullies smirked, “what business have you graced us with today?” In response to the provocation, Flint crossed his arms. His attention fell on the jostled man. The victim, upon noticing Flint’s piercing gaze, quickly turned away. The victim was a cadet, probably on the younger side, and clearly unnerved by the presence of these two men. Flint looked back at the two men before pointedly querying, “What business do you have with this cadet?” The men glance a look at each other before showing a wry grin.
“Redwood, the other day, we allowed our fellow cadet here to borrow something, and all we’re doing is asking him for a favor in return.” At that Flint’s eyebrow is raised. The bully continues, “It’s fairly small, really. Just him taking up some cleaning duties, nothing harmful.” With that, the bullies had a grin of certainty on their faces. Flint sighed.
“We’re not allowed to exchange our duties unless we have permission from the instructors. It was explicitly stated in orientation, but you all knowingly decided to go against that rule?” At that logic, the bullies immediately frowned. Flint had called their bluff. “I’m going to have to report the three of you to your respective instructors. My business is done, here.” Without gracing them a second more, Flint rudely turned his back against the group and began walking away. Moments later, he heard the shuffling of boots on stone, causing a smile to creep up on his face.
Upon feeling the draft on his neck, Flint whirled around, deflecting a fist away from his head before grabbing the perpetrator’s arm. While keeping the arm anchored, Flint swept the cadet’s feet before unceremoniously letting the dead weight fall onto the ground. In the corner of his eye, he saw the partner staring helplessly, paralyzed in fear. That wouldn’t do. Before the accomplice could react, Flint pounced before heaving him towards the other cadet who was trying to get up.
“I have a lesson for each of you,” Flint announced. With each arm, he lifted each cadet by the ear, pulling them away from him up as far as their ears would allow. Turning to the bully that charged him, Flint began. “If you’re going to attack someone from behind, find a more opportune time to ambush them, lest you fall into a false retreat.” To the other, he advised. “If your brother in arms runs out of line, hold him back when you are able, otherwise, he’ll die and leave you alone to the enemy.” With that, Flint let go before shoving their backs.”That’ll be all, my fellow cadets. Now get out of my sight.” The two bullies scurried off without hesitation.
From the side, the bullied cadet, upon seeing it was now safe, scrambled up, mumbling his words before stammering, “Tha-than-”
“Don’t thank me and get your shit together,” Flint interrupted, walking up and into the face of the younger cadet. “I knew you didn’t actually borrow anything from them. Had they been honest, I would have been content with leaving you to those dogs so that you’d toughen up. If you allow yourself to get chewed up by the other cadets, you’ll be swallowed alive by a dragon on your Threshing Day. We don’t need more meals for the dragons, we need riders. You understand?” When the cadet nodded, Flint turned away. “Report this incident to your instructor by tonight. Otherwise, I’ll give you a worse beating than those bullies.” With that, Flint walked away, resuming his walk to the forest.
When Flint turned the corner, he let out a pained sigh without stopping his walk. He then massaged between his eyebrows before letting out another frustrated sigh. There were a million other ways he could’ve said that, but what’s done is done. Flint simply hoped this altercation would serve to strengthen his fellow cadet.
{general prompt 3}
Describe your character seeing someone they thought they had lost. Are they dreaming or did this person come back to life? In this intense moment can they tell the difference between reality and a mirage.
Flint sat within a tree clasping himself, unable to contain his shuddering. The air was warm, and the forest was empty. What terrified Flint was the echoes of personal ghosts. Whenever the unbearable nightmare resurfaced, Flint took refuge in the Threshing Forest. The forest, though dangerous, pacified Flint, these ancient groves making insignificant his own problems with history from time immemorial. Yet, despite the forest’s advanced years, it was hardly “old.” The forest teemed with life, the song of birds, mosses and mushrooms, the occasional clovened animal, and the trees themselves. Both in energy and wisdom the forest overflowed. It felt familiar and inviting, the reason why Flint loved this place so much.
A rustle broke the relative quietness, causing Flint to perk. Certainly, the cause was not a dragon. For one, the birds were still singing, a good indicator apex predators were not around. Secondly, dragons tended to be more flamboyant while wandering the forest. Regardless, Flint remained vigilant regardless. From the top of his tree, still hiding in the branches, Flint tried his best to make out any intruders. Sure enough, he saw a person emerge from one of the bushes, appearing like an ant from the height Flint was at. He needed a closer look. With nimble movements, Flint hopped down from branch to branch, taking smaller and smaller sized trees in order to make his descent.
“Who goes there?” A familiar voice yelled. Flint stopped dead, lightning shooting down his spine. There was no way he could be hearing that voice. Flint looked down, now closer to the ground than before. Flint wiped his eyes to make sure he was seeing things right. Could it really be?
“Brother?” Flint called out. “Is that you?” Flint pushed himself through the leaves, staring down at the ghost before him.
“Flint?” The figure called out, “Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over the place for you!” That definitely was him. His brother was here, alive. Flint began desperately climbing down. How was his brother here? Why was he here? His brother hollered some other stuff, but Flint wasn’t able to pay attention.
When Flint finally touched the ground, his brother asked, “So, how ha-oof!” Flint nearly tackled him when trying to hug him. His brother raised his arms as Flint squeezed his brother tightly.
“Hah,” Flint’s brother chuckled, “my little baby brother has grown up to be a fine man, but he’s still as clingy as ever.” A long awkward silence permeated the forest.
“...I’ve missed you,” Flint mumbled. Flint then moved away before grabbing his older brother’s shoulders. “There’s much I need to tell you! While you were…” Flint paused. “Gone, many events took place. After the rebels invaded our homeland, mother and father-” Flint’s brother held up a finger.
“Let’s sit down first before you go on with your story” the brother insisted, “I need this, otherwise my feet will walk off on their own in protest!” Flint paused before smiling. His brother certainly made the worst jokes.
~ a conversation later ~
Flint then let out a large sigh. “And that’s how I wound up here at this academy. Just… nothing was never the same again. Life seemed to run wild like the wind while you were gone.”
“That’s… unfortunate,” his brother consoled, “but I’m here now, and that’s all that matters!” Flint didn’t respond.
“I wish you were here…” Flint blurted without warning, “We could’ve enjoyed the academy together. If I hadn’t been such a coward, you could’ve been alive. Instead of running when those rebels invaded our countryside, I could’ve saved you. If I’d been there to defend you-”
“You would be dead,” Flint’s brother hushed, “and having my baby brother dead alongside me would have torn my soul in half.” Flint really didn’t want to hear that. Frustrated, Flint turned away. A forceful hand landed on his shoulder before he was moved face to face with his brother.
“Flint,” his brother asserted. “Don’t blame yourself. I’ve already forgiven you, and I’m proud of how far you got.” Flint was alone. From when he entered these woods till now, he had been by himself. Now, it was morning. Flint groggily attempted to figure out why he was there. That’s right, he had the nightmare, the nightmare of when his family’s estate was invaded. When he startled awake in the middle of the night, he decided to rest inside the forest but ended up falling asleep there.
“Stupid brother,” Flint muttered as a tear formed in his eyes. He wiped away the tear. It’s been too long, and if he was there any longer, someone would notice he wasn’t back from his usual morning training. Today would be one rough day.
{the fruits}
night owl
 
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Mara Esen

20

Female (cis)

