Fantasy 𝑻𝑰𝑳𝑳 𝑫𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑯 𝑫𝑶 𝑼𝑺 𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 - 𝒄𝒔

[timesink]

TILL DEATH DO US PART.
continental map
​

#open #0/9 players

CHARACTER SHEETS

please provide a writing sample (can be from anything) somewhere in your sheet!

INSTRUCTIONS.

woop woop character creatin time!! here is all the info you'll need before you proceed:
• you’re more than welcome to apply for multiple roles! just make sure to label them in order of preference so i know which one you’re aiming for the most.

• i’d also love for everyone to use the character sheet code provided, but if code isn’t your thing, no worries! you can instead drop a link to a Google Doc; just be sure that your character’s name and role are clearly visible so i don’t have to go hunting for it.

• the tentative due date for sheets is sunday, march 16th, at 11:59pm MST. ithis will be subject to change, and in general if you need more time, just let me know via dms or ooc!

CHARACTER SHEET CODE (GOOGLE DOCS).

click here

CHARACTER SKELETON.

BASICS
NAME.
(Name they were given at birth)

AKA.
(Names/titles they're known locally or broadly for, whatever they picked up.)
(If you are making a noble/royal, here's an optional fun title guide to follow. You have free reign to make up any regions your character may oversee, as long as it generally thematically follows and fits the lore of the Kingdoms).

Spoiler: Noble/Royal Title Guide

For Royals
HRH, Prince/Princess [First Name] of [Kingdom], Skyborn/Tideborn/Flameborn/Earthborn Heir of House [Last Name], [X] of His/Her Name, [Optional Flourish Titles Here], Incumbent to the Throne of [Kingdom].

For Dukes/Duchesses
His/Her Grace, Duke/Duchess [First Name] of [Kingdom], Skyborn/Tideborn/Flameborn/Earthborn Scion of House [Last Name], [X] of His/Her Name, Warden of [Region].

For Counts/Countesses, Barons, Heirs, etc;
Lord/Lady [First Name] of [Kingdom], Skyborn/Tideborn/Flameborn/Earthborn Heir of House [Last Name], [X] of His/Her Name, Keeper of [Estate Name].

For Knights
Noble-born: The Honorable Sir/Dame [First Name] of [Region or House], Skyborn/Tideborn/Flameborn/Earthborn Knight of [Kingdom], [X] of His/Her Name, Sworn Blade of [Liege], [Optional Flourish Titles].
Common-born: Sir/Dame [First Name] of [Region or Order], Skyborn/Tideborn/Flameborn Knight of [Kingdom], Sworn Blade of [Liège], [Optional Flourish Titles].

NICKNAMES.
(Personal pet names, can be affectionate or insulting)

ETHNICITY.
(Which kingdom they’re from? Elyrian, Caelish, Vostigari, etc.)

BLOOD.
(Fireblood, Waterblood, Earthblood, Airblood, Dual-Affinity? Keep in mind, to be "Blooded" is just a term that defines how others perceive you based on what natural affinity to what element you were born with, as well as magic you wield the best and most.)

OCCUPATION.
(How do they earn their gold, silver, or copper?)

PERSONALITY
(Choose one: Either seven virtues & vices OR a short personality paragraph.)
VIRTUES.
(x, x, x, x, x, x, x)
VICES.
(x, x, x, x, x, x, x)
OR
PERSONALITY. (description here)

BACKSTORY
(Can be an essay, or it can be key points that shaped them. Please don't forget to include where/how your character managed to learn however many magics they know).

ABILITIES
(Rank by Beginner, Intermediate, Master, Legend. Legend should be almost unheard of. If you're making an Elyrian character, be mindful of the fact that legal, royally-approved mages are called Mages of the Seal, or Sealed Mages.)

ELEMENTAL MAGIC
NATURAL AFFINITY.
(What element do they wield best? This is their Blooded element.)
(Rate from 1 (barely perceptible) to 10 (master-level control).)

MIDDLING AFFINITY.
(Do they have another element they can use at a beginner level? Dual-affinity characters should treat this as their second natural affinity; remember that they are relatively rare - about 1 in 500; noble Elyrians are sort of the exception) (Optional.)

ELEMENTAL WEAKNESS.
(What element counters them? This is the element they are most vulnerable to, meaning magic of this type disrupts them, overpowers them, or is harder to defend against.)

VEINFLOW CAPACITY.
(How deep is their reservoir of magic? Rate from 1 (low stamina, burns out quickly) to 10 (endless endurance, rare).)

OTHER MAGICS.
(Choose up to three. Keep in mind that magic access varies by status and location. Noble Elyrians, often Dual-Affinity wielders (typically Water + Air or Water + Earth), are actively discouraged and shunned from studying Other Magics, as their culture sees them as lesser arts. Meanwhile, nobles from Caelum, Vostigar, and Ish’kora may blend Elemental and Other Magics without stigma. Commoners (unless backed by nobility, in the military, or outside Elyria) struggle to access formal training. No one can master all; at least one must be at beginner level.)

1. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)
2. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)
3. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)

WEAPONS.
(Both normal and magic-infused weapons; whatever they were carrying on their person at the time of being isekai'd into the Land of Beasts)

SKILLS.
(Survival, combat techniques, hobbies, etc. Make sure to rate from 1-10 how skilled they are)

EXTRA
HCs & likes/dislikes here!

ROLES.

THE ELDER PRINCESS OF ELYRIA. (21-24)

she always knew she would marry him. just as he always knew he would marry her. it was their duty, their fate, their inescapable reality. and for a long time, she never doubted it. why would she? she was born to be queen. it was all she ever wanted. raised for it, trained for it; poised, elegant, and every inch the future ruler of the greatest kingdom on the Continent. she believed she would have it all. so when the arrangement was announced, she was thrilled. not because she was naïve enough to expect undying love, but because it made sense. he was her childhood best friend, her childhood fancy. they had spent years apart, yes, but she had always admired him from a distance. he was supposed to be hers...

but she was never his first choice, was she?

THE PRINCE OF CAELUM. (22-26)

he has always known his fate. born to rule, raised to lead, and destined to marry his childhood best friend. that was how it was meant to be. that was what was expected. and so, like any good son of caelum, he prepared himself. but hearts do not always align with duty. years ago, before the weight of a crown settled fully on his shoulders, he had dared to love, choose another. but as always, his kingdom came first. his people came first. and in the end, the princess of elyria - his friend, his future queen, the woman he had always known he would stand beside - came first. so he let that love go. wrote one last time, promising nothing but his devotion to duty, to the path set before him, to the girl he had known since childhood. he had convinced himself that was enough, that it had to be enough. but now… that life is gone. the wedding is gone. the throne he was meant to take is out of reach. and all that remains is her. the one person who knows him best. the one person he was choosing for the sake of his kingdom. the one person he cannot - must not - lose.

so why does it feel like she’s already slipping through his fingers?

TAKEN BY timesink

THE ROYAL ADVISOR OF CAELUM (27+)

he was never meant to rule, but he was always meant to shape the ones who would. sharp of mind, sharper of tongue, he is the architect of caelum’s future, and no matter what his detractors say, this marriage was his masterpiece to secure the prince's bid to rule in the eyes of Caelum's nobles. though his expectations rise as high as caelum’s cliffs, beneath his exacting nature, he is still caelish at heart; humming when he thinks, singing when he plans, his voice smooth enough to rival a bard’s. he is a loyal creature of precision, of ink on parchment and perfectly laid plans. he was not made for dirt and blood, for survival measured in moments instead of decades. and now, thanks to one catastrophic stroke of misfortune, more than ever the prince needs him to do as he's always done; whisper the right words, steer him away from foolish longings and toward the only path that matters: the crown.

because anything else, any other possibility, any selfish, impossible longing buried in his own heart, was... well. insignificant.

THE YOUNGER PRINCESS OF ELYRIA. (16-19)

everyone expected her to be the quiet one. the graceful one. the obedient little sister who would stand in the shadow of her elder sibling, smile politely, and marry a perfectly respectable lord while her sister took the throne. unfortunately for everyone, she has no intention of being anyone’s afterthought. unlike her sister, she was never content to simply accept things as they were. she asked too many questions, caused too many headaches, and harbored far too many opinions on things she shouldn’t have opinions on. and now, through some cruel twist of fate, she’s been dragged along for the ride; far from her kingdom, her people, and her cushioned place in society, stranded in the worst place for some prime sister bonding time...

well. they always said she had a habit of getting into trouble.

THE VOSTIGARI WARLORD.

the vostigari are not meant for courts, not meant for silk and gold, for silver-tongued pleasantries and empty words. he has spent his life in the north, among warriors, among the only people who matter. and yet, here he was, playing nice with the elyrians. sitting through a wedding that had nothing to do with him, nothing to do with his people. he hated it. hated the way they looked at him, hated the whispers of savage, barbarian, dog on a leash behind polite smiles. his people had once been free. once ruled themselves, answered to no crown but the one won through strength. and now, they bowed to a kingdom that would rather pretend they were little more than brutes with swords. he thinks this wedding meant nothing to him, that these politics meant nothing to him. but fate had a twisted sense of humor, and now, instead of enduring another empty spectacle of elyrian excess, he is trapped in the one place in the world where brute strength is the only thing keeping them alive.

funny, how suddenly, the so-called savage is the one they all have to rely on.

TAKEN BY timesink

THE SWORN KNIGHT OF ELYRIA (20+)

they were never supposed to be anything more than her protector. a knight sworn to duty, sworn to their oath, sworn to her. and yet, somewhere along the way, they realized they loved her. maybe they always have. maybe they don’t even know when it started... when admiration turned into something deeper, something impossible. because it was never a choice. not for them. the princess belonged to her kingdom, to her throne, to the duty she had been raised for. so they buried it. locked it away behind steel and silence, standing steadfast at her side as she devoted herself to another. her childhood friend, her promised prince, the man she was meant to love. they told themselves it was enough. enough to serve. enough to protect her. but here, in the land of beasts, where every step could be their last, where death waits with bared teeth and bloodied claws, where duty is the only thing keeping them moving, silence feels like a fool’s game. it’s only a matter of time before the words slip free...

...the question is, will it ruin everything… or change everything?

THE ISH'KORAN DELEGATE (20+)

she was never just an observer, never just a passive witness to politics she had no stake in. she walked into the wedding with purpose, with a mission hidden behind her polite smiles and poised words, reminding these rulers that ish’kora never never leaves a shift in power go unwatched. but diplomacy was never her true purpose. there was always something far more delicate at play, a task far more dangerous than sipping wine and exchanging pleasantries; poison is an art, after all, and she was meant to be its painter. but before she could finish her task, fate, or perhaps something far crueler, intervened. now, she stands in the land of beasts, her mission stolen, her carefully laid plans scattered like dust. but an ish’koran never falters.

survival is just another game of strategy, and she does not intend to lose.

THE VETERAN KNIGHT OF ELYRIA (40+)

he has spent his entire life fighting a war that ended before he was even born. fifty years ago, elyria conquered vostigar. it was his father’s war, his grandfather’s war; a brutal campaign that cemented elyrian rule over the north. but conquest was only the beginning. the vostigari never truly surrendered, and someone had to keep them in line... and that someone was him. a decorated soldier, a seasoned knight, who has spent decades stamping out vostigari uprisings, crushing rebellions, and ensuring elyria’s rule remained unchallenged. the warlord across from him is younger, but not unfamiliar; they’ve crossed paths before, fought on opposite sides of the same battlefield, bled in the same wars. they both know how this game is played. but none of that matters now. because whether he likes it or not, they are now responsible for getting this ragtag group out alive...

...and given the company they keep, that might just be the hardest battle of all.

THE SCHOLAR (20+)

knowledge is power. at least, that’s what they’ve been told since the day they were old enough to hold a quill. raised in the great archives of ish’kora, they were not born into privilege, nor were they free. no, they were bound. an indentured apprentice, trained in service to the grand council, their life belonged to their masters until their debt was repaid. but debts in ish’kora are never simple, and the price of knowledge is never cheap. they were meant to be quietly accompany the official Ish'koran delegate as record-keeper, cataloging the political theater of a wedding that would shape the continent’s future. instead, they’ve been dumped into the land of beasts, hopelessly out of place. they know how to read a battlefield in theory, how to analyze strategies on paper, how to identify the remains of creatures that most have only seen in myths.

but theory is not survival. knowledge is not a weapon, not unless they can make it one...

THE ROGUE MAGE (20+)

unlike the others, they weren’t supposed to be at the wedding - hell, they weren’t supposed to be at all. their fate had already been sealed, either locked away in a cell awaiting execution or making a desperate escape when the storm struck. because practicing magic illegally in elyria? that’s one thing. practicing forbidden magic? the kind that gets you burned, beheaded, or worse? that’s another entirely. and yet, here they are. still breathing, still dangerous, newly dumped into the land of beasts with people who could have orchestrated their downfall. maybe the sworn knight or the veteran were the ones who dragged them in, bound in chains, thinking they had rid the world of another threat... even if the very thing they were sentenced for could ironically save them all.