Tace

{who am I here for?}
{HAELORIAN RIDER}
{prompt 3}
Describe in great detail why they decided to join the Wing Faction. Any goals they wish to accomplish.
We think you should consider it. Valmar could be good for you.
Right, yeah, Valmar could be... Papa had been right. Plenty of people came out of Valmar, they totally had. Not just any people, but incredible people. Generals, heroes, scholars, authors, Valmar took normal people and made them better. Or maybe it just killed everyone who didn't live up to it's standards. Mara tried not to think too hard on which version of the story she believed. The parapet suggested the later.
You're old enough now, imagine it, you riding a dragon!
The look on her face must have said what she was too nervous to say aloud. Her father had launched into a less than thrilling assurance that plenty of people didn't die. Her mother had just made a strange choking noise in the back of her throat. It was precisely that moment, perched on a wobbling, broken chair on one side of the kitchen table, her parents and far too many children on the other, that Mara had realized this was a simple matter, and it wasn't about her at all. It was like the ledgers she'd balanced at the apothecary during her apprenticeship. Mara wasn't bringing in enough money. She was too 'smart' to wife, too 'dumb' to work, and too expensive to keep home any longer. Valmar cost the family nothing and regardless of what happened to her it would earn the family coin. The only variable was whether the coin would be riches from her future as a great dragon rider in the military or coin and a letter apologizing for her family's loss. Either way, one less mouth to feed, one less daughter to worry about, and a growth in value for the younger kids down the line. They could try again with Juno or Byron in a few years, if they wanted and it would probably work out better. They'd never been cursed with too many questions, like Mara. They'd make a good wife or a good farmer. They'd be valuable.
It was ironic that wasn't until now, with the wind tugging at her clothing and whipping her hair back from her face, that Mara realized she was an adult who could have just said no.
She wished she had been brave enough to say no because she sure as hell wasn't brave enough to do this. The drop down was, what? Four hundred feet? Five? God, just thinking about it made her head spin- and because yet again she didn't know how to find that off switch in her brain she realized if she did manage to cross this stupid, brain dead, wasteful test there might be a day where she'd be even higher in the air. Dragon back levels of high in the air! That was- that was crazy! She'd seen a dragon saddle once in the leatherworker's shop when she went to get a belt fixed in the city. It had been big and round enough to wrap around a carriage with ease. That night she'd had nightmares of biting teeth, eyes the size of windows, rumbling that made her chest shake. She'd never wanted to see a dragon, the saddle had been close enough.
Now her father had sent her to ride one. Her stomach rolled. She was going to be sick.
The second year rider keeping track of the fresh meat barked at her to get going. She was taking too long standing in the doorway. Was there still time to say 'no'? Mara lifted her head to ask, but the offhanded glare the man sent her was enough to make her bite her tongue. She'd always liked to keep her head down, she wasn't good at it, but she tried. Besides, she was pretty sure the shame of walking past all these other hopefuls was just as likely to kill her as the parapet itself. If it did make it to the bottom alive she didn't know where she would go anyways.
Mara stepped out of the doorframe and into the full horrifying light of this stupid windy day. She eyed the path, looked down, jerked her head away from that horrible choice, and tried to think rationally before the desire to start shouting 'oh shit' over and over again won out. She stuffed her shirt in as tight as she could manage into her belt, shoved her pants leg into her boots, pulled her wash of char black hair into a bun, anything she could think of to tug lessen the greedy yanking of the wind. If she'd had a knife she might've sliced her hair clean. If it would have been aloud she might of removed the loose wave of her oversized shirt too. She would take embarrassment, humiliation, indecency, any and all of it if it meant she could make it across this stupid stone tightrope. If she didn't, one way or another, she'd die.
The second year yelled at her again. Mara took her first step and let her stupid too fast, too wandering mind roam free. It had gotten her into this mess, maybe it could get her out.
Did she even want to join the wing faction? No, but she supposed she didn't not want to either. She'd heard there was school here, she could learn, she could grow stronger than the scared little girl that hadn't remembered she could say 'no', she'd be around people that talked about more than having babies and maize fields and gossip. That all sounded great, actually, but then there was the big flying elephant in the room. Dragons. Giant, big teethed, monstrous dragons. Mara didn't think she was made for dragons, the thought of them made her knees weak and she nearly slipped. A few loose stones made the fall in her place, and they fell so far that Mara didn't even see them hit the bottom.
Her cheeks felt wet. Her chest was tight. She needed off this ledge right now. She needed to keep a steady footing so she could survive this. She wanted to survive, that was all she wanted- no, actually, it wasn't. She didn't want to survive, she wanted to live. To be more than a wife barefoot and pregnant or a shopkeeper worried about their ledgers or another mouth to feed. She wanted to be fucking important for once... Which meant right now? She needed to put one foot in front of the other and think of anything but dragons.
{prompt 4}
Write your own prompt: Write about the moment your character learns what it will cost to get the thing they want most. How do they react? What do they say and do?
Gods, he was dead. An hour ago he'd been alive, he'd had that horrible lumpy pudding for lunch and complained about next period's lecture. He'd had thoughts, dreams, maybe he would have even had a dragon soon enough. Mara had never liked him, he was brutish and arrogant and looked past her every time they spoke. If anyone else had done it, she might have felt happy about him being gone. But no one else had blood on their hands.
Mara had killed him on the mats in a spray of blood and a flash of steel. It had gone everywhere, the walls, the floors, everywhere. To Mara's delayed horror she could taste it, copper and sharp against her tongue even after throwing up more than once. It felt wrong. She wasn't a killer, she hadn't come here to become a killer! Not even a killer of bullies or braggarts or stupid men with big mouths... Only she was. She was and even though she's lost her lunch of lumpy porridge after it and sobbed so violently that her eyes ached, she could never change the fact that she was glad he was dead and proud to be the one who did it.
She could never change that her first thought then she felt the spray of blood against her skin and heard the dull thump of his body against the mats was that there was one less person to worry about at threshing. It had been satisfying, hearing the thump, even while her skin crawled at the new warmth on her face, because fuck she'd needed that win. She needed her rank to go up, and she needed to make it through threshing. It was only now, once the adrenaline started to fade and her mind rushed back to greet her with the force of a freight train that she remembered Reed had been a person, not a number. Not a rank. A person just like her who was just trying to make it through Valmar alive.
How had she become this? She used to cry when a sheep died in the flock at home! She teared up reading books, she still trembled when a dragon flew over the courtyard, she was a good person! ... Right?
{extra}
I'm still, admittedly, trying to find Mara's voice.
The core concept of this character is a classic coming of age story mixed with a cowardly lion story. She comes to Valmar on the whims of others, used to bowing her head and going where she's told, finding the path of least resistance in her large poor family. She speaks her mind too much with too little conviction, and it isn't until the parapet, staring down death by about 500 feet that she realizes maaaaybe she needs to do a little less of that. Maybe she should try to be someone important, someone who says 'no' and become meaningful to others. I'd love to see her grow into herself at Valmar and find out that maybe she can be great. I think a small part of her also thinks she deserves to show the people that pushed her around or doubted her the error of their ways. Definitely potential for an evil arch with her if she gets paired up with the wrong people/dragon. All things said and done, I want to watch this character grow up and become stronger, gain confidence in herself, find her morals, and get her butt handed to her a few times along the way.
Also would be entirely open to switching from Tace to another type of rider. Since Mara doesn't entirely know what kind of person she's going to grow into becoming it seems perfectly appropriate to wiggle her around if thats how the numbers need it to go.
Stiiiill watermelon cause it's always the best
{watermelon because yum}
night owl

  • MARA
    full name
    Mara Esen

    role
    Haelorian Rider

    nickname
    n/a

    gender
    Female

    age
    20

    d.o.b.
    March 28

    sexuality
    Homosexual
    VISAGE
    height
    5'6"

    weight
    140 lbs

    build
    Mara has a strange combination of muscle from farm work and gangly limbs from lack of food when she arrives at Valmar but will grow to have a compact build, her naturally delicate structure clashing with the muscle she packs on to survive.

    hair
    Dark as a raven's wing, Mara's hair usually is braided back to keep it out of the way and clean, but when loose reveals natural waves. It falls to just below her shoulder blades and is often braided through with decorative trinkets like carved beads or pins from home.

    eyes
    light blue

    mods
    NA

    scars
    On her right calf the skin is puckered and discolored with a smattering of ugly, uneven scars in roughly a half moon arch from when she was attacked by an untrained hound. She has a variety of scars from daily life on the farm (most being relatively small or a result more so of poor healing processes without access to medicine than any serious incidents).

    style
    Mara dresses mostly for practicality rather than style. She wears sturdy, sleek clothes in bland or darker colors that don't draw attention to herself and will hold up over time in the abuse they suffer in Valmar's Wing Faction. Clothes, in her mind are more a tool for the day's activities than a method of self expression. Self expression comes in smaller packages, like a brass necklace pendant in the shape of a sun, a gift from her mother, that she wears wrapped around her wrist (where no one can use it to choke her during training), the carved wooden hair beads that she weaves into her braids, goodbye gifts from her siblings. Self expression, to her, is the tidy way she folds her clothes to prevent creases when she wears them or the square farm knots she uses to tie her shoes each day, or the way she does her braids.

    fc
    Katie McGrath specifically in early seasons of Merlin
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S
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coded by reveriee.
 
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  • THE HAELORIAN HEIR
    full name
    laron thaddeus alden

    courtesy name
    prince laron

    gender
    male

    age
    nineteen

    d.o.b.
    august 1st

    sexuality
    bisexual, male leaning
    VISAGE
    bulid
    laron stands at 6'2" and, though he may seem unimposing, conceals lethal muscles beneath fine silks and fabric. His well-defined muscles grant him an elegant, streamlined physique.

    hair
    taking his striking reddish-brown hair form light c-curls, a trait he inherited from his mother

    eyes
    dark moss green with speckles of brown

    scars
    small minor scaring along his body from training

    specilaity
    bellator

    faceclaim
    ruairi o'connor
拉倫







coded by reveriee.
 
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  • Holly
    full name
    Holly

    courtesy name
    Healer

    nickname
    None

    gender
    Femalle

    age
    19

    d.o.b.
    Unknown

    sexuality
    Lesbian
    VISAGE
    height
    5'7

    weight
    Slightly Underweight

    build
    Lean Muscle

    hair
    Long, brown, curly, plain, usually kept in a tight bun or otherwise controlled. It is a point of vanity, but she refuses to let it interfere.

    eyes
    Warm Brown

    Distinguishing Features
    Her face has the very beginning of stress lines, but can be quite striking when not exhausted, and there is a well of kindness in her eyes when she is not focusing on being cold.

    scars
    A few small training scars on her arms and legs, from sparring, and a small scar on her left ring finger, an accident when she was learning to use a scalpel.

    style
    She generally used simple browns and greens, often needing to pull double duty as road-clothes and healer's robes.

    fc
    EMMANUELLE CHRIQUI The Borgias
信仰疗法术士







coded by reveriee.