And if survival means earning a pardon? Well... there are worse bargains to make.

THE LADY'S MAID (20+)

the least important person here, and yet somehow still stuck in the worst situation possible. she was just supposed to be dressing the princess, fetching tea, and enjoying or suffering through nobility’s gossip, ogling a good looking foreigner or two, not fighting for her life in a monster-infested wasteland. maybe she’s loyal to her mistress. maybe she’s secretly bitter about the whole thing.

either way, her survival depends on the very people she was trained to serve.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[timesink]

THE PRINCE OF CAELUM

Caspian Stormborn, Prince of Caelum

24

male

bisexual

NAME.

Caspian 'Stormborn' Archibald Walbernn

AKA

His Royal Highness, Prince Caspian of Caelum, Skyborn Heir to House Walbernn, Second of His Name, Storm's Chosen, Sworn High Knight of the Stormcloaks and Contender to the Caelish Throne.

NICKNAMES

Caz, Ian, the White Rat of Caelum, Prince Whiterat

ETHNICITY

Caelish

BLOOD

Airblood

OCCUPATION

Prince of Caelum; Heir & High Knight of House Walbernn; Royal Patron to the Aetherium; Legion Commander

PERSONALITY

Caspian is, in many ways, his own worst enemy. His heart wants too much; his mind doubts too much; his duty demands too much. He wants to be everything his people need him to be, everything his father believes he can be, everything the Withan expects him to be. But somewhere, beneath it all, there is still the boy they called Whiterat, the boy who cried when they pushed him down, the boy who thought maybe, just maybe, he could be more than what they made him.

Caspian is stubborn; it is not a trait he wears lightly, nor one that serves him in the way he wishes it would. There is a steel to him, yes, but it is not the effortless kind that bends and flows with the wind. No, Caspian’s steel is brittle; it holds firm, until it breaks. He does not yield easily, does not know how to step away when he should. When he fights, he fights until his knuckles split, until he is bruised and breathless, until the battle is won or he can no longer stand. It is not pride that keeps him from backing down, nor arrogance. It is fear. Fear of being weak. Fear of being seen as less. Fear of living up to the expectations his family had of him the day he was born... of being the fragile little boy who was supposed to die.

He loves recklessly, even when he tries not to. He tells himself that he is careful, that he guards his heart as well as he guards his people, but the truth is that his heart has never been something he could wield with precision. It is a thing with a mind of its own, a wild animal that longs for connection, for warmth, for something real. He loves deeply, but he also loves dangerously, in ways that leave him vulnerable. He fell in love with his people first, long before he ever understood what it meant to be a king, and he has never quite shaken the feeling that they own his heart more than he does. He loves the way they move, the way they sing, the way even the poorest among them still carry the pride of Caelum in their bones. It is why he walks among them whenever he can, why he lingers in the markets, why he listens to the old women weaving their nets and the children who chase each other through the highland fields. His father told him that a king must be distant, must be above it all, but Caspian has never been good at keeping his feet off the ground.

Caspian is not a fool, but he is a romantic, though he would never admit it. He does not believe in fate, does not put stock in omens, but he has always been drawn to the idea of things that were meant to be. Love has always been a battlefield, something to be won, something that has consequences. And yet, he still seeks it; he still craves it.

In the end, Caspian is a man who wears many faces, not out of deception, but necessity. He has spent his life learning how to be what others need him to be; an heir, a ruler, a warrior, a diplomat. A son who must make his father proud, a prince who must earn the love of his people, a man who must sacrifice what he wants for what is best. He has spent so long playing the part that sometimes he wonders if there is even a real version of him beneath it all, or if he has simply become an accumulation of expectations, stitched together into something that only resembles a man...

BACKSTORY

The storm had been raging for days before he was born.

Rolling in from the western cliffs, it crawled through the peaks like some great beast of old, dragging its talons across the stone, its howls rattling the windows of the Skyspires, banging against the doors, against the balconies, against the high glass of the great House of Walbernn, demanding to be let into the Queen's chambers. Queen Wyelara lay on her feather bed, sweat-drenched, clutching her lady's maid arm so tightly, it was sure to leave a bruise. She couldn't bear to give the final push; she had already buried two children before this one...

And then suddenly, a crack of thunder so loud it could shake a mountain.

Lightning split the sky in two, a twin-pronged strike flashing white-hot against the cliffs, forking apart, arching, splitting down the middle, forming two halves of a heart. At the same time, a little pinkish bundle slid easily into the world. The storm howled, but it did not. It did not scream, did not announce itself to the world with the lungs of a king's son. It was a near translucent, trembling thing with the ghost of a cry and bones like bird’s glass.

The court should have celebrated. The great House of Walbernn had finally an heir; the Withan had a new name to weigh in their hands, to whisper over in halls scented with firewood and mead. There should have been music, banners unfurling from the citadel, stormberry wine spilling in every hall of the kingdom.

Instead, there was silence.

Born too soon, born too small, born only to die, went the sad expectation. Pale and weak, his hair like spun frost, his fingers so thin that the slightest touch might break them. A little thing; a creature that scurried rather than soared, that survived rather than conquered.

And so it stuck.

Even when he grew stronger. Even when the fragile thing that once barely breathed learned to laugh, to run, to climb where no one wanted him to go. The name never left. "Prince Whiterat," his cousins sneered, smirks on their lips, storm-colored eyes gleaming with the kind of cruelty so prevalent in noble children. He was too pale, too small, too fragile. Not a Caelish stormhawk, not a Calisoran lion, not even a Vostigari lavahound; just a little white rat, scrambling to keep up, always a step behind, always beneath them. At first, Caspian bristled under it. He was only a boy, after all, and boys that young don't yet know how to wear their wounds like armor. He would cry when they jeered at him, fists balled at his sides, shoulders trembling with humiliation as he tried to match them, tried to fight back, but they were always taller, always stronger. Always winning.

Until the day the Elyrian princess arrived.

The meeting had been planned for years, their betrothal woven into politics before either of them had drawn breath, but at the time, none of that mattered. She was just a girl in a sea-blue dress, all hair sunlit and sharp, discerning eyes, watching as his cousins shoved him to the dirt, laughing as he scrambled back up. Caspian remembered her stepping forward, hands on her hips, her voice cool and clear as she announced to the assembled boys that they were cowards for ganging up on someone younger, someone smaller, someone unarmed.

She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t shout, didn’t posture like the Caelish did when they wanted to make a point. No, she simply stood there, a slip of a girl with all the weight of Elyria in her bearing, and let the accusation settle in the air, cold and cutting as the tides. His cousins scoffed, shifting on their feet, trying to laugh it off, but there was something in the way she looked at them, something knowing, something utterly unimpressed, that made their grins falter.

Caspian barely had time to process what was happening before she raised a hand, fingers flicking through the air in an effortless motion. A moment later, a sudden, sharp wave of water, stolen from the gushing courtyard fountain nearby, rose up and slammed into the tallest of his cousins, knocking him flat on his back. He spluttered, drenched and stunned, and the others hesitated just long enough for Caspian to scramble to his feet.

That was the day everything changed.

That evening, he sat with her at the great feast in her honor, and she grinned at him like they had been friends forever. It was the first time someone outside his family, outside Caelum, had treated him as if he were something more than just his father’s frail heir. As if he wasn’t an inevitability to be suffered, but a person worth knowing. She asked him questions, real questions, not the kind adults asked when they wanted a polite answer, wanting to know about the cliffs, the way the wind carved songs through the rock, the stories of the Wandering Flutist. He, in turn, asked about the canals of Thalmyra, the way the city moved with the tides, the mythology about El's nymphs spun by Elyrian sailors. They stayed up too late, sneaking sweet fruits from the banquet table, giggling behind their hands at the stiff posturing of the nobles around them.

When she had to leave, she grabbed his hand and led him out to the castle’s highest terrace. “I’ll see you again,” she declared, voice full of certainty. “And next time, you won’t cry when they tease you.”

She was right.

From then on, his world was split between sky and sea, between wind and water, between the two capitals that would shape him more than anything else. When he turned eight, he was given his own royal airship; meant to carry him across whenever duty (or his own whims) called him to Elyria. It was the greatest gift his father had ever given him. With it, he could visit her freely, could leave behind the cold corridors of Calingrad and step into the sunlit world of Thalmyra, where she was waiting, where no one sneered when he walked into the room, where no one called him Whiterat in mocking tones.

She visited Caelum just as often, though she never liked the heights, never quite adjusted to the sharpness of the air. But she never let it show, never wavered, and he admired her for it. They trained together, debated with scholars together, slipped away from their tutors to race each other through the city streets. It was a bond like no other.

And then, childhood ended.

The day he turned twelve, the visits stopped. His airship was grounded, his letters went unanswered. He understood, in the way all children eventually do, that the world would not let them remain young forever, and sometimes, politics ran sour.

Caelum called him back, and this time, it was for good.

If he had been born in another family, perhaps it would have been easier. Perhaps he could have grown up without the weight of expectation pressing into his spine, without the shadow of history looming over his every step. But he was not just any Caelish prince; he was the only son of King Kardrick, the heir to a throne that was not freely given. The Withan, the assembly of Caelum’s most powerful nobles, had already rewritten history once before. His grandfather, King Hadrian, had taken the throne from his own elder brother, Caelwyn, upending the natural line of succession. His father had followed, chosen over his own nephews.

Now, Caspian had to win their favor the same way. Had to prove he was worthy. Had to prove he was more than just the runt they had all expected to perish in infancy.

The training was brutal. He spent his teenage years mastering swordplay, windborne combat, war strategy. He trained with the Stormcloaks, spent months at the Aetherium studying airship engineering, memorized every law, every piece of Caelish history the Withan might test him on. He stood in the great council chambers, watching his father navigate the shifting alliances of the nobility, learning how power was wielded with words as often as it was with weapons.

And yet, even with all the discipline, all the duty, he never quite lost his heart. Caspian had always been the sort to love easily, to fall hard. He was drawn to sharp minds, clever tongues, people who could challenge him, keep him on his toes. He had crushes; fleeting, intoxicating, distracting.

One, though, lasted longer than the rest.

Rhys.

Rhys was ordinary. A mechanic’s son, an apprentice at the Aetherium, a sharp-tongued, grease-stained, whip-smart inventor with a grin that made Caspian’s stomach twist in ways it shouldn’t have. He was not noble. He was not Elyrian royalty, not a diplomat’s child, not a name that would ever be spoken in the Withan halls. But he was brilliant. And he made Caspian feel, feel like something other than a prince, other than a contender, other than a duty waiting to be fulfilled.

They met in the engine halls of the Aetherium, where Caspian had gone to study airship mechanics as part of his royal training. It was supposed to be practical knowledge, a lesson in understanding the very machines that made Caelum’s dominion of the skies possible. Instead, it became something else entirely.

For two years, it remained a secret, a quiet thing tucked between duty and expectation, hidden in plain sight. It was easy, in a way. Rhys was no courtier, no noble vying for favor. No one watched him, no one suspected him. Caspian was careful. Careful with the letters he burned, with the words he did not say in public, with the glances that lasted only a breath too long. It was a stolen thing, a selfish thing. But by the songs, it was his.

And then, the letters came.

After years of silence, after the long freeze of their childhood separation, Caspian was once again allowed to return to the Water Capital. It was only diplomatic, his father had said, nothing more than a renewal of old ties. But Caspian knew better. The Withan was watching. The court was watching. The Elyrians were watching. And she was waiting.

When he docked, it was like no time had passed.

Immediately drawn back into her orbit, like the tides obeying the moon. She had changed, of course. Grown beautifuler still, sharper, surer, her words more measured, her bearing even more regal. But she was still her, still the girl who had thrown water at his cousins, still the girl who had stood beside him when no one else had.

And Caspian, fool that he was... didn’t realize he was falling. Not at first.

It was different from Rhys, but no less real. It wasn’t secret passion, it was the steady, inevitable kind of thing that built itself beneath his ribs without permission, without announcement. He didn’t mean to keep it from Rhys. How could he, when he barely understood it himself? He told himself it was just friendship, just history, just the renewal of something that had been there all along. He told himself that even if something was shifting, even if he caught himself watching her when she wasn’t looking, even if he held her hand a second too long when they danced, it didn’t mean anything.

But Rhys was no fool.

He saw it in the way Caspian spoke of her, in the way his letters became shorter, in the way he was gone for longer and longer each time. He saw it in the hesitation, in the way Caspian was careful now, measuring his words where before he had been open. And Rhys, the brilliant, reckless, hot-blooded Rhys, did not take it well.

Every time Caspian returned, they fought. At first, it was small things; biting words disguised as jokes, laughter that never quite reached Rhys’ eyes. Then it was accusations thrown like daggers, arguments that started as whispers in dark hallways but always ended in shouted truths neither of them wanted to hear.

"You’re abandoning me," Rhys hissed one night, gripping Caspian’s wrist, eyes sharp as flint. "You don’t even realize it, do you?"

Caspian shook his head, exasperated, weary. "Rhys, you’re being ridiculous. Nothing’s changed—"

"Everything’s changed!" Rhys snapped, voice raw. His fingers loosened, and he let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "You swore you hated this life. That you’d never be like them. And now you’re playing right into their hands."

"It’s not like that," Caspian whispered, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

Rhys exhaled sharply, stepping back, shoulders tensing, before a quieter, almost desperate voice came out: "Come with me." He turned his gaze to the sky, to the vast horizon beyond Caelum, beyond all of it. "Ish’kora," he said. "We could go there. No one would care. We could be free."

Caspian stood frozen, throat tight. Rhys had always had ambitions beyond Caelum. Ish’kora was where the real inventors went, where minds like his could change the world. He had been planning it for years, working toward it, saving for it. The temptation to take his hand, to board a ship, to leave the weight of duty behind, just once. But he couldn't. Not because of the Withan. Not because of his father.

Because of Caelum. Because of his people. Because of the love he had never been able to let go of, the love that bound him to his kingdom as surely as the wind bound the sky to the cliffs.

And so, Rhys saw it in his face before he even spoke. "You love her," Rhys said flatly, and for the first time, Caspian couldn’t deny it.

When it came to the final push, his advisor pulled him aside. He had found out, of course; had known for some time. But he had waited until Caspian was already unraveling before he pressed the knife in. "This cannot continue, Your Highness. You know that. This is the last time I will speak of it. End it, or I will."

"It isn’t fair," Caspian whispered, and he didn’t know who he was speaking to; Rhys, the princess, the kingdom, the Withan, the Flutist, himself.

"Fair?" The advisor’s voice was almost gentle, a private sorrowful resignation barely brimming beneath it. "You are born to be a king. You are to shape a nation. What does fairness have to do with any of it?"

Caspian wanted to argue, wanted to shout, wanted to claw at the walls and demand to know why he was expected to love only in the ways that were convenient, only in the ways that served the kingdom. But he had no argument, no words that would change the truth. He had already made his choice.

That night, he wrote the letters.

The first set was to Rhys. He did not say goodbye; did not offer false comforts, did not beg for understanding. He simply told the truth: that he could not leave. That he would not leave. That whatever they had, whatever they had stolen for themselves in the dark corners of the Aetherium, in the wind-swept cliffs of Caelum, was over.

The second was to the princess.

It was different from Rhys’ letter. Less of an ending, more of a beginning, a reaffirmation of everything they had once shared, of everything they could build together. It was not poetry, nor a declaration of undying devotion. It was something quieter, something truer.

"I do not know if I was ever meant to be a king," he wrote, "but I do know that I was meant to stand beside you."

The days passed in a blur. He threw himself into his duties, into his training, into the endless preparations for what was to come. He smiled when the Withan spoke his name in approval. He nodded when his father placed a hand on his shoulder, pride in his eyes. He let the weight settle into his bones, let it anchor him, let it shape him into what he had always been meant to be.

And then, one morning, as the city of Calingrad awoke beneath the rising sun, the bells rang across the sky.

Wedding bells.

ABILITIES

FUNDAMENTAL ELEMENTAL MAGIC

NATURAL AFFINITY.
Air (7.8)

MIDDLING AFFINITY.
Water (4.5)

ELEMENTAL WEAKNESS.
Earth

VEINFLOW CAPACITY

(7)

OTHER FORMS OF MAGIC

1. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)
2. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)
3. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)

WEAPONS

here

SKILLS

here

EXTRA

HCs & likes/dislikes here!

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[timesink]

THE VOSTIGARI WARLORD

Dagfinn, son of Djorvik the Fearless

23

male

heteromantic

NAME.

Dagfinn Djorvikson of Clan Diarnin

AKA

Dagfinn the Beastbane, the Dreaded Bull of Clan Diarnin, Devileye Dagfinn

NICKNAMES

Finn, Finnster, Dagger, Dogfinn, Torchtongue

ETHNICITY

Vostigari

BLOOD

Fireblood

OCCUPATION

Warlord heir to Clan Diarnin; Beast-Slayer & Warband Leader; 'Vassal' Soldier of the Elyrian Army

PERSONALITY

Dagfinn burns like the land that made him; hot-blooded, untamed, and impossible to predict. He is a force of nature, a man who laughs in the face of death and spits in the eye of his enemies, half out of sheer bravado and half because he genuinely enjoys the chaos. He is loud, wild, and utterly Vostigari in all the ways that make the rest of the Continent shake their heads in disdain. He fights hard, drinks harder, and will mess with you into the dirt just for the fun of it.

But beneath all that fire and bluster is something sharper than people expect. Dagfinn may act like a battle-mad fool, but he is anything but stupid. He’s cunning in the way a wolf is cunning; watchful, opportunistic, and always waiting to bite the hand that feeds him poison. People underestimate him because he doesn’t bother with airs or pleasantries, because he says absurd things with a straight face, because he grins when he should be grim and shrugs when he should be seething. But make no mistake, his tongue is as sharp as his axe, and he wields both with equal brutality. Few can match him in a war of trash talk or weirdly enough, persuasion; he can talk a man into battle or out of it, can incite a riot or calm one down. His temper a thing of infamy; when he chooses to speak, he scorches, whether that be with biting insults, unexpected wisdom, or the kind of bold declarations that leave people wondering if he’s serious, insane, or both.

Superstitious to his bones, Dagfinn will refuse to take a certain road if the crows are flying wrong. He’ll leave an offering of mead before battle, throw ash over his shoulder, and refuse to trust a man whose shadow bends the wrong way. He believes in omens, dreams, and Fell-Beast-driven fate — and most of all, he believes in twisting fate’s arm when it doesn’t favor him.

Not like he shies away from tempting it; Dagfinn is an adrenaline-seeker, a thrill-chaser, the kind of man who runs toward danger because standing still feels like dying. He despises formality, wears his defiance like a second skin, and will never bow without making a mockery of it. Whether forced to kneel before an Elyrian lord, he'd do it with a confident, lazy grin, sprawled on the floor like he’s resting. Ordered to wear the Elyrian crest, he’ll stitch it upside down and dare to pass it off as folly. He is a soldier in name, but a vassal in nothing. And yet, for all his chaos, he values honesty above all. There is no pretense with Dagfinn. He is who he is, and he expects the same of others. He has no patience for liars, cowards, or men who think they can talk circles around him without getting burned. He fights for the simple truths: for his people, for his warband, and for the voices of fallen Vostigari who whisper in his ear...

BACKSTORY

Dagfinn, son of Djorvik, was born beneath an erupting sky, under a world split open by fire and molten wrath hundreds of miles away along the coast; at least, that was what his mother told him, and he has chosen to believe it. He shook the little hut he'd been born in with cries said to have been heard a mile or more, as if cursing the fact that he'd been born during the lowest point in Vostigar's history. She swore it was a sign; that his fate was not to kneel, but to conquer; that his fire was one that would never die, that he would be the kind of man to set his world ablaze rather than let it smother beneath foreign hands.

His father, Djorvik the Fearless, had once been a warlord of legend, a man whose name had been sung in war cries, whose famed sworn warband had carved a bloody path through Elyrian garrisons, leaving ruin in their wake. But war is long, and even the unyielding can be worn down. By the time Dagfinn was born, his father was a warlord in title alone; a vassal in truth; a man who had traded defiance for survival, kneeling before the white-cloaked lords of Elyria. Once, his father had struck fear into them — now, fear of higher lords make him kneel, wearing their oaths like chains, forced to play the part of a "loyal" vassal while Elyrian governors sat in Vostigari halls and men born of the tide held dominion over lands of fire and stone.

But his mother on the other hand, never bowed.

She was the First Flame of Djorvik, his father’s highest wife and a warrior in her own right during her prime. She raised him on one knee while polishing old beloved weapons, feeding him old stories and older hatreds, whispering of the days before their people were shackled, when Vostigar was still its own, when warlords were kings in all but name, when fire meant power, not punishment.

But the world was changing; Vostigar is not what it had once been. Their traditions, their names, their very history are all fading beneath the weight of Elyria’s rule. The warlords of old were aging or gone, their titles reduced to hollow gestures; their authority diluted into Elyrian bureaucracy. Dagfinn had seen it with his own eyes; had walked through the fish-stinking capital where his people wrapped themselves in Elyrian silks, drank Elyrian wine, swore Elyrian oaths to foreign gods. He had even stood in the halls of the Castle itself, when his father’s position as a warlord-clan leader had required his presence; had seen the veiled sneers, the false courtesy, the barely-hidden satisfaction of a kingdom that sought to make his own nothing more than a footnote in its history.

He would not let it happen.

From the moment he could hold a blade, he fought. The rebellions, short-lived and bloody, burned through the land like sparks scraped off flint and steel, and he threw himself into them, dragging his half-brothers, his cousins, his sworn warriors into the fray; some returned, and some did not.

And every time they lost, his father looked at him with tired disappointment, as if waiting for him to learn a lesson he refused to accept; the other wives spat his name like venom, blaming him for the sons they buried, for the wounds that never healed, for the way their hearths grew emptier with every uprising he threw himself into. He did not care. He could not. Better to die on his feet than live in chains!

But rebellions failed. Every time.
So he left. Every time.

When the fighting was done, when the warbands scattered, when the Elyrians tightened their grip, when his father turned away in weary resignation, Dagfinn turned to the Beastfang Borderlands. There, at least, his fire had purpose; there, at least, the battle was never-ending, and he did not have to stomach the sight of his people bowing lower with each passing year. He spent months at a time in the wilds, leading his sworn warriors into the dark, hunting the horrors that prowled the borderlands, slaying the creatures that would have swallowed weaker men whole; and every time he returned, he carried more trophies with him: fangs and claws strung around his neck, fresh scars marking where he had bled and survived.

And if, by duty, he was supposed to return to Elyria’s service... if he was supposed to stand among his father’s men when the overlords summoned them, to pretend to be a dutiful vassal of the crown — then it was only natural that he did not.

His absence became expected; his disappearances so routine that even the Elyrians stopped questioning it. When they came to call, when they summoned his father’s banners, when they demanded that the warlord’s son stand among them as proof of their conquered vassals, Dagfinn was gone. Sometimes in the borderlands, sometimes further north, deep into lands no sane man would cross alone; sometimes across the Jeshari Strait, vanishing into Ish’koran bazaars and cities where not even Elyria’s reach could follow. Of course, one can't escape from punishment forever; and so, once, Dagfinn was sentenced to a lashing before an interested contingent of the Elyrian court; a spectacle of discipline meant to remind the warlord’s son of his place. He bore it with a grin that made even those Everflowing fucks uneasy, each strike carving lines of fire into his back, but not a single one breaking him. When they were done, when his father said nothing, when the nobles turned away satisfied, Dagfinn spat blood at their feet and disappeared into the borderlands again.

And when he returns, he emerges from the wilds like something barely civilized; hair a wild tangle, adorned with more trophies, his grin sharper, his hands still raw from the last kill, the scars on his back another set of marks that he wears without shame.

And, like any warlord in his prime, Dagfinn has known women. But none have ever held his fire for long. He is a man of omens and superstition, of dreams and fate; he does not take a wife lightly, and if the Fellbeast mean for him to wed, then they have not sent him a sign yet. But what is sure as the dawn, is that the fire inside him still smolders.

Because he has seen what Elyria has done to them; how his people have grown soft, complacent, content to drink from the hands of their conquerors. He has seen how they forget, piece by piece, what they were before: how the warlords kneel lower with every passing year, how the rebels grow fewer, how the names of their ancestors are fading from memory; how their god is losing its foothold, the old prayers spoken less and less, and worst of all, how his own father, the man they once called Fearless, now bows and bends, accepts and fears the most.

Dagfinn thinks he will never make peace with it. He knows Dagfinn Djorvikson will burn before he truly ever bows.

ABILITIES

FUNDAMENTAL ELEMENTAL MAGIC

NATURAL AFFINITY.
Fire (8.8)

MIDDLING AFFINITY.
(N/A)

ELEMENTAL WEAKNESS.
Water

VEINFLOW CAPACITY

(8)

OTHER FORMS OF MAGIC

1. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)
2. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)
3. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)

WEAPONS

here

SKILLS

here

EXTRA

HCs & likes/dislikes here!

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[zara3447]

• CS WIP
• Writing Sample

• 
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  the royal advisor

  
  
  
  
  

  Eirian Skyborn, Heir of House Cadell

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  25

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  Nonbinary

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  They/He

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  Pansexual

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  NAME.