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Holly

18

Female

Sanctorum

Suffer, Break, or Bleed for Them, but Never Die
Rebel Rider
Rider Prompt 3
Describe in great detail why they decided to join the Wing Faction. Any goals they wish to accomplish.
Her hands moved with a sureness her mind could no longer manage, removing a bolt from a man’s gut, applying a poultice, sealing, and offering him a brief, murmured prayer that he would not fall prey to a gut infection. Even as she spoke she was already moving onto the next patient, and still even now she felt a sickening lurch when she saw the beginning of a sickly look on his own gut wound. She bandaged him and offered a comforting murmur, but she could not afford to spend medicine on a dead man. From the stricken look in his eyes, he knew the same, although she almost thanked him when he closed them, accepting it for what it was.
Her step still could not slow, and she moved on. The next injury was mercifully minor, compacted damaged armor needing to be peeled off, test the ribs, then move on. No broken ribs meant that any further treatment of bruises and pain could wait until triage was over. Another step, another patient, this time a bolt-damaged helm. A different tool from her belt, find the spot it failed, carefully pry apart and remove. Offer him condolences, and turn him on his side. A little medicine, just in case he beat the odds, but for a punctured skull, the odds were poor. Step ever onward.
The next one she was called to, taking extra steps with more difficulty than she would like. Another healer had just amputated a crushed leg, and needed her to fully cauterize, clean, and bandage. With mechanical efficiency, she did, knowing that a moment lost would be death. Turning back yet again, she returned to her rotation to find a chest wound. Cutting away cloth and armor, she couldn’t help the hissed breath at what she found, met by escaping air from their chest. A punctured lung was a dead man, and there was nothing she could do, not here, not now. Forcing herself to turn once again she found another wounded, and far too still. She cut open their armor once again, and what she found was far too much blood. They had been alive when they got here, and now they were dead, bled out by wounds nobody had seen.
She couldn’t help but still, even as she fought herself to step on. If she had been but faster, more skilled, better they might have lived. In that moment of tunnel vision, something hit her from the side. She fell back, the world rushing in, countless groans, and sighs, and whispers, interrupted only by frequent screaming and sobbing. A man stood over her, yelling furiously, “Where were you earlier damn you! Both of them could have lived!” He kicked her in the ribs and she could do little but curl in as he spat venom, “They died because of you, you pathetic bi-”
One of the armed guards in the healer’s tent finally reached them, shoving the man back a step, a raised blade demanding he step down. Instead his fury simply turned to the guard, “And here you are, a useless fucking prick, too weak for a real battlefield or to actually save anyone. Well? What are you going to do? Drag me up before those damned dragons? Maybe one of their damn Saints should have helped us!” Seemingly overcomed, he charged the guard, and was unceremoniously cut down.
The unknown guard was already cleaning their blade as she watched the corpse of the man settle onto the floor. She couldn’t help but briefly stare. He had been so alive with burning fury, so vivid, and yet as she leaned over to close his eyes, she knew he had made a choice, had joined the ones he cared so much for. She dragged herself to her feet, ignoring a litany of her body’s complaints, and was surprised to hear a young, light-sounding voice from the guard, “Um. Excuse me Ma’am, but you should probably rest. You are injured.”
As she turned to step away once again her reply was simple, “The work is not done.” The guard still spoke, but the voice was consigned to the same blank part of her brain as the screams. A step, an arrow wound, prognosis mostly good. Step, a deep gash, infected, but not too deeply. Clean, poultice, protect, make sure the man knew to call out if it got even slightly worse. Another step, a deep chest-wound, clean, sew, apply poultice, save a life and hope it stays closed and they stay saved.
Another step, and then she felt something give. Her vision blurred, her step faltered, and she simply fell forward, like a puppet with it’s strings cut. She thought she might have been caught, oddly enough, but she quickly couldn’t process anything else. As her consciousness faded entirely, she felt almost as if she was being carried, almost cradled. Her dreams in the depths of unconsciousness lingered on and circled around the Saints, renowned as they were, miracle workers in truth. She felt a longing to be able to do more. When she awoke later, there was a clarity in her eyes, a knowledge of what she felt she must try to do. The heights, the wings, she must strive to achieve. In the meantime the battle was only winding down, so she ate a piece of bread, drank deep from a well-water bucket, and once more stepped towards another patient.
Rider Prompt 2
Describe your character witnessing something that goes against their morals. What will they do?
The guard stared long at her pass, and even longer at her, a suspicious look in his eye and a hand on his sword. Eventually he waved her through, and she stepped into the dingy darkness of a poorly maintained fort jail. Dust, dirt, and rust, alongside a few healthy strains of mold. As she walked she couldn’t help but catalog ways to break out. It wouldn’t be easy, but some poisoned food to the guard, the right tools in that empty cell with the rusted out window, and it could be done.
Before she could continue plotting, her footsteps took her to the one occupied cell, containing her erstwhile tutor. The old woman sat in meditation, eyes closed. Simply too at peace to notice her, since of course there was no way the old prick would ignore her student. As a caring student she must clearly announce her presence, which was of course the only reason she banged on the bars of the cell with the empty sheath of her dagger. Her voice was similarly filled with bored politeness, “Wake up you hag.”
When the old woman’s eyes opened they were filled with sympathetic pity, and if there had not been bars in the way she would have attacked her, hissing and scratching. Her damnable mentor rose with difficulty to her feet, struggling without a walking stick or assistance. Holly watched, and refused to allow herself to feel stirred by it, to allow it to ache. That creaking old voice spoke first, “Nice of you to visit girlie. A sight for sore old eyes one last time.”
She knew her spine grew stiff and her face grew blank, knew that externally she looked cold as ice. More than that she already knew the accursed answer she was about to receive. Still her voice spoke, flat as could be, “I could get you out of here tonight, within a few hours. Hemlock and a few other choice herbs in a muffin for the guard. A cell back there faces away from the main yard and seems to have been subject to the bulk of the roof’s drippings, rusted through. We could be into the woods and away.”
Even as she stared into the hags' eyes, she saw the pitying denial in them, and she held onto tranquility as tightly as she could. When the old prick spoke, she could all but predict her words, “Child, there won’t be any escapes. I am an old woman now, my running days are over. I would also see that your running days never begin. I will face justice as I should, no more, no less.”
She felt that burn in her chest, felt it ache. She refused to let herself think about the other reasons, but in doing so her fury at the reasoning on the face of it became uncontrollable. She grabbed one of the bars of the cell, to steady herself, to avoid lashing out, and spoke with a hiss, “What justice damn you. The ego’s of fool nobles? Your own self-sacrificial madness? If you had just stayed an N.C.H. this wouldn’t even be possible. How is a noble brat even worth this?”
The old woman’s eyes closed, a strange, sad little smile on her face. It made Holly want to claw it off. Especially when her mentor shook her head and spoke with that same smile on her face, “You know just as well as I that I never fit in with proper military procedures and all their rules about adventurous herb usage. They were desperate for someone to save their son, they would have kept looking. That I couldn’t save him is my crime, and for better or for worse it is not mine to decide if that is murder.”
Holly ripped her hand away from the bar and turned away, crossing her arms to pretend for her dignity that it was in a huff. She could not stop the weeping, but she could suppress the sobbing. They both knew just as well as the other that the reason her mentor wasn’t an N.C.H. anymore was her own adoption. Knew that she had stayed out despite finding ways to continue her work, just to keep Holly safe. She refused to acknowledge the choke in her flat voice when she spoke, “And what am I to do you old bastard? Where am I to go? How will I finish my training?”
She could hear the smile in the old windbag's voice, even while refusing to look at her, “Holly, you don’t need training. As all healers do you will, and you must, continue to study and learn, but you have worked at my hip since you were eight, done your own work since fifteen. I have rarely seen steadier hands or a sharper mind for medicine and the body. You can go anywhere, find some small village, settle down as a local healer, maybe find a nice girl to room with. You are young, live like it, pay no further mind to the old fool that picked you up off the road.”
She wanted- She didn’t know what she wanted. To fight, to scream, to sob, to lunge at the old woman and shake her until she saw sense. Instead she simply forced herself to stand still, until she could put ice back into her chest, and back into her voice. Then she spoke, cold as could be, “Fine you old bastard. What was the saying you taught me? ‘You can’t save those too foolish to be saved?’ If you want to die then be done with you.”
Ignoring any further words she walked out, holding herself to a flat walk, keeping her face without emotion, pretending her eyes weren’t red. She held herself cold as ice as she walked past the guard, he said something and she could not hear it over the pounding in her ears, but she nodded, and he seemed satisfied. She collected her daggers, returned them to their sheathes, and walked out of the jail. She tread just as monotonously out of the fort, and out into the woods, well away from any human. She sat down against a tree, allowed herself to wrap her arms around her body, and only then did she break down sobbing.
It was ugly, loud, messy, and she hated it. It was a vulnerability, it was a foolish desire. She hated that she couldn’t stop, that she couldn’t control this. She hated it so much, and yet she hated more the thought that tomorrow morning she would have to watch her mother be executed in cold blood for the sake of fools justice. Yet no, she couldn’t allow that lie to stand. Her mother, the damnable noble fool, would die for her.
She clawed her shirt down and away from her body, ignoring the pain, and forcing herself not to actually rip the damn thing. There they were, those damned tattoos, marking her as a rebel for a cause she had never known, by people she knew little of. Her mother couldn’t risk the scrutiny of a proper military organization, for her. Her mother couldn’t run because if somebody found out she was rebel-marked, there was a chance that dragons, rather than men, would come for them. Her mother couldn’t tell idiot nobles to fuck off, because she knew that her student didn’t have the standing to do the same.