  
  
  Eirian Adris Cadell
  
  

  AKA

  
  
  Lord Eirian of Caelum, Skyborn Heir of House Cadell, Keeper of Aberglenn
  
  

  NICKNAMES

  
  
  Eir, Eiri, Eirian Fleetfoot, the Bard of Aberglenn, Silvertongue, Foxling, His Royal Highness's Loyal Pet Hound
  
  

  ETHNICITY

  
  
  Caelish
  
  

  BLOOD

  
  
  Airblooded
  
  

  OCCUPATION

  
  
  The Royal Advisor to the Prince of Caelum; Heir of House Cadell; Overseer of Aberglenn
  
  

  
  
  

  PERSONALITY

  
  
  All the Caelish aristocracy can claim to know of their Royal Advisor, of course, but precious few truly know the permanently pleasant-faced man who trails their Prince like a shadow. To them, Eirian is the whisper in the Prince's ear, the quiet and implacable hand behind the scenes, ensuring that every detail is in place so the heir's steps are always smooth and unfaltering. The consummate courtier, and His Royal Highness's most loyal dog.
  
  If you are given the opportunity to look more closely, you might notice the workings beneath. Might realize that the person they present to the world is merely a composition, an elegant, ever-shifting chimera of a thousand subtle faces—each carefully chosen for the person, place, and context in which they are used. Prince Caspian certainly knows them for the clever, meticulous, and exacting being they are, who demands more of themself than anyone would ever guess by their languid grace and glittering smiles. All that practiced poise and calculated ruthlessness, and those sky-high standards they hold themself to, juxtaposed against a puzzling lack of personal ambition and a ferocious, unadulterated devotion to the one they've sworn to serve.
  
  Such a contradictory, troubled creature is not born, of course, but made. What began as little more than a game when they were a boy—picking the right words and expressions to make their mother smile, win a compliment or a laugh from the court ladies, or sway the stern cook into slipping them a pastry before dinner—quickly became a habit, and then a crutch and an obsession with its own momentum that pushed them onto their current path in life. The curious child who found joy in studying people to try and invoke specific reactions became an anxious youth deeply afraid of the possibility that a conversation or social dynamic might spiral out of their grasp. Politics was their answer to this compulsive need for control; if you can understand how to master every piece on the board, you can command the game. Eirian was privileged to be born with all the right pieces to build up this image of a perfect politician: the right lineage, a clever tongue, and an instinctive sensitivity to the threads of power running through the web of a room, a castle, or a kingdom.
  
  But the flawlessness of a facade does not make it any more real; there must be a human being still, somewhere, beneath all those layers of masks. This, then, is the core of naked, ugly vulnerability they are oh-so-careful to bury deep: that the Royal Advisor is only human, riddled with flaws of worry, of temper, and of hopeless yearning above all.
  
  A heart is a willful, unruly thing. It does not listen to logic, to better judgement, to fear or guilt or shame. It simply takes the blows and keeps staggering on—Eirian knows this only too well. It has been eleven years of Casp-i-an dancing beneath their breastbone in an unsteady rhythm, still tender like a precious thing, soft as a fresh bruise. There are other secrets they are willing to let slip to him: the existence of their temper, inherited from a half-Vostigari mother, eternally checked tight. Their affinity for Fire magic, that they've never properly nurtured, for fear that it would have proven stronger than the Wind in their blood. How exhausting (and maybe even demoralizing) it is, to know that they are capable of playing their chosen role to perfection, but they'll be an actor all their life. But this one—I read your letters and picture my name in your handwriting at the bottom of the page; An ordinary gemstone in the marketplace will stop me in my tracks because it's the exact shade of your eyes; When you grin at me and say my name, a real smile like when we were young, it feels like you've gutted my veins wide open and I'm hemorrhaging blood and breath and magic all over the floor at your feet—they doubt the Prince will ever realize.
  
  It's a secret they've camouflaged in plain sight, the safest place for it to exist in a court of keen eyes and sly whispers. They make no secret of their love or loyalty; not a soul assumes they mean it without some sort of ulterior motive. They've said, time and time again, "Milord, you have always had my devotion, heart and soul," and they know their Prince will not understand. It is better this way.
  
  They know their place, and always have. Theirs is the role of the schemer, the planner, the support forever quietly waiting in the wings. The architect of this kingdom's future, of Caspian's future, paving his way to the crown he was born for. Love, for the Prince, must be a matter of nations and thrones, of security and greatness, a monumental act of history. Eirian is a smart man, a realist, and infatuation has not made them a fool. Caspian's heart was never meant to be cupped by hands such as theirs. They cannot give him a kingdom, a crown, a happy ending. The only thing they can offer him is their wits and charm and fealty, their clever political machinations—cementing his brilliant future, by sending him right into someone else's arms.
  
  
  

  
  
  

  BACKSTORY

  
  
  Some would call Eirian unlucky for being the fourth son of the Duke of Tír-Cogarnach, with three brothers between them and the Duchy. Eir counts themself fortunate that they were born late enough to be raised free of any obligations, or the expectation that they'd ever rule.
  
  Steady, stoic Eamon filled the role of the eldest and the heir apparent, spending his days riding through their father's lands, the drudging toil of daily minutiae and management carving deep, permanent creases between his brows. Bold Eòin, second and most martially gifted son, had taken up the Stormcloak's mantle, exchanging scars and callouses for the preservation of House Cadell's valorous reputation. Gentle, brilliant Eoghan was already well on their way to becoming the Aetherium's darling new prodigy by the time Eir was old enough to notice the price they paid for it, in sleepless nights and ink-stained fingertips and permanent bags beneath ash-brown eyes. Thus, Eirian was left with all the privileges of a nobleman's son and none of the duties, except to be doted upon by their mother and her aristocratic friends. Whenever she looked away—which, as the Duchess of Tír-Cogarnach, was not at all an infrequent occurrence—Eir was free to run wild to their heart's content.
  
  Freedom and entitlement made of them a headstrong and haughty youth; Love brought that proud boy to his knees. Perhaps it shouldn't have been a surprise that one meeting was all it had taken for his heart to decide upon the Prince. The Caelish were a people of poetry and song, who worshipped the beauty in things with a pure and fierce devotion, and Eirian had been born no less a bard than his forefathers. But even at fourteen, lungs shivering with the effort of drawing a full breath beneath the weight of awe and affection and dizzy exhilaration so sharp it bordered on pain, they understood well that their fate was to love from a distance. That to show their hand was to ruin what they could have: companionship, friendship, the chance to stay by his side, privileges they could earn by being canny and charming enough to climb up the political pyramid.
  
  Meeting Caspian was the last push needed to transmute their innate inclinations to a genuine, dedicated focus towards unlocking the secrets of diplomacy and power. They wheedled their father into letting them sit in on informal council meetings and leaned on their mother's friends' fondness of them to expand their network of friends and allies at court. They drank and laughed with Eòin's Stormcloak friends, dazzled Eoghan's classmates with gifts and witty conversations, and wrote elegant, flattering letters lauding the ideas and theories of various mages and scholars at court. In private, they honed their Airblooded abilities with a series of extremely well-paid tutors, stifling the flames in their veins with a grim and implacable determination. Perfected the clothes, the tones, the expressions of the masks they'd don, practicing them in every prominent foreign tongue as well until they were dreaming in fluid Elyrian, harsh Vostic, and the various lilting tones of Ish'kora. The true key to their meteoric rise in court, however, could likely be credited to the fact that they, unlike so many shortsighted nobles before them, never overlooked the little people.
  
  If you ask a maid or a servant at the castle, they'll tell you that Eirian Cadell has always had a kindness to them that is wholly uncommon to the aristocracy, a rare awareness and consideration for the lowly people of the world. That he seems to know every name and face in the castle, and always somehow finds the time to ask after this washmaid's engagement, or that cook's sick little sister. How much of it is genuine, and how much is a deliberate calculation, only he himself knows. Regardless, the walls have ears in every court, and it pays handsomely to be the first one the whispers reach. As a result, they have an uncanny knowledge of the going-ons around the kingdom, from seemingly frivolous gossip like the contents of a Countess's scandalous affair letters to hefty, grave secrets of state and military.
  
  Barely into their twenties, they'd already established themself as an indispensable fixture at court. From there, tugging on the right strings and murmuring into the right ears, they'd laid out a masterpiece of a plan to ensure that Caspian would have an airtight claim to the right to rule in the eyes of the Withan Council. The marriage of the century, cementing a unification of the two greatest kingdoms on the Continent. As the grandchild of a Vostigari former warlord—a fact accepted and excused on account of the Duchess's rather impressive dual affinity and exquisite manners—Eirian knows well the price of war, better than most of the hotheaded lords on the council. There is no happiness to be found in an uncertain future, only bloodshed and grief and bodies.
  
  Above all, their greatest wish is that Caspian would one day obtain the perfect, joyous fairy-tale ending he so richly deserved. And they are certain that peace, prosperity, and careful politicking is the best path to securing it.
  
  The selfish pining of their own foolish heart is an old and familiar ache, inconsequential, easily tucked beneath a composed smile and the weight of quiet, unwavering devotion.
  
  
  

  
  
  

  ABILITIES

  
  
  

  FUNDAMENTAL ELEMENTAL MAGIC

  
  
  NATURAL AFFINITY.
  Air (6.5)
  
  MIDDLING AFFINITY.
  Fire (3.2)
  
  ELEMENTAL WEAKNESS.
  Water
  
  

  VEINFLOW CAPACITY

  
  
  (7)
  
  

  OTHER FORMS OF MAGIC

  
  
  1. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)
  
  2. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)
  
  3. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)
  
  

  WEAPONS

  
  
  A thin, copper-hilted rapier they keep sheathed (they wear it mostly for decoration), a hunting knife tucked into their belt, and a tiny dagger hidden in their left boot.
  
  

  SKILLS

  
  
  Basic training with weapons (3)
  Fluency in foreign languages (8)
  Musical affinity, particularly with voice, harp, and lyre (9)
  An expert dancer (9)
  
  
  

  
  
  

  EXTRA

  
  
  HCs & likes/dislikes here!
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  ♡coded by uxie♡

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
• 
  I'm sorry I'm lazy so this is just a starting post I copy and pasted from a previous RP (for anyone who has read it before, *cough* kat *cough*, please just blink). I know it's not really in the same vibe as this RP but I haven't done much historical fantasy and courts vibed stuff :') so please forgive me.
  
  
  Spoiler: Writing Sample

  There is something about the descent into the Compound that puts one in the mind of Dante. The creaks and groans of the West wing elevator harmonize into an ear-splitting cacophony that rivals any of Hell’s fictional revelries, barely muted by the popping of his ears as the ground swallows him down, down its dank and stagnant esophagus. Fintan Corentine watches the gray-brown layers of earth blurring through the gaps in the moisture-rusted elevator cage and thinks, not for the first time, that one day he’s probably going to die in here.
  
  Worn rails and fraying hoist rope will snap, heaving down its toil, surrendering its passenger to the ignominious end of crashing metal and matchstick bones. He’s going to rot in here, half a man and half the pale imitation of a god, because he is—for all of Bastion’s hard work—still just flesh in the end. Nobody will find him for months or years, because barely anyone remembers this decrepit fucking thing exists anyways and certainly none of them are stupid enough to use it. Why the hell does he keep using it, when there are a dozen functional alternatives? They gave him supersoldier robot legs, for Godiva’s sake, he could just use the stairs.
  
  And then Fin stops thinking about it so hard because he knows the answer, and nine in the morning is way too early to be examining his child-pressing-on-a-bruise tendency to squint down the end of the railway tracks, as if prediction were any real measure of control. Y’all missed ‘death by elevator’ on that grocery list of things we were built to survive. He plays around with the idea of bringing it up with Bas, the next time he’s forced to pay homage atop her table. It won’t happen, of course, but he gives it a generous token second of consideration.
  
  It is a shrieking eternity before the elevator deposits him on the level of the compound, but deposit him, it does. Relatively unscathed, too, if he doesn’t count the damage to his eardrums or his heart. He steps out onto the worn linoleum flooring, the layer of dust marked solely by the footprints of his previous passings, rough-hewn walls pressing in like a tomb. It is one of his cherished loves, the safety of abandoned places, the security of being somewhere nobody else wants to go.
  
  Dying fluorescents flicker above his head as he strolls lazily down the hallway, striping his rain-damp hair alternatively green-gray and bronze. Give it another year, maybe, and he’ll be making this walk in the dark. If the Project makes it that long. If he makes it that long. He laughs, a joyless belly-laugh that echoes through the empty space, though there’s not a soul around to hear it.
  
  It is a reflexive thing to snap a strand of hair from his scalp, holding it up between pinched fingertips. Half a thought and it’s alight, a white-gold candle flame happily eating away at the keratin, the imprint of heat barely registering through his cybernetic nerves. The faint scent of sulfur stuffs itself up his nose, nauseatingly familiar. Happy first birthday, VRTU. If we’re both still around, I’ll light two for us next year.
  