Holly hated the pathetic way she curled in on herself, falling fully to the ground, among treeroots. She hated that she couldn’t stop sobbing, hoped only that she had gotten far enough away to be unheard. She couldn’t even name what she wanted, but gods, she wanted. To feel safe again, to feel comforted again, to stage some dramatic rescue, to wake up and know it was a nightmare, to hug her mother once more. It was hysterical, foolish. Her mother had never been one for physical affection anyway, and yet she lay here sobbing wishing that one last time she could be held cradled in her arms like when she was a child.
The next morning she stood in her traveler’s cloak, hood up, at the back of a crowd. There was jostling, and jeering, as they all stood before a raised executioner’s block. An old woman was led out to the block, and when she struggled to kneel, she was shoved. Without a word she simply recovered to her knees and put her head atop the block. A man stood besides the headsman, reading off some words of false justice. Her mother stared out at the crowd, and unerringly spotted her, despite the cloak. She smiled, a soft, kind look in the crinkle around her eyes. Then she closed her eyes, and shortly after, the headsman’s ax fell.
Holly walked for two days, before eventually collapsing in a shadowed nook of a forest. Her sleep was troubled by nightmares, by guilt, by sorrow. When she awoke, she sat up, ignoring the bone-deep pain throughout her body, and she thought. She thought of battlefield after battlefield, skirmish after skirmish, where they had done everything, blood sweat and tears, to save every life they could. She thought of it all crashing down solely because of privilege and foolishness. She thought of her mother’s advice, and for a moment she considered it. Disappearing into a quiet life, caring for the wounds of farmers and hunters, delivering babies. In the end, she couldn’t accept it, couldn’t accept stopping here. There was only one place she could go to get the power needed to keep people safe, only one place she could take her healing beyond any natural limit.
She ate the last of her food, drank from her waterskin, and then she stood, ignoring the pain, and set out. By the time she arrived, the hunger pangs were beginning to be overpowering. A larger fort, holding some authority over the region. The guards were reluctant to show in a bedraggled wanderer, but when they passed on her mother’s name to the man in charge, she was ushered in. While she waited, someone was even kind enough to bring her some bread, and a little bit of a hard cheese. Eventually, she was shown in.
The man, whose name and rank she honestly could not remember, leveled a serious stare at her before he spoke, “You certainly aren’t the woman whose name you used as cachet. Explain yourself.”
Her voice held nothing when she spoke, “I am her student, perhaps her damned successor by now. She is dead, executed for the crime of a noble brat getting himself too injured to be saved and not having the decency to die.” A little spiteful hope blooms in her heart when she sees the fury in the man’s eyes. Her mother had saved many lives, and her death might yet backlash. Still, she came here for another reason, and she knew the man's honor wouldn’t change his actions there over this.
Unable to think of a better idea, she simply lifted her shirt, showing the distinctive magical black tattoos that ran across her stomach. Her voice remained business-like when she spoke, “I am here to turn myself in, and to throw myself on the ‘mercy’ of the law, as well as accept my draft into the military academy. I was orphaned young, and only later discovered their nature. My mentor never knew.”
She saw it in the man’s face, fury, confusion, the knowledge that she was lying. Still, when he spoke, it was in the tone of a leader, “Your falsehoods dishonor your mentor.” For a moment I feared I had misjudged him, but he continued “I am sure she would have wanted you to be properly registered, and do your proper duty had she known. I will look into this news of her death, and you must do your best to now honor her memory. Please see yourself out to the guard and down to the cells. You will need to wait here until matters can be fully determined, and you can be sent off.”
She couldn’t help but shoot him a thankful look, and then she turned, for the first time in a long time obediently, to go. As she left the room, he quietly spoke one last time, “Good luck with the Threshing Holly. I can’t say she would have wanted this for you, but she wanted you to have your own courage, your own life. I hope you don’t die for it.”
General Prompt 2
What would a perfect day look like for your character? What could instantly sour their mood?
Ah there it was, the last little herb, a nice hemlock. As she kneeled down to pick at it she took a look around, coming to an unfortunate conclusion. It was a little too close to where she had seen children playing during the last day’s work. She hated to do it, but it only took one errant too curious child a single mistake. With a careful hand she gently revealed it’s roots, and pulled it up. With a little luck she might get it to grow in her cottage. Her errand done for the moment she let her face turn to the open sky, and into the wind, a moment of peace. The sun shone through the trees, and she enjoyed its filtered light.
Still, as necessary as this trip out for ingredients was, she ought to head back home. She liked her peace, liked her freedom, but people always had their troubles, and she liked to spend her days around her home when she could. She walked with a measured pace back through town, taking a slightly longer route and enjoying the fruits of her labors She didn’t like when others remembered it so clearly, but for herself she liked to remember all the times she had had her hands in their lives, a broken leg here, a fever there, a broken arm, a broken heart, all three of that woman’s children.
She approached her little cottage at last, holding the warmth of what she had achieved in her chest, and enjoying the garden she had cultivated. She breezed in through the door, taking a few careful moments to precisely sort out her collected supplies. She was thankful once again for a well-crafted basket and a collection of small clothes. There were a great many alchemical complexities she wanted to avoid, and also the slightly crucial element of ensuring things like hemlock didn’t get into anything else. She didn’t even notice her ___ entering the room, a gentle touch to her back, and a kind greeting. The woman would be off into town for her own business, and Holly happily watched her leave, only distantly confused as to why she couldn’t see her face.
No sooner than the other woman had left, Holly heard another set of foot-steps. Even as they approached she was beginning to diagnose. A slow, strained step, but even, so likely not a leg problem. As they grew close she heard normal breathing, but when they went to open the door it was slow, fumbling. By the time they entered she was sitting in a rocking chair with a selection of little treatments. It was always entirely possible she was wrong, but rustling around in her collection again was no great sacrifice.
Still,looking at the man’s face, she had a feeling she was correct. Indeed, a short conversation revealed sleeping problems. Persistent headaches and breathing issues, hopefully seasonal, but the loss of sleep was a problem. She sent him on his way, with a tincture to ease sleep, and hopes that it was nothing more. The dam broken, more began to arrive. A young mother whose child she had recently delivered complaining of pain, an examination indicated no issue, so a small cloth bundle of herbs was offered to steep into tea and ease the pain. A child with a scraped knee and quiet tears, sent on her way with a bound and clean knee alongside an ointment.
Living these simple lives still held plenty of its own dangers though, and the next man’s broken leg proved that. His friend spent the duration of her aligning and treatment berating him for inept boar hunting, and she graciously ignored that the friend had carried the man here, alongside the worry in his eyes. She told them both that if he kept off the leg, and drank her little teas he would heal without issue. There was a concerning restlessness in the young man’s eyes, but she was reassured by his friend's stubborn air. The next through her door wanted a love potion, but with a little prodding just wanted courage. She poured a healthy dose of liquid in a skin with appropriate dramatics, patted him on the back, and told him to drink it, wait, and go see them. No courage like moonshine courage.
The next through her door was a child with a toothache, and she gently examined her mouth. Nothing too serious, but it ought to be removed as the baby tooth it was. With clever application of a treat, she sent the child on her way happy. Then there was a man with a rotting arm, and a rush of activity with fire and blades. As he only began to recover there was a man with a ruined gut, and she gave him a mixture heavy with hemlock and tears. No sooner did his cries quiet than a man with a grievous headwound, then a girl with a shattered ribcage, and a man with a hollow skull. Then her door came crashing down, and an ancient crone stood within it.
A rotting skull atop her shoulders, scraps of meat connected to a corpse by hemlock roots, long clawed fingers, and fury in her scream. The branch of holly in those fingers was what paralyzed Holly, unable to move, unable to look away. An aged corpse standing in the shattered doorway of a cottage, empty night behind it. She could hardly process the rot creeping over-always there on the walls before that corpse lunged for her. She could not defend herself as it wrapped its hands around her throat and began to strangle her, shaking her by the neck and screaming in a rattling, awful, gristly voice, “How could you betray me, how could you throw it all away, how could you discard me!”
“I-I-I”, and then she forced herself awake, her own hands around her throat as if to pry away-finish the job. Shaking she dragged herself into the corner of her cell, refusing to allow herself to sob or scream even as she wept. She had quite enough trouble without waking her guards or the other prisoners, especially not now, with less than a week until she would go to to the War College. So close, so far, and she couldn’t help but feel paralyzed. Could she succeed? Would her success matter? If she failed, and she saw an afterlife, could she ever explain, ever justify?
{extra}
Holly is an orphan, twice over at that. First by a war she never saw, then by something she does not know. A rebel child sent to a backwater village, that village destroyed before she had done any real growing up. She was found wandering, half starved to death, surviving only by luck and berries. She had no memory of a name or an identity, or even what happened. All she knew was that everyone was dead, and there wasn’t anyone else.
Luckily for her, she was found by a healer, who went to great pains to nurse her back to health. Unfortunately, while the child might not know, the healer certainly knew what the tattoos marking her body meant. A proper loyal countrywoman ought to turn her in, she might even be able to raise her anyway. Yet the nurse stared into that child’s innocent eyes, and instead simply left, telling noone. She named her Holly, but never felt right giving her a new family name.
She became a wandering healer, helping small villages, and working as a supplemental or emergency healer in various battles. She tried to keep the child sheltered from it. For better or worse, Holly was a sharp and curious child, getting into everything. More than that, she viewed her mother as a kind of hero, and wanted to become like her. In the end, she did, for better or for worse. Now she wants to carry that legacy higher and further, but it’s anyone’s guess whether she will survive it, physically, spiritually, or mentally.
Favorite fruit has gotta be cherries. Note to Nebby, don’t fucking delete this(AGAINx2) before posting you idiot. Also general note, the third prompt is also because of idiocy, I realized after finishing two that back when I had a bunch of prompts in a doc and was making choices, I got things mixed up and did two rider prompts. To keep things proper I did a third general prompt.
{the fruits}
night owl
 