  By the time he makes it through the warren of forgotten passageways and into more populated corridors, the flame has long since burnt itself out, suffocated by the twin insults of moisture-heavy air and starvation of fuel to feed on. All that lingers is that faint whiff of sulfur on his fingertips, and the imprint of fire on the back of his eyelids.
  
  He locates the rarely-used conference room with the ease of a wandering insomniac, slipping into the room with a casual hand in his pocket and a practiced smile on his face. “Doctor, Doctor, and Doctor, morning. Sorry I didn’t dress up for the party.”

 

[ERode]

The Rogue Mage

Stigr

27

Male

Pansexual

NAME.

Stigr

AKA

The Fiend-Blood, The Aberrant of the Common Class, Mind-Butcher

ETHNICITY

Vostigari

BLOOD

Waterblood

OCCUPATION

A Prisoner Condemned to Death

PERSONALITY

Was he supposed to have been a good man, once upon a time?

There is nothing left of what Stigr once was. Years of imprisonment have taken its toll on a man that could have been average in all instances except one, and now, that one abnormality he possessed has consumed all other identities he may have held. A loyal son. A hardworking student. A patient doctor. A soldier, drawing a blade upon a faultless child. A merchant, burning away all bridges so only they could grasp upon that hoard of riches. An aristocrat, weaving games upon games all so they could sit upon the backs of those that were once their betters. The Rat King, nails digging deep upon wooden railings…

A tapestry of identities, a flood of memories foreign and familiar, had blanched out the ordinary and left Stigr only able to anchor himself in his madness. When he thinks of his father, a dozen faces turn to praise, scold, strike, hug him. When he thinks of his friends, they are a legion, from different cities and towns, different ethnicities and times. When he thinks of himself?

He can’t recall his face. There is only a stone mask, sheltering the world from the inner self of the Mind-Butcher. There are only the curses, the monikers slung in his direction, iron stakes that keep himself distinct from the identities he had consumed. His blood the bait, his soul the hook. A living tool, forgotten until his dark art was convenient once more. A monster, collared, shackled, muzzled.

So be it.

If it meant knowing who he was, then he would gladly become the quintessential villain, the rogue mage with a thousand atrocities to his name.

BACKSTORY

It would have been better if he was nothing special.

Because at birth, he really wasn’t.

Stigr was of common blood, hailing from a family of Vostigari immigrants who thought that their Water-blood would have offered them more opportunities in Elyria. They were wrong, and instead of binding themselves to a military force that had subjugated their countrymen, turned brave warriors to collared hounds, they took on lesser roles. A lumberjack and an herb-gatherer, living in a small hut in the woods. Compared to the harsh landscape of Vostigari, even that had been a mercy, the forests plentiful and the weather mild. Those were precious days, innocent days.

Ignorant was another term for it, for poaching was a crime, and the crimes of the lowborn, of something so second-class and wretched as Vostigari labourers, could be decided without trial, at a whim.

The axe fell quick; the profession of executioner was a busy one.

His father’s head was left to rot as a warning to any other who thought nature’s bounty as one to be shared with all equally. His mother found herself crushed beneath the weight of debts incrued over picking mushrooms where she ought not to have. Stigr, with no recourse, sold himself to a farm, working from dawn to dusk in the Fields of Calisora, for a heel of bread and a slab of cheese.

That should have been his lot in life. He would grown old in those fields, his head bent beneath the sun, his tongue numbed by endless work, his pouch filled with food scraps rather than coin, his eyes ever downcast so he could slip beneath the notice of the landlord.

…

The army was recruiting.

They needed more men on the Borderlands. There was a sign-on bonus for those that passed the two-week training period. The pay would be decent enough by Vostigari standards, and there was glory involved too, in the great hunt, in the protecting of the motherland, in the affirmation of strength!

Stigr did not care.

But the landlord did.

Why let such an unsettling creature dawdle in the fields, in any case? That stringy, scarlet-haired being, growing taller every year, even when he was fed hardly anything at all? The way his daughter shied from the windows when he was on the field, the way the dogs barked at him when he passed. An orphaned Vostigari, orphaned due to his criminal parentage. Why let him be?

When the army came to collect Stigr, he didn’t resist. He didn’t even realize he was to be drafted, instead of executed. In the end, after all those generations of effort, all those kilometers traversed on foot, the prodigal bloodline returned to the subjugated lands that once belonged to his grandfather’s kin. Back into the fray, back into the wastes.

It was worse, perhaps, that his meager talents as a Waterblood were discovered. That the work he would be sent to do was, by all measure, more horrific than the beast-hunt.

…

He was trained as medic, for a war that would never end, for men who would never cherish their lives. They had become nothing but the arrows of Elyria, drawn and shot, assuaging their wounded pride by pretending that they were the indispensable ones, that Elyria was the one that would fall if not for their steel and their might.

But at night, there was only muted terror in the infirmary.

Wounds turning gangrenous. Bones shattered so thoroughly as to be irreparable. Organs flattened and failing. Disease, spreading as swift as a crow’s flight. Some were burned, others poisoned. The fortunate ones were afforded a heroic death at the face of a great monster. The unfortunate ones survived that burst of heroism, and were met with the reality of now surviving as some horrific, misshapen, disabled thing.

Stigr was cursed, both by those whose comrades he could not save, as well as be those whose lives he did.

The Elyrians didn’t train him well enough to perform miracles. His Veinflow was hardly enough to last him through a half-day. He butchered more than he healed, amputating rotten limbs and then stitching them shut, a strong drink the only thing that made it all tolerable. Was it worth it to live? How could it be, when life existed only to be ground down? When human will and the capacity to enact such will was dependent solely on fate itself, circumstances far beyond the ken of the mortal mind? Was there ever a different path to begin with?

Blood and fat. Skin and sinew. Bones and tendons.

It was something of an accident.

Was it ever an accident?

...

ABILITIES

FUNDAMENTAL ELEMENTAL MAGIC

NATURAL AFFINITY.
Water (4)

ELEMENTAL WEAKNESS.
Earth

VEINFLOW CAPACITY

3

OTHER FORMS OF MAGIC

Water to scrape at the surface of the mind. Blood to delve deeper still. A Fragment of the Soul, splintered and lost, to complete that imperfect, impure connection, where one could take without giving in return. A parasite, drinking deeply of cranial fluids and innermost thoughts. A scalpel, peeling away flesh and reputation to expose the nature that was nurtured by circumstance. A terror, to crack open the psyche just wide enough that slim, gloved fingers could reach in and pluck out that which glistened like a pearl wrested from the stomach of bloated whale.

Stigr is the only user of Mind Magic. He supposes that would make him a Master of it.

WEAPONS

Who willingly arm a criminal?

SKILLS

He speaks eloquently, convincingly, despite his low-born status.
Knowledge springs from his mind, more of a waterfall than a well.
He understands the shape of the human mind, the base nature upon which civilization is built.
He possesses a deft hand for medical work, the setting of bones, the sewing of wounds, the purging of blood.

EXTRA

HCs & likes/dislikes here!

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[artemis.]

THE ROGUE MAGE

DAMIANI CHRYSOU

twenty-eight

female

lesbian

NAME.

damiani chrysou.

AKA

the heretic. the godless prophet. the soulspeaker. teacher.

NICKNAMES

dami.

ETHNICITY

elyrian.

BLOOD

water-blooded.

OCCUPATION

formerly a teacher. something of a cult leader, but would rather refer to herself as a "soulspeaker" — a palatable term for a medium. the most recent addition to her curriculum vitae is "prison scum."

PERSONALITY

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ to encapsulate her being into a single word, damiani would describe herself as pyritic. fool's gold, a façade of virtue and elegance paralleling the flecks of pyrite's deceitful iron sulfide. hardly is she distinguished as the in-between she contends she is, existing on neither extreme of criminal scum or prosperous noblewoman. however, it is difficult for individuals to assume anything but the latter upon first impressions. adorned in the finest silks and the most precious of gems, who would presume anything but the grandeur of nobility? gold is recognized as a mesmerizing gem, and damiani oozes with no less charisma — not quite as a casanova, but a woman whose parlance drips elegance and eloquence like warm honey.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ honey. enrapturing with its saccharinity, if not for its glutinous consistency. welcoming. tolerant. reliable. authoritative. how fascinating that the qualities which make her a splendid instructor also make her the perfect manipulator? analytical — deciphering the shortcomings of her dearest students and remedying them, akin to the acolytes whose ruinous frailties can be mended with woven threads she'd carefully puppeteer. maternalistic — welcoming her heart to the sorrows and troubles of her students who seek her percipience, not unlike her commonfolk followers who believe it is damiani's goodwill and counsel that will relieve them of their hulking burdens: poverty, inequality, injustice. ah, and no good teacher can be a pushover. punishing — because it is an unfortunate necessity to chastise an adolescent's misbehavior, just as it is mandatory to silence a trecherous rat who thinks they can slip from her fingers.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ but it is all for the greater good, no?

BACKSTORY

"AND WE WERE BORN FROM TEARS EVERFLOWING..."

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ amidst a canvas of midnight, glimmering white stars speckled the blackness overhead. the only illumination, if not for the moon's silvery glow, was the warm amber of a lantern stationed atop the wooden planks of a wearied dock. it was here where life was at its simplest, when the aroma of salty waters permeated the air, and when the lap of the tides against the shore intermingled with the sounds of her own childish, pitchy voice. "mama, tell me about the nymphs again!" and as the story was recalled for the nth time, big emerald eyes never escaped widening in awe and admiration of el, their selfless progenitor. her mother’s fingers would point to the constellations overhead as she orated elyrian mythology, the same constellations guiding her fisherman father back home, until the divine mother generously bestowed his safe passage. then the three would journey back to their nearby hut, happily feasting on the guts and flesh of fish too worthless or tasteless to sell.

"IF YOU CALL TO THE SEA, SHE WILL ANSWER..."

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ the lull of the tides repeated its ceaseless cycle, thrumming against the ridges of the coast like earth’s orchestral metronome. it was a harmonious symphonia — the percussion of the waves, the woodwinds of chirping seagulls — conducted by the nymphs and blessed to the people. the audience in this instance consisted of damiani and her mother, who bowed their heads to the marble effigy of their divine mother. slender fingers tousled long locks of blonde and beckoned damiani’s head lower, deeper like the boundless sea, respectful to the goddess responsible for it all — the guidance of the waters, and the deliverance of virtue and vice. “thank you, holy mother, for hearing our prayers…” and everyday, emerald eyes would peer expectantly past ruffled blonde to her mother who waited for her to continue.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ “erm… thank you for…” damiani would pause, fingertips toying with the stems of the sacred lilies her fingers clasped around. “... making sure dad comes home safe! and giving mama a job!”

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ but el the everflowing would bless them with far greater than a job.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ her mother adorned her in the nicest dress within their cramped closet — the special one, worn only during the festival of the everflowing — and embellished golden locks with charming little bows, but it didn’t make her feel any less out of place. hanging from the ceiling were grand chandeliers, plastering the walls were oil paintings that glistened with the embrace of the sun, and the doors… so many doors. how come her home only had one? eyelashes fluttered, attention stolen away when she noticed the shadow of her mother leaning closer. “remember, damiani… we are always going to be polite to lady fidelis, okay?” and of course, damiani nodded her head, because she’d be best behaved for the job that had her mother so excited.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ a knock at the door, and revealed would be two brunettes. one was taller, aged with the passage of decades, and the shorter was a younger, reminiscent replica. her mother would beckon her by a push to the shoulders towards them, and emerald eyes would land on the taller child, hair the color of chestnut, and eyes blue like the depths of the ocean. “this is lady fidelis, damiani. and this is her daughter, lady ilya. i hope you two make good friends.”

"IF YOU ARE THE SEAS, THEN I AM THE MOON..."

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ so often do affectionate tales recount the earth and her lover the moon, always orbiting but only meeting in fateful eclipse — a sorrowful, but nonetheless gorgeous tragedy… but what of the ocean and the moon? only to see each other with night’s calling, whose magnetic pull sways and beckons the other like partners of a practiced tango…

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎that was daytime for damiani. perhaps the most exciting fraction of damiani’s day was tagging alongside her mother to the fidelis estate, where she’d always be greeted with eyes glistening like the ocean’s ripples capturing the sunlight, and arms squeezing her no less mercilessly than the snares she’d witness her father lifting from the depths of the sea. ”dami!!!! a pitchy squeal would always resonate in the halls before she’d feel the air escaping her lungs, arms hugging and nearly knocking her to the ground. each day, there’d be a new suggestion from her dearest friend. ”let’s go to the gardens, dami! i wanna give you a makeover, dami! you need to come to my party, dami!” and most dangerous of them all… ”let me teach you magic, dami.”

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎hidden beneath enshrouding bedsheets, the brunette’s fingers would come to her own, digits brushing digits, fingertips flattening those of her own. “relax, dami. my teacher says we should let the magic flow in the same way the everflowing— WHOA!! you’re doing it, dami!!”
‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎
‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ a smile would tug at the corner of the blonde’s lips, peering down at the aqueous orb floating in the palm of her hands. but celebration would only last for a moment before she’d gasp, eyes squinting at the harsh daylight filtering into her perception when bedsheets whoosh away and she’s stuck peering up at lady fidelis, who undoubtedly witnessed her feat of magic.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ her heart beat in her chest, so loud she could hear the blood rushing from one ear to the other. so loud that she could barely hear her own footsteps, one after the other, as lady fidelis pulled her from the bedroom and to a private chamber down the hall. a commoner couldn’t practice magic. would ilya get in trouble? would her mother get in trouble? but when the noblewoman turned to her, it was with a smile. ”relax, sweetheart. i see you are interested in learning magic? i will tell you what… you may learn, so long as you promise to always remain by ilya’s side.”

"WHY MUST THE TIDES WANE?..."

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ “how come you never spar with me, ilya? are you frightened you will lose?” playfulness dripped from her tone, and palms clutched textbooks brimming with papers and notes following hours of lessons with their private instructor. just as her friend would throughout the dawn of their youth, an adolescent damiani would meagerly attempt to knock her companion aside with a shoulder bumped to shoulder, making the brunette stumble as they walked. and always, ilya would shoot a look at the blonde.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ “of course not…” her blue eyes would dart from one corridor to the other. “the everflowing never chose me to be a fighter… that’s all!”

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ how ironic of a statement when she had been fighting since the very beginning.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ it started simply with coughing. then, dizziness. fatigue. fainting spells. excusing herself for brief breaks turned to permanent bedrest. as the sun basked ilya’s bedroom in an orange glow, damiani would knock before poking her head inside, emerald eyes meeting with sapphire. then, ocean blue would lower back to the canvas clutched between slender fingers, paintbrush clasped and decorating white in beautiful hues. “are you feeling any better, ilya?”

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ she’d look up from the canvas, smiling. “a bit better.” and then a pause. “you know, dami… i don’t wanna hinder you. i was talking with my mother, and maybe you should start attending the academy?”

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ the blonde’s brows would instantly furrow. “what? no. i do not want to do a thing if it’s without you.”

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ “dami…” ilya would sigh, shaking her head and turning her attention back to the blonde. “like i said, i’ll be fine in no time! you can go to the academy, and we can go see the ocean together when i get better.”

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ but it was in solitude that damiani would return to the beaches. there was familiarity in the marble structures of the nymphs, an understanding of her mother’s passion. her mother’s loyalty to the goddess. her ritual practice of lowering her head to the nymphs, offering the finest of the lilies blooming in the fields, or the most pristine pearls her father managed. she understood her mother's desperation. her pleas. her cries for help. her begging for change. when the waves crashed along the shore, and the sun began to sink below the horizon to paint the world in an ethereal glow, damiani would drop to her knees at the foot of the shrine. as practiced, her head was low, hands clasped together. ”please, everflowing goddess… if you hear me, please heal my friend!"

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ she'd learn that prayers were not answered so easily.

"AND IN DEATH, WE RETURN TO THE SHORES..."

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ "dami? what are you doing here so late?" scratchy and low, the syllables would be caught between a series of deathly coughs. "don't you have students tomorrow?"

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ "yes. but what does that matter when i have you?" because at the end of the day, it always was them. the sea and the moon. no time apart at the academy, nothing of the years that passed, would ever diminish what meant most to her: ilya. a hand looped the other woman's arm around her neck, and the other palm supported at her waist, assisting the brunette into a rolling chair. carefully, damiani tugged a thin blanket from the bed, draping it over her friend's lap before her palms clasped each handle of the wheelchair and pushed.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ the ocean.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ if not for each other, then the moon, white and round above them, certainly would've been sufficient company. its reflection rippled atop the surface of the ocean, disturbed by the flow of currents that would lap onto the white sands feet from them. with the smell of the saltwater permeating in the air, ilya took a deep breath. there were no words at all speaken between the two. none at all, at least at first. silent understanding. an unspoken acceptance of what was to come. ilya was the first to part her lips.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ "what are your goals from here, dami?"
‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ "hm?" stolen from her thoughts, her eyes peered down at the locks of chestnut below. "nothing that you won't be able to see for yourself."
‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ "this is what el decided for me, dami. you know very well that i—"
‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ "i mean it, ilya. you will see."
‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎
‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ there was a pause. silence, with naught but the ocean's heartbeat accompanying them. "... whatever you do, i hope it is not something you regret, damiani." and another beat before blue eyes look into hers. "take care of my mother, will you?"

"I WILL CREATE MY OWN CURRENT."

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ until her very last breath, and even the hours that followed, warm hands were intertwined with weaker, paler ones that slowly drained its heat with the passing minutes. tears obscured her vision, rolled down her cheeks, and poured from her jaw to stain the sheets below. all that ran through her head was a single question: why? why had the goddess taken away ilya from her? why, when she was a devoted follower? why, when ilya was no different? why would a goddess administer such cruelty? why would a goddess punish the innocent, a faithful devotee, someone who never did anything wrong?

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ she pondered a plethora of questions even when her hands were ripped from ilya's. when her soulless body was enshrouded in a white sheet, not so different from the ones they'd hide themselves in during their childhood. when there was nothing left of her memory but the fragments left behind. when damiani, in her grief, avoided the fidelis estate and the memories of ilya that were forever etched in its walls. when she was consumed by suffering — not solely her own, but the misery engulfing everyone around her. children orphaned by el's fate. families starving from el's fate. individuals embracing their helplessness, accepting that there was no such thing as a commoner changing the flow of el's fate. why. why was el doing this to them? who was el to do this to them? why must they accept their wretched lives? why must they embrace the torture of a sadistic god? why must they ask, and wait, and beg for salvation from a goddess deaf to their pleas? if el refused to listen, then damiani would forge her own fate.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ el did not watch her now. but what if she defied her? she would turn the flow of el's current asunder. show the world that there was more to grasp than cruel destiny.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ honest coin was utilized for dishonest purchases. nights were sleepless, nose buried in books in the darkest chambers of her home, papers upon papers scrawled with writing and diagrams. days of work turned into weeks. weeks turned into months. but in the end, it was worth it. in the end, she had defied divinity.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ "dami... damiani?"

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ nobody else was present in the room, but the voice echoed.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ "i told you, ilya. you'll see everything."

"THE WHISPERS OF THE SEA..."

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ and throughout slums of lithalis bay, the rumours were whispered of the renowned teacher of the forgotten, the benefactor of the desolate, the soulspeaker who defied the goddess herself. with veins blackened the color of charcoal, headache pounding at her temples and sweat urging to trickle from the flashes of searing heat and tantalizing aches, she'd smile. smile as she'd gesture from her audience to the summoned deceased. smile as she violated the very principle of the everflowing currents. "do not shackle yourselves with mindless elyrian drivel. the nature of water is that it assumes its containers. as its vessel, we have the freedom to shape fate as we may." and the rhetoric would be carried from one hopeful soul to the next. one whisper to another of the mortal woman who enacted the privilege of a god. whispers of hope. ambition. rebellion. "in what way has the everflowing blessed you more than i have? i have defied the will of god hundreds of times, and yet i stand. the divine priests are lying to you... to everyone. do not believe in them. believe in me, and elyria can begin anew."

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ and they vanquished themselves of el's providence, which never promised to protect them. separated themselves from a merciless god to follow who truly listened to their prayers. a woman who would would educate those who were uneducated. assist those who needed assistance. perform miracles that the goddess would never practice for themselves. someone willing to entwine her fate, the one she crafted herself, to thousands of others.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ three more days. just three and it should be gone. with a knock at the door, green eyes lifted from the blackened skin, palms caressing the fabric of her sleeves to conceal her skin. her shoulders relaxed hearing a pitchy voice on the other side of the door, and not that of another adult begging and pleading for just one more seance. one more summoning. one more miracle.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ "miss dami...! i don't get how to read these ruins... can you help?"

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ damiani sucked in the sting, the throbbing in her head, the dizziness that caught up to her with every step. when she opened the door, it was with a smile. but green eyes peered down at not one, but three small children. children with tattered clothed. fingernails chipped and dotted with grime, and hair tossled in all sorts of ways. but no matter their condition, when they'd look up at her, their round eyes were filled with awe and wonder.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ "of course, darling." and she'd shut the door behind her, stepping with the beckon of her hand to find a more suitable spot for a suitable location to administer a short location... not only for the wonderment of the children, but the sake of their — elyria's — future.

ABILITIES

FUNDAMENTAL ELEMENTAL MAGIC

NATURAL AFFINITY.
water (9.0). she is a firm believer that there is no such thing as "mastering" an element. skills can always be improved and magic is susceptible to refinement.

MIDDLING AFFINITY.
air (2.0). hardly ever harnesses it.

ELEMENTAL WEAKNESS.
earth.

VEINFLOW CAPACITY

7.0.

OTHER FORMS OF MAGIC

perhaps an unexpected virtue of the elyrian common class is that they don't need to uphold the standards of elyrian nobility. within the perspective of a pompous elyrian noble, is it unbefitting for the lower class to embrace the "low arts?" damiani thinks no less of alternative magic, and prides herelf in the vastness of knowledge. what information the academy didn't bestow, she self-taught by engraining the wisdom of (often illegal) ish'koran texts.

1. necromancy (master). once more, she would hesitate to refer to herself as a master, but who could possibly question her expertise? most of her experience revolves around communicating with spirits, however she is familiar with reanimating the dead.
2. alchemy (intermediate). her relationship with alchemy stemmed from a desperate forage for a mythical "miracle cure" for her dear friend. she has since grown to appreciate the art, nuance, and intuitiveness of alchemy. as it is a magic form accessible to everyone, she is comfortable with teaching its mechanisms.
3. shadow magic (beginner). rather than deception, her shadow magic is practically strictly utilized for stealth. it assists greatly during her trips to elyria's underground black markets, and has unintentionally proven useful among her following. how could someone speak behind her back if there's always a chance she could be lurking from the shadows?

WEAPONS

unfortunately, elyrian guards are not foolish enough to leave a prisoner with a weapon.

SKILLS

healing (4.0). a subset of her waterblooded magic, which was mandatory to learn during her time attending elyria's magic academy. she is capable of extracting poisons and healing injuries at a basic level. "do not fret. if you die from your injuries, i am even more qualified to assist you," she'd likely mention with a teasing smile no less playful than her tone.

bargaining (8.5). perhaps the most important skill a commoner can attain. her visage cannot nullify her impoverished background, founded upon trades and negotiating for lower prices.

ish'koran language (7.0). knowledge is power, and power is glory. of course, elyrians would never translate and transcribe the forbidden ish'koran texts. thus, damiani took it upon herself to expend the money to acquire a teacher until she was comfortable with the language. her literacy skills are far more trained than her speech, and she admits her pronunciation needs some work.

knowledge (8.5). it troubles her that it was an opportunity to seize rather than a fundamental for every elyrian. knowledge is a concept that damiani doesn't take for granted, whether as a teacher or a typical person. prior to her detainment, she took great pleasure sifting through pages of books and learning from those she encountered. however, she believes there is still much left for her to decipher considering the vastness of the world and the people comprising it.

EXTRA

WRITING SAMPLE

i may end up writing a new sample specifically ic for this idk yet... but until then, you're welcome to look here for an example!

HEADCANONS

☆ lesbian situationship so bad the only thing left to do was lowkey start a cult. she is very #justgirlythings casual about it. extremely shameless about her crimes and would happily say she'll do them again!

☆ not so hopelessly down bad that she's still tweaking over her deceased bestie. time has made it easier, and she no longer holds the grief-related anger she did in the past. she doesn't mind engaging in relationships with other women, although most are casual.

☆ her use of necromancy is mostly utilized with innocent intentions. she believes there is great wisdom to learn from the deceased. when other people seek her abilities, it is often to relieve the suffering of grief for the living and fulfill the final, burning wishes that the dead were unable to complete. however, damiani admits necromancy is leverage for her political goals, as it distinguishes her from what the everflowing wants and what the people want.

☆ during her time at the academy, she was (much to people's surprise, given her appearance), trained to be a battle-mage. she has been authorized to teach, but only as an accessory to professional schooling and only to nobility. although damiani genuinely enjoys teaching, she sees it as a splendid opportunity to keep a foot stuck in the noble world and gather information. given that education is extremely strict, she follows all necessary guidelines with her noble students. nobility wouldn't really assume what she's truly up to at all.

☆ code-switches out of habit. her voice is a lot more refined and posh when around nobility or people of high status. around other commoners, she's a bit more relaxed and partial to using improper lingo.