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  • THE UNDESERVING
    name
    Fang

    nickname
    The False Dragon

    age
    ??? years old

    birthday
    Some time in December

    gender & sexuality
    Male | Bisexual

    role
    White Dragon

    portrayed by
    Harry Lloyd
    VISAGE
    general
    Fang takes the form of a fine-boned, thin man with oddly pale skin, brilliant white hair, and blood-red eyes. His face is angular and somewhat gaunt looking with an overall delicate quality. He has often been mistaken for a specter.

    Height
    5'8

    hair
    White, shoulder length.

    eyes
    Blood Red

    scars
    Many.

    dragon appearance


    Fang is a very, very small dragon although he still retains the fierceness of his kind—only on a miniature scale. He is graceful and very aerodynamic, with the minimum amount of spikes and horns and scales that are much thinner and flexible than usual. At first it would seem that his only color comes from his eyes, but the sun reveals a beautiful pearl-like iridescence that shines many colors.

    Dragon Height
    WIP

    eyes
    Blood Red.

    notable dragon features
    His lack of color. It immediately distinguishes him from any surrounding dragons.
Fang







coded by reveriee.
 
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  • MIRETH
    full name
    mireth

    role
    blue dragon

    nickname
    the wraith

    gender
    female

    age
    310 years old

    d.o.b.
    nov. 16

    sexuality
    bisexual

    face claim
    jessie mei li

    played by
    ribbitz ribbitz
    VISAGE
    build
    Despite her outwardly soft features, particularly given the roundness and plumpness of her face and cheeks, many are caught off guard by the muscle that Mireth possesses when she chooses to call on it. Her frame is not particularly small as she stands at around 5'6", with longer legs and a shorter torso. Her strength primarily lies in her legs and toned calves but there is a fair amount of muscle in her upper body, especially in her core.

    hair
    Mireth has very dark, wavy locks that she often brushes down in attempts to tame. She typically braids her hair down the middle of her back in one long strand or finds another means at pulling it back out of her face. Due to her preference to keep it out of her way, she prefers to keep her hair cut at should length or chin length.

    eyes
    She has chestnut colored eyes. Her gaze is often hard set and rather shamelessly entrapped on whatever her target is at a given time. Whether it be another person or a task, her eyes give way to her primary target until she relents.

    scars/distinguishing marks
    Mireth has a scar across the bridge of her nose that appears especially deep during the day. She has two moles; one below her right ear and one along the left of her collarbone.

    dragon inspiration
    along these lines

    dragon appearance
    Mireth's dragon form is on the smaller end of blue dragons but she is certainly not the smallest. She uses her size to her advantage, sneakily avoiding being seen when she best sees fit and hiding amongst the trees or in caves. Her scales are a blue akin to the morning sky - shifting from dark to light blue when the light lands on her form just right. It can be hard for her to hide in darker settings due to her lighter shade, although it works out relatively well as she prefers to spend her time near water and hanging near cliff edges. Her steps are light and calculated, moving akin to a cloud in the sky at a just noticeable pace when stalking about. In some ways, her form is very graceful due to its lithe movements and she carries herself with as much confidence as she can muster.

    Her head adorns four sleek and curved horns that barely protrude, instead resting nearly against her scalp. Her back, however, is littered with bristling spikes that fade from the darker hue of her body to a lighter shade, making for some pointed edges contrasting her scales. Her tail is smooth when compared to her torso, free of spikes but often carried in a more stiff position. It is the part of her that remains on edge as though ready to strike and keep others at bay.

    dragon scars
    Mireth has the same deep scar on her face, though it fares much longer between her eyes and across the expanse of her nose to the upper lip.
觅勒特







coded by reveriee.

font callfont callfont call
mireth

310

female, she/her

blue dragon

she wanders through the midnight's hush
the wraith
PROMPT 2
Detail a moment that changed the trajectory of your character’s life for better or for worse. Reflect on how much your character has changed.
The fresh scent of salty water carried through the breeze as feet clamored about stone-paved grounds. Mireth loved the sea, although it was just the little bit that she had explored her short life. The mere seven year old had only one guardian. One companion she was destined to hold near and dear from the day she was born. Her mother was a gift. Her gift. Just for her.

 Ever-curious, the dark haired child continued on her adventure near the sea. Bare toes carried her up chipped steps until she reached a pathway to the edge of the forest.

 It was one miscalculation. A stumble of her frail limbs that sent her to the ground, scraping her knee.

 "Ah, Mama!" The child whimpered, tears immediately stinging at the corners of her eyes as she knelt further into the stone path. It had been a perfect day. The sun sat high in the sky. She had dreams of touching it when she grew older. Yet a shadow loomed oddly above, clouding her from the sunny day and bringing further upset into her soul. Looking up expectantly, Mireth was met with a dark figure. That was not her mother at all.

 No, instead of the familiar comforting face of Sylvaine stood an odd man. He did not utter a sound. Perhaps the sight of her drove him just as speechless as Mireth felt in the moment.

 Stay close. Do not speak with strangers. She recalled her mother saying countless times before. Luckily, Mireth was shy and she feared her mother's reaction if she were to put herself in any danger. The duo remained silent. A young child unwavering in an eye contest with this burly, dark-haired, soulless looking man.

 "Step away from her, Thalvar," came the typically soothing voice of her mother. This time it boomed, crackling like thunder with the demand.

 All he did was chuckle. Mireth breathed a sigh of relief. One she had not realized she was holding until the strange man's eyes averted to her mother. She did not follow suit. She continued to stare at him, taking in the shifts of his appearance. His olive-toned skin was withered. It carried wrinkles and scars like none she had seen. Perhaps he was a soldier in the battle stories she once heard. Many markings prevented his beard from growing evenly, patches marked in his stubble from the deep damage to his facial tissue. His hair flowed to his chin in scraggly waves. It was an unkempt mess that did nothing to make him appear more friendly.

 "Why, Sylvaine... I would never touch a hair on your Youngling's head," the disgruntled voice echoed. Yet he did not move from where he stood before Mireth. Instead, he further blocked the child from her mother's view.

 Frustration washed over Mireth immediately. She sensed it from her mother. The discomfort, on edge. She was a breath away from a knee jerk reaction.