☆ mostly mentally sound?... anyone particularly devout would probably make her seem absolutely insane. the only thing that might raise eyebrows is that she can be callously realistic. believes that sacrifice and death is necessary in pursuit of her cause. does not sugarcoat things, but at the same time is not heartless.

☆ obviously anti-religion, but is quite calm with her expression of it. she is aware that her tactics can be somewhat manipulative, but believes they are justifiable. she does not manipulate because she wants to, but because she needs to. thinks that some commoners have likened themselves to mindless sheep subjected by el's current to the woes and hardship of their life. she believes that she must be the shepherd who guides lost lambs into recognizing the power they possess.

☆ that being said, she is more selectively manipulative than outright manipulative to everyone she encounters. to the majority of people, she is entirely genuine. however, if there is a goal she is ambitiously seeking, then she is not above puppeteering people. she typically respects other people and their volition, and only steers people her way if she believes it is helpful or necessary.

☆ she is almost considered a psuedo-god due to her feats by the most devoted of her following, but she hesitates to embrace any identity tied to religion. "i am no god, i am just like you." that being said, she is very cognizant of the fact that she manipulates people into having dependence and overwhelming hope in her. she argues that her intentions are purely political, but there is certainly an unusual gray area.

☆ pretty tall for a woman. 5'8" and she still likes to wear heels. other defining features would include floral tattoos going down her arms.

☆ fond of ish'korans and their culture. likes to use them as another example to fuel her ideologies of godlessness. knowledge is indeed power, and belief in an almighty figure doesn't dictate success. additionally, she values the importance of knowledge in ish'koran values, and believes that elyrians possess a primitive thought process.

☆ she is still in touch with lady fidelis, who treats her akin to a daughter. damiani herself is somewhat sparing with her money, and any lavish attire or jewels she wears is often a gift from the fidelis family. on occasion, she is invited to events the noblewoman hosts, making her personally familiar with certain noble families.

☆ despite her appearance, she is prideful of her commoner background and is quite conscientious that she was allowed privileges that even her neighbours are not capable of attaining. she considers the disparities the commonfolk experience disgusting, and often uses her standing among nobles to speak for the common class. she finds it particularly amusing when nobles look down on commoners without realizing she is one.

☆ considering she was distributing an education that commonfolk otherwise wouldn't attain, she is extremely beloved by her community for allowing them a chance at grasping better lives. she is perceived as a wise soul and often assists in the troubles her peers face. damiani personally values community and believes it is a necessity to stand together. humans are social creatures for a reason.

☆ believes that facing execution is a waste of a valuable resource. not even in an egotistical, but factual way. she perceives her execution as the upper class silencing the injustices the lower class experiences. considering she is well aware of the consequences, she might have planned an escape or two... of course, she is unable to enact those strategies now.

☆ definitely more to come...

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Algatrine549]

Till Death Do Us Part

Lady’s Maid (most wanted) BASE: Name: Elizabeth (or Beth to her friends, which don’t really exist) Chamberlain Age: 24 Gender: Female Birthday: November 29 Sexuality: Straight Ethnicity: Elyrian Blood: Airblooded Appearance: Beth keeps herself extremely clean and neat, she has n...

docs.google.com

 

[efferve]

THE SCHOLAR

RUHAIL DAHAN

26

Male

Bisexual

NAME.

Ruhail Dahan

AKA

The Oasis of Knowledge, Jackal, The Ink-stained Sandscribe, The Grand Council's Mutt

NICKNAMES

Ru

ETHNICITY

Ish'koran

BLOOD

Earthblood

OCCUPATION

Scholar, Archivist, Librarian, Alchemist, …

The list goes on. Endlessly so, then being useless may be a different kind of death sentence, but one nonetheless.

PERSONALITY

A charming smile, a deep bow. Sharp wit murky beneath a playful facade. Subservience above all else; the foundation of his survival.

For as important as it was to remain an indispensable asset to the Council, being seen as non-threatening was even more so. Only then would their eyes stay mild, as if entertaining their favourite pet. And they would rather laugh with him than at him.

So, Ruhail prefers to continue to play their game. To feed them his ideas and creations, shaping them to make them appear as their achievements. Bit by bit, as he bent and twisted himself to their tune, trapped in a cycle, dodging the vulture's claws.

At least, he had no pride left to think about, nothing that would break under this treatment. He had kneeled too long, caring too little to waste a single thought on some intangible sense of superiority. So, if his masters told him to jump, he’d gladly comply. And if they asked him to bite, he’d do so without complaint.

Not to say that he was completely without shame or resentment. Ruhail held it dearly, like a child they could not take and brand as their own. His whisper of defiance simmered, nurtured for the moment it could finally matter. But that time hadn’t come yet, and he was growing weary of waiting for a miracle.

Sometimes, it was easier to resign to the status quo. For his current chains were light and airy, drifting with the sand currents, swept away by the many freedoms offered.

When obedience meant unrestricted access and endless pages, it was hard to resist the dangling carrot.

But even that had its limits.

BACKSTORY

auction.

Golden dunes swept away all his early memories, replacing them with mirages of what could have been—but never was. The images of his family haunted his mind like a hazy shimmer, leaving behind only the echo of warm laughter in any attempt at recollection.

In contrast, Ruhail remembered that day with absolute clarity.

The blinding sun burned at his back, sweat trailing down his neck and limbs. It stuck to his flimsy clothes, turning them coarse with sand carried by the dry air. His chains sparkled in the sunlight, shining beacons wrapped smugly around his skin. They rattled with each step as he was dragged onto the stage. Shoulders heavy from waiting so long for his turn, trembling at the unknown that lay ahead.

The most frightening part were the crowds.

They pooled around the platform, a mass of beasts starving for blood. Their faces blurred together. Honest and ruthless at once. Occasionally, their whispered comments carried up to the podium, tainting his ears as strangers debated and placed bets, arguing over who would squeeze the most value from their coin.

He shuddered.

A scream tore through the air, ripping him from his thoughts—a cheap introduction to his potential. Two names fell. Familiar. Ringing vaguely in the depths of his mind. His parents. The cause of his fate. (Something he would only find out later.)

But the auction moved quickly. Time was money, and he was not worth theirs.

Numbers rose. Slowly but steadily. His eyes darted between bidders, watching as more dropped out with every higher price. Two remained: the most persistent ones, the ones who never hesitated to match the stakes. Both made his stomach turn and quiver. The look in their eyes was not something he ever wanted close to him.

For the first time that day, his young mind truly grasped what was about to happen, and it was terrified. A star drowning in the night sky, a sapling crushed beneath the sand dunes. Closing his eyes, refusing to watch, He prayed.

And something answered.

It stirred deep within him, tapping and scratching. Wild. Primal. An instinct responding to his fear like ants swarming to pheromones.

The next moment, his golden chains broke. An explosion cracked through the air, loud enough to seize everyone’s attention. Shards of metal sparkled like gemstones as they scattered in every direction, bouncing harmlessly off his skin.

The crowd went still. Then, as quickly as rare rain, murmurs spread. Hushed, loud, outraged, awed. Amidst the chaos, a cloaked figure stepped forward from beyond the other slaves waiting their turn. They had been there from the beginning, watching like a silent guardian ensuring no trouble arose.

Their sight let silence reign once more. In it, they approached slowly, stopping mere feet away from him. Shadows obscured their features. A second passed. Two more. And then, they nodded. Without a word, they took his hand and pulled him away. He stumbled after them, feet barely keeping up.

Behind them, the auctioneer sputtered meaningless apologies, waving away questions as she tried to regain control.

Looking back and forth, he didn’t understand what had just happened. Not yet. But he knew this moment was the reason why he was now walking away.

marking.

They prettied him up. There was no other way to describe what was happening. Servants fluttered around, cleaning him to the best of their ability while adorning him with jewellery. he would never have dared to glance upon.

The cloaked man was not among the crowd surrounding him. They had left as soon as they delivered him to the room, the rustle of their shroud the only indicator of their departure. And now, it was also the sign of their return.

Their mere presence parted the attendants, as if remaining too close would smother them in an instant. Almost gently, they knelt before him, lifting his dark hair with one hand, exposing his forehead as their fingertips brushed over it.

"Your name is Ruhail," they whispered. Like a parent to a child, like an introduction to a new world. Gentle, yet cruel.

His master opened their other hand, and a servant hurried to place a tool in it—its delicately sharp tip tainted with dark-blue ink.

"The Council will always watch over you."

And then Ruhail screamed.


training.

Mountains of papers. Lessons filling his days from sunrise to dusk.

Magic—what a wonderful thing. The very force that had allowed him from studying here rather than labouring away on fields.

But in turn, their expectations were high, and the consequences of failure loomed like a noose.

Yet, despite the exhaustion burrowing into his bones, genuine joy fueled him. Ruhail welcomed knowledge like a lover welcomes a returning knight. To soak in it, to drown in it—was a privilege. One he could indulge in.

Not completely without a cost. But he was still too young to see it as one.


punishment.

It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.

Two words, echoing endlessly in his mind. Over and over, until they lost all meaning.

The lashes on his back blurred together like voices in a choir. A burning symphony of pain that dared him to falter again. His face lay half-buried in the false comfort of his blanket. Tears carved fresh trails down his cheeks, mixing with the ones already dried there. His fists clenched, his teeth sinking into his lip, stifling the whimpers.

It hurt.


routine.

Days turned into months, then months into years—a timespan that encompassed his entire life. Proudly, Ruhail could now be shown around, a masterpiece of the Council’s making. Others would never look past his stained history, always eager to remind those who did. But in the face of his achievements, some things could be forgiven.

Ancient knowledge came to him with ease, advice freely shared with those in need. His mastery expanded with every passing cycle, a talent he was never shy to wield. It attracted students and teachers alike. They flocked to his lectures, halls filled to the brim, turning mere lessons into exchanges of research and study in which all could partake.

It filled his heart with delight. A sight nothing else could surpass. Pride swelled within him.

Then it would wither away just as quickly upon his return to the cold chambers of a home. Documents lay waiting on his table, anticipating his arrival—ones he had no desire to work on today, yet had to regardless.

How easy it was to get lost in the mundanity of life. To forget that the tune Ruhail danced to was not of his own making.

Wisdom, after all, was never the key to his freedom.


revelation.

"You had an older sister, ya know?" One of his masters spoke, voice slurred with wine. His arm slung over the chair, the only thing keeping him upright. Ruhail sat opposite him, still and quiet. Initially summoned for a report, though the meeting had quickly derailed.

Now, he listened—more intently than he ever had to this particular man. "Sold the very same day."

Ruhail watched as Bashir took another sip. Wine made from fermented dates. Personally, he loathed the mixture. He waited, letting the older man gulp it down before asking, "What happened to her?"


"Somethin’ that should happen to every criminal’s whelp. Used for what she was good for, then tossed away." Bashir snorted, breath thick with alcohol. "Still don’t understand why we kept ya."

Nodding to himself, he poured another glass, his face reddening with every second. Unconcerned that Ruhail was still there. A mere fixture in the room as his head hung subtly.

As always, he had to wait until the end. For a lazy wave to dismiss him in drunken stupor. Ruhail gathered his unseen papers—the ones he toiled over through the night to complete—and left. The lock clicked shut behind him.

Walking away, the pebbles at his feet jumped, dancing before crumbling under the rising pressure. Magic leaked out of him. A faulty faucet. His report was silently torn apart in his hands, eyes distant as he turned another corner.

If ignorance was a chain, he would gladly shackle himself once more to forget the truth.

"…"

But perhaps that was the wrong thing to do. If this was his final call for action. The distant chime of wedding bells carried through the air, echoing as a herald of change.

If not now, then when?

ABILITIES

FUNDAMENTAL ELEMENTAL MAGIC

NATURAL AFFINITY.
Earth (8.3) To push and pull. A marionette on a string. Crumbling the next moment.

MIDDLING AFFINITY.
Water (4.2) A tide. To carry me when I fall.

ELEMENTAL WEAKNESS.
Fire Morbid; the sound flesh makes while sizzling.

VEINFLOW CAPACITY

(9) Vast. Not endless, but almost so.

OTHER FORMS OF MAGIC

1. Bestial Magic (Master) The howl to action. Sharpened claws and growling submission. Untamed wills listening in to my whispers.
2. Alchemy (Intermediate) Threads interwoven in a net of codependency and creation. Carelessly remove one and your healing potion may quickly erode to poison.
3. Wild Magic (Beginner) An overflowing glass. As steady as I hold it, it continues to jump and bend to its own will.

WEAPONS

A dagger. Engraved with runes, enchanted to make its wounds bleed longer. The injury it inflicts bear a distinctive mark, comparable to a scent, allowing even easier tracking.

Three elixirs and two potions, if those count. Two enhance regeneration, another lulls the drinker into sweet, undisturbed dreams. The last two carry a nasty poison. Not fatal, merely agonising. Unless both doses are used simultaneously.