 "I told you never to come near us again. I will never forgive you," her mother stated, shoes crackling against the path as she neared the pair, eager to snag her daughter from this man.

 Now this piqued the nosy child's interest. She had nearly forgotten the blood-scraped knee at this point as Mireth shifted, palms of her hand rotating her little body around to watch the pair.

 "His death wasn't my fault. You two owed me, you broke our promise!" Thalvar roared, clenching his fists. Mommy broke a promise? Mireth wondered to herself, head cocked to the side. Mother would never break a promise. She was honest and kind and helpful. She would give her life to help others and Mireth had no doubt. This man must tell false truths!

 It seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. Mireth fell back from her hands and knees as the pair of adults shifted before her eyes, palms clutching at the weeds peeking between the path she sat upon. In the field before her stood a blue dragon - her mother - and a much larger brown dragon. Perhaps the largest Mireth had ever seen in her life. It seemed the pair had a conversation of their own as they tumbled about, Thalvar overpowering her with ease.

 Then her mother froze. Maybe Mireth screamed. Maybe she wept. Or she shook or turned away, she didn't know. Sylvaine had taken one glimpse at her daughter before collapsing beneath this beast and writhing in pain.

 "M-Ma! Help! Help her, what's wrong, Mama?!" She had screamed. It felt endless. The man was gone by the time the little girl was able to run over to her mother, cradling her head in her little hands.

 As Mireth aged, she did not remember what her mother's voice sounded like. She was lucky enough to still see her mother most days. But it was the way Sylvaine wailed on that day, many years ago, that Mireth would never forget. Her savior had been her grandfather. When the mother and daughter did not return home, he personally sought them out until he found Mireth's presence, crying above her mother's unconscious figure.

 Sylvaine was alive but the electric shock and force intruding through her mental barriers was too much to bare. Especially since Mireth had no way of helping her mother after the fact. Mireth grew to be more reserved than she was as a child. Sylvaine never spoke again and was only a shell of herself. If Mireth had done something - anything. Maybe things would be different now.

 The thought never ceased to escape her. Glaring into the clear blue lake she had found, she sensed soulless, dark eyes staring back at her. "Helpless," her voice sneered, swatting her hand through the water as though it would free her. Didn't anyone tell her there was no escaping yourself?
PROMPT 3
Describe their desperate attempt as they struggle in battle. Will they save themselves or save others?
What happened to that little girl? The one that once skipped rocks and sang to those who sat high in the sky. To the powers that be for blessing her with such a beautiful world which she was free to explore.

 Now she was a harbinger of death. A terrible sign of what was to come to those who dared cross her path. It was not necessarily because she was strong, tactical and skilled in battle. No, none of that.

 Mireth was just bad luck. She knew it. She could feel it stinging her deep in her being.

 Perhaps that was why her sky blue scales leaked blue, drenched in a mixture of her own blood and those of her opponents. She laid there, pinned beneath another. Their black claws dug into her flesh. She yowled in pain, breathing into their face but not quite fighting to be released. Her small frame thrashed against the ground, wriggling meagerly as she heard others around her scurrying in fight. Maybe it was time for her to go. She had tried. She tried to redeem herself. Her own presence may finally be a sign that it was time for her to go. There was little she could offer anyone in this position, after all.

 "Never be bested. Always defend yourself. Until your dying breath, Mireth."

 The voice echoed eerily in her mind. She had heard it a few times before. It was but a distant memory at this age. It was a conversation she had many years ago. As a child, she tried on her father's human armor. It was quite literally a heavy burden for the child as her mother strapped on the chestplate, holding it by the shoulders so that it did not weigh her daughter down. She had never met her father but she knew a few tales of the deceased dragon. Now she was older and presumably wiser. So why did she hear her mother? This telltale advice that had kept her alive when she actually had the energy to fight.

 Her head, which had drooped to the ground beneath her, lolled to the side to gather her surroundings. It seemed she was on the losing side. Though she was the only one barely putting up a fight. These were the eager fighters of those who had people to get back to. Maybe one day she would have someone to get back to, if only she held on again. Until her dying breath.

 With the last burst of energy she had, Mireth kicked out her legs until she could slip out of her attacker's weight and grip. She was known for her speed and sly agility, abilities that were particularly handy for staying hidden as not to scare others or bear the brunt of their jokes for her reputation. Allowing herself one gasp of fresh air, she lurched to the side to knock another opponent from where they had been wrestling about in the ground. Today, she planned to be the harbinger of death, and she would not feel bad for that if it kept those around her safe.
EXTRA
  • this is generally how mireth's dragon form looks - here and here. it is important to note that she is on the smaller end of dragons - even among other blue dragons, she is not typically the largest of them.
  • mireth's reputation is entirely due to her own representation of herself and in part simply due to unlucky altercations. she is not fond of killing and has never enjoyed being associated with the death or misfortunes of others. ever since her mother's death, she feels as though fate and others mock her for failing to aid Sylvaine. she constantly wonders what if? in regards to the day her mother lost her sanity and wishes she had done more. now, she regards herself as unlucky and prefers to steer clear of others for the fear of leading to their demise in some way. although some cruel folk have teased and bullied her, the majority of rumors about her are just that - rumors. being called "the wraith" has come about by often being in the wrong place at the wrong time and for stories about how her mother came to be of poor health.
  • luckily, due to her smaller stature, mireth has become a master of sneaking around. she enjoys keeping to herself so as not to put herself in potential antagonizing interactions with others. also, as she considers herself unlucky, she thinks it best to minimize her interactions with innocent folk that may get too close to her.
  • mireth loves the sea and nature. it is where she can be found most often.
  • she enjoys star gazing and has a soft spot for astrology and the world beyond.
  • mireth is also loyal to a fault. she is quick to fall into the trap of loving others. especially after the loss of her mother's sanity, she fears being unable to keep others safe. so she would rather keep them at arm's length so that it will not hurt further if she believes she has failed someone.
  • she believes actions speak louder than words - but will always be the first to apologize, even if it is not necessarily her fault.
  • i'm allergic to fruit but i recently tried mango for the first time and enjoyed the sweetness and how soft it was - although it caused a lot of pain so i didn't get very far.
{the fruits}
night owl
 
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  • DILLON
    full name
    Dillon Andreas Cadel

    nickname
    Dillon is usually short enough, but some people employ Dil.

    gender
    Male

    age
    20

    d.o.b.
    September 26th

    sexuality
    Bisexual

    role
    Rebel Rider

    portrayed by
    Archie Renaux
    VISAGE
    build
    At 6'1", Dillon sports a subtly defined muscular build, the kind that does not portray its true strength earned from years of hard labor.

    hair
    An exceptionally dark brown that largely appears black. Recently quite closely shaven.

    eyes
    Chocolate brown.

    scars
    Though there are none of specific note, Dillon has scars painted along his skin. Some garnered from retaliating animals, and others from the spars he would partake in for coin a town over.

    uniform
    here

义志豪







coded by reveriee.


font callfont callfont call
dillon cadel

20

male

bellator

{the survivors write history}
{REBEL RIDER}
{prompt 2}
Describe your character witnessing something that goes against their morals. What will they do?
The calmness of the salt-kissed air carried by the river and the water caressing the air with its melodic rushing, was singed to ashes by the fury surging within Dillon. The hot summer wind was more reflective of the hate that slinked across his skin, tracing the lines of his relic. Sometimes, when he did not think of it, he forgot the way the ink swirled in water marbles across his complexion, of how he was punished for his mere existence. Even when marred by so many scars, it was the worst. At least the others were earnt by brawls, weapons or danger he openly invited.
His feet were moving, his jaw clenching, his arm swinging before—a sickening crunch echoed in the town's eerily quiet morning streets, startling even the crows away from their boughs they never abandoned. If anyone else were awake, they would have seen the way the older man's head snapped around his body like he had the capacity to spin his neck three-hundred and sixty degrees like an owl, blood ribboning out of his mouth and greying red hair tousled.
As the man lay grasping his jaw on the ground, he heard the sneering tone, a recording replaying in his head. The younger girl look up at him, her eyes as wide and fearful as a doe. She was barely skin and bone, but the inky swirls covering her right hand were as unmistakable as his own.
Should have killed all the rebel children. You are a useless burden.
He did not recognise the pair. It was most likely they were passing through the meagre town, if you could call it such, of dilapidated houses clustered on the river, a tiny population of animal rearers. Despite the man's glare, Dillon offered him a hand up that he reluctantly took. "You must not speak of innocent children in such a way, sir. We did not choose to be born of Mahasura any less than you chose to be born of Haeloria. Our only birth right is to prove ourselves at Valamar War College." He had come to find a show of strength was the only way any non-rebel listened to his words, despite the oddly uncontroversial nature of his statements. Though admittedly, his displays were not usually a thrown punch and it was certainly a gamble he would not usually take. In the man's chestnut brown eyes he saw that spark—respect, despite still trying to loosen his jaw.
Righteousness may not always be admired, but a willingness to stand and to fight for it was the Haelorian way. Somehow minutes were passing yet time not crawling forward. Finally, he replied. "You will make a fine rider for Haeloria." Dillon's head and gaze remained steady, though he figured it was impossible to suppress the glimmer of pride and success in his dark eyes. Dillon glanced at the girl, noting how she stood a little taller, the wilting flower of resolve within her nurtured, now reaching for strands of sunlight and hope.
"We all will." Certainly, he thought, the marked children would make more ferocious riders than any of Haelorian birth. Denial of free will created an unmatchable intensity, that ran as deep and dark as their inky markings. He was only unsure on how he would inevitably channel that tenacity.
The chestnut eyes of the man seemed to see something anew in the girl in his care. Dillon knew it was better to be seen as a tool than a burden, at least one might be equipped instead. They mounted their horses, evidently no longer wishing to stop in their region, and were soon beyond the crest of the hill. No one else had seen or heard the altercation, for the pale pre-dawn light only just began to filter over the horizon. It would not have mattered if they had, the charred land just beyond the river and the names etched in haphazard stones rising from within the ashes were why he could be so certain. Dillon rolled his shoulders, continuing his jog through the gravelled thoroughfares and around the estate he knew intimately as though it were any other morning.
{prompt 4}
Your character awakes from a nightmare. What was it? How do they react?
The screams cut through the crisp night air like hot knives to butter, Dillon's legs moving so fast he nearly stumbled over himself, but the flames curled up, spitting embers into the sky as he could barely spot the hulking shadows swooping about and blotting out the stars. He couldn't get to them, the valley stretching onwards, the river becoming wider and wider as he attempted to wade through it, he could be fooled that he was not moving at all. Then the flames turned to him, and as much as he tried to turn, to move, to run, ice flooded his veins as the taunting smiles in its flickering shape consumed him. The putrid smell of burning and rotten flesh launched full assault, and thousands of shadowy hands grasped and pulled, the screams had not subsided, the pain blinding—His eyes launched open as he sat up, the memories thundering around in his head. The only sounds were his short breaths coming in pants, and the only sensation were the drips of sweat rolling down his back. But he still felt all of it.
Damn. He could not slow his galloping heart, but in deliberately prolonged movements, clambered out of his creaky bed held together by rotting nails. That night had been two years ago, but it followed him like a shadow. It made him reconsider everything he had been taught, and everything he thought he stood for. And in a few weeks, he would be riding to Valamar, trading in the steed he had come to trust with a chance to bond with a dragon, whom held their own ambitions and complexities. Knowing the simpler life of tending to animals was coming to a close, Dillon could not help but feel bleak. The nightmares had gotten more frequent as the day his whole life revolved around approached, knowing he would encounter rebel children like him, but unsure if they shared anything other than a sense of displacement. Once, he had looked forward to meeting the only people who he thought would understand, but he was now unconvinced if there was to be a true place for him anywhere.
Dillon pulled on his coat and found his horse outside, hands fumbling with the saddle and reins as his head was still somewhere else entirely. In spite of their relative isolation, the fact they resided near the edges of the wards meant rumors carried quickly along trade routes. Attacks, ambushes, and then came the fall of Stagon. Now it stood as a monolith of a rebellion, and though it was not apparent if they'd found out who the traitors were... it was likely many felt vindicated in their hateful assumptions. His mount was swift and effortless, and soon the pair navigated to the emerald green fields, swathed in a silver glow from the full moon. He halted his horse, pausing for just a moment, before signalling for them to launch forward in a sprint. The wind whistled past him, peeling away the grip his nightmare held, its cold tendrils slowly replaced by the blooming warmth of adrenaline. If he were able to ride to the nearby town and find Blaine, he would have opted to spar. If he were even still willing to be spotted with Dillon and the marks of disapproval swirling in his skin. Relishing in the speed and having to hold his body taut as the horse ran freely, his thoughts thankfully did not linger.
The one truth that he could not shake amongst all the questions was that Dillon knew he had to bond, and that his naïve hope to blaze a new trail fell apart that day at Stagon. He foresees one path, and just hopes he can stomach it.
{extra}
Despite being a rebel, I do not see Dillon necessarily, naturally siding with them in every instance. He sits in this awkward in between, knowing rebellion was the cost of his parents' lives and his constant battle to survive. His justifications always trickle down to a sense of self preservation, yet hypocritically he is self-sacrificial and abnormally protective of people around him or those less fortunate. Perhaps some kind of survivor's guilt for something he cannot even pretend to know or remember. Maybe a misplaced hope he can change preconceived opinions. I want him to be torn and struggle to choose where his loyalties are supposed to lie, who he can trust, and to discover if he is willing to make the sacrifices needed and bring about further destruction to the innocents who never asked for conflict to annihilate King Valmar and support the rebellion. He cannot save everyone, but Dillon still foolishly tries.
Dillon grew in a small town of farmers, isolated from any other rebels. Though many of them held hateful stares, the close knit nature of the region meant it was impossible to not come to know Dillon himself and accept him into their lives. In that way, he was one of the lucky few, but there was always a distance, the unbridgeable gap of war. He was not one of them, and would never be, and despite being his own person, he would always be a manifestation, a breathing reminder, of their sorrows and loss.
I see Dillon's parents as some of the foremost generals in the Mahasura Prince's army, his last name possibly notorious/well-known (maybe stemming from nobility in Mahasura? But I'm not quite sure how the political structures worked there so, pretty flexible and want to make something that works with the world), and partially a reason for placing him in the middle of nowhere.
Favorite fruit atm has got to be apple, I've been living off of apple cinnamon oat breakfasts lately! also i finally got an application together after expressing interest forever ago LMAO- i was struggling to find a concept and voice for a while.
{the fruits}
night owl
 
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