A magic string rope that can stretch at will. Strong enough to hold back the force of an enraged camel.

SKILLS

- Encyclopaedia (9): A valley of blooming knowledge. Flowers holding the sweet nectar of wisdom gathered and collected through dozens upon dozens of tattered scrolls and ancient tomes. The air filled with spells and creatures feared in long forgotten legends. A sanctuary hidden within the depths of his mind, the only place of safety.
- Lockpicking (7): Ruhail bore the scars in a manner that refused to leave his side. "Never again", he whispered in the shaking cover of the night. Such was the birth of pure determination. Chains, collars, bars, and closed doors would not hold him again. At least, that was the wish he blinded himself with.
- Swordsmanship (2): If a quill and feather were as sharp as a blade and durable enough to be wielded as one, Ruhail would be a master. Alas, the world was cruel, and reality did not bend to his whims, leaving him with a poor grip and even poorer coordination. Once, he sliced off the very tip of his silk scarf, promptly marking the end of his short and futile journey.
- Attuned Soul (8): Nature whispered as soft and quiet as a butterfly's flight. A gentle guidance, a sharp poke of danger. Milder temperatures, a path free of wildlife. Fluctuating in reliability, for its spirit enjoyed the cruelty of randomness in life, yet always present moments before the looming maw could truly shut. Instincts alone could not prevent tragedy, but they could shape the outcome.
- Jack of all trades, master of none (5):
Hobbies. An entertaining way to further expertise. To make work seem not quite as arduous as it truly was. Yet, none of what he picked up ever stayed past its use. Ruhail could care for the garden, bake some pastries, sew dresses, or sing a lullaby to soothe nightmares, but passion was always missing from the ingredients. So was the need to advance his level in any of them beyond simple mediocrity.

EXTRA

- Writing samples (x)

- Not a vegetarian, but wouldn't consume animals out of pleasure either. He believes in the balance of life and in equal exchange to uphold nature's law.

- Ambidextrous. A skill taught rather than innate. It simplifies moments of writing when one of his hands are occupied. Funnily enough, Ruhail could write with a quill in-between his toes as well. Though, he's usually stopped before his sandals are even off his feet.

- 6'0". Lean and fit. He may not be a fighter, but he still attempts to keep himself in shape.

- Calluses roughen his hands, while marred skin traces his collarbone, back and wrists. Time had not left Ruhail untouched, but some marks held memories more dreadful than the others.

- In a pouch at his waist, nestling beside charcoal and chalk, Ruhail carries a polished sunstone. The echo chamber of his fevered prayers. A silent plea to the Restless-Feet, that one day, his journey would be more than of fleeting nature. That freedom would no longer be borrowed, but something he could call his own.

- An avid fruit enjoyer, Ruhail could fill his stomach with nothing else and still be content. Despite the vast range of flavours cultivated beyond his home region, cactus fruits would always remain his favourite.

- His symbol of ownership—a simplified eye—was carved visibly into his forehead. Magic healed the wound without leaving a scar, making it appear almost like a painting atop his skin. Yet his mind remembers the pain, and every headache is accompanied with a dull, throbbing ache from his sigil.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[SavannahSmiles]

• ✦ 𝓦𝓘𝓟 𝓒𝓢 ✦
• ✦ 𝓦𝓡𝓘𝓣𝓘𝓝𝓖 𝓢𝓐𝓜𝓟𝓛𝓔 ✦

• 
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  THE ELDER PRINCESS OF ELYRIA

  
  
  
  
  

  Serafina, Heir of Elyria

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  24

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  Female

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  Pansexual

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  NAME.

  
  Serafina Lisel Castanova
  
  

  AKA

  
  Her Royal Highness, Princess Serafina, Heir to House Castanova
  
  

  NICKNAMES

  
  Nina
  
  

  ETHNICITY

  
  Elyrian
  
  

  BLOOD

  
  
  here
  
  

  OCCUPATION

  
  Eldest Princess of Elyria
  
  

  
  
  

  PERSONALITY

  
  
  description here
  
  OR
  
  

  VIRTUES

  
  
  seven virtues here
  
  

  VICES

  
  
  seven vices here
  
  

  
  
  

  BACKSTORY

  
  
  description OR bullet points of relevant events here
  
  

  
  
  

  ABILITIES

  
  
  

  FUNDAMENTAL ELEMENTAL MAGIC

  
  
  NATURAL AFFINITY.
  
  (What element do they wield best? This is their Blooded element.)
  
  (Rate from 1 (barely perceptible) to 10 (master-level control).)
  
  MIDDLING AFFINITY.
  
  (Do they have another element they can use at a beginner level? Dual-affinity characters should treat this as their second natural affinity; remember that they are relatively rare - about 1 in 500) (Optional.)
  
  ELEMENTAL WEAKNESS.
  
  (What element counters them? This is the element they are most vulnerable to, meaning magic of this type disrupts them, overpowers them, or is harder to defend against.)
  
  

  VEINFLOW CAPACITY

  
  
  (How deep is their reservoir of magic? Rate from 1 (low stamina, burns out quickly) to 10 (endless endurance, rare).)
  
  

  OTHER FORMS OF MAGIC

  
  
  1. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)
  
  2. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)
  
  3. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)
  
  

  WEAPONS

  
  
  here
  
  

  SKILLS

  
  
  here
  
  

  
  
  

  EXTRA

  
  
  HCs & likes/dislikes here!
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  ♡coded by uxie♡

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
• 
  
  Spoiler

  to be added

 

[Fabrikator.Nova]

THE YOUNGER PRINCESS OF ELYRIA

AURELIA, PRINCESS OF ELYRIA

19

FEMALE

DEMIROMANTIC

COPY PASTE LINK IN HERE

NAME.

Aurelia Maxima Decima Castanova

AKA

Her Royal Highness, Princess Aurelia of Elyria, Tideborn, First of her Name, Oracle of the Everflowing, Second Daughter of King Hadrien

NICKNAMES

Elia, Ellie, El (this one makes her feel uneasy sometimes), Aurelia the Wise(Wisecracker), Sleeping Beauty, Little Nymph or simply Nymph

ETHNICITY

Elyrian

BLOOD

Waterblood

OCCUPATION

Second Born Princess of Elyria, Royal Envoy of Elyria, Royal Patron of El

PERSONALITY

Aurelia is a strong blend of rebellious spirit, sharp intellect, and fierce determination—a potent mix that often leads her into "trouble" with the uninitiated. She is an unexpected force for the contrary, challenging the life that has been predestined for her in pursuit of something uniquely her own. This defiance isn’t born of disrespect however...she’s deeply aware of her royal heritage and the teachings of El that guide her in all she does and yet while she respects tradition, she believes only SHE can determine the course of her own life. The King and Queen may have their manicured plans for her but Aurelia knows that her future is HER OWN to shape. Though she outwardly conforms to the image of the conforming royal—graceful, poised, elegant—beneath this curated image beats the wild and passionate heart of Elyria's Second Born Princess. Like water carving its own path, Aurelia is determined to chart her own destiny and believes in the Everflow's guidance.

Blessed with privilege and opportunity, Aurelia is extraordinarily well-educated and well-trained, a product of the finest tutors and royal resources who she greatly enjoys the presence of. Her sharp intellect often surprises those around her, many underestimate her age, and she is always hungry for knowledge. Her insatiable curiosity leads her to question the status quo, to delve into diverse cultures, and to speak her mind—sometimes bluntly—on matters others might avoid. She doesn't shy away from uncomfortable truths and is never afraid of speaking her mind—when something needs to be said, her tongue is wickedly sharp. This makes her an incredibly engaging and dynamic presence...and a bit of a headache. For Aurelia, change isn’t a threat...it’s the way forward. She firmly believes that just because things are the way they’ve always been doesn’t mean they can’t evolve to better serve the people. She refuses to be an afterthought, and her ambition pushes her to carve out her own path, one that will undoubtedly challenge the comfortable life she’s known—and she relishes the opportunity. Driven by a deep desire to understand the world beyond the palace walls, she’s not content to sit idly by. She wants to explore and to find her place in the grand world beyond Elyria’s borders.

Despite the frustration she causes her family and the discomfort she often feels in her royal role, Aurelia’s heart is deeply loyal. She may not conform to the passive, obedient princess that her parents expect most of the time, but her love for her kingdom, her people, and her family runs deep. She doesn’t act out of disrespect; rather, she seeks something more—something meaningful. Her love for her family is undeniable, but she has no desire to live a quiet, unremarkable life. Observing her elder sister prepare to become the Crown Princess and unite two kingdoms through marriage, Aurelia has come to understand that she is meant for more than the path laid before her. She yearns for greatness, for a life that will leave a mark on the world.

One that will reflect her true potential.

Confident || Passionate || Ambitious || Headstrong || Loyal || Reckless || Rash

BACKSTORY

When Queen Lithalia became pregnant with Aurelia, the King breathed a sigh of relief. Though they already had a daughter to become the Crown Princess and heir to the Castanova line, it was always a risk to place all their hopes in a single child and so they tried for a spare to be pragmatic. Aurelia’s rebellious nature is teased to have started before she was even born— the Queen was in good and proper health during her pregnancy and yet the “Child of Ambition” would act on her own terms. Aurelia was born dangerously early while her mother was on a trip for rest and relaxation at The Elyrian Falls. None had seen Aurelia coming so soon, none were prepared to welcome her into the world so early, and yet despite the drawbacks of such an unexpected and tumultuous birth, she’s gone to live quite a colorful life.

Some say that perhaps it was El, the Everflowing that called upon the child…

From a young age, Aurelia was taught that while she was a Princess, she was also the Spare Heir. Her elder sister was meticulously prepared to become the Crown Princess while Aurelia was expected to uphold the family name, just in case. Though she never aspired to the throne, she was still schooled in the skills required to step into leadership in times of crisis. The Second Born took to school, regiment, and training like a fish to water. She flourished in her tutelage and quickly became a notable student amongst the Sealed Mages of Elyria. The role of royal…of Princess seemed to align with Aurelia as if she were born for the very thing…

So why, then, did she feel so out of place?

Traditions, customs, rules…they grated against her more adventurous and wild personality and yet her intellectual side could still appreciate their purpose. Ever the progressive, Aurelia was torn between staying within the bounds of her role and pursuing something more…something all her own. She followed the teachings of El, learning about the Everflowing, yet found herself connecting with El's power in a more personal way.

At the age of ten, during her nameday pilgrimage to the Elyrian Falls, Aurelia experienced a phenomena that would pave the way for her own current. On that day, the sacred waters healed her as they did for so many pilgrims and yet…unexpectedly…she was greeted by the sound of nymphs. The voices drew her towards an older girl in need of rescuing— a commoner trapped in the rapids, struggling to stay afloat. Without hesitation, Aurelia dove into the swirling currents and carved her way to the drowning girl, parting the waters before her with her trained usage of Water magic. Wrapping her arms around the girl whose flailing grew weaker and weaker with each passing moment, the Princess once more called upon her elemental affinity to launch them out of the water and land upon the safe banks of the Falls. It was on this day, a day of great celebration, recognition, and reverence that Aurelia earned her middle name of Decima.

It was on this day that Aurelia knew her fate, her destiny…the path ahead of her would not be the carefully constructed one of a noble princess, but the free-flowing course of the Everflowing itself.

Her systematic rejection of her passive life as a Princess began with small acts of defiance— an eye roll here and an impeccably well timed quip there. Those around her, from servants to officials, were completely disarmed by the young Princess’ ability to cut someone to the quick, strip them of their pretense and have them on the backfoot. It was difficult to deny the Princess’ poignant questions and challenges against the status quo and unfair tradition when it came from such a charming package.

Aurelia had begun to realize the extent of her influence. Her bold ideas, once seen as rebellious, childish, and too optimistic, started to be heard…even by those who preferred to keep her in her place as the “spare.” She’d also come to understand that the quiet defiance of her early years, though impactful, were not enough to truly create the change she desired. If she wanted to be heard, to make a real difference, she would need to act with purpose. She could no longer hide behind witty jabs and clever manipulation— she would need to lead with her passion first.

Her techniques, honed over years of observation and practice, became more strategic...more purpose driven. She began advocating for the rights of the common people with more intensity, using her position as a Princess to voice support for agricultural reform and educational access. She wasn’t just criticizing the way things were anymore— she was proposing tangible steps for improvement from her observations during her many late night adventures.

Aurelia came to realize that El’s power wasn’t simply a tool for rebellion. Though she’d always been at odds with the traditions she was raised in, she had a deep love for her family and her kingdom. She saw that her bond with the Everflowing was not to be used to defy authority, but to forge a path all her own as she had been called to do all her life. Through the magic of Water, she could shape a world that healed rather than tore down. The bold, rebellious actions of her youth had now transformed into a meaningful mission— one that would challenge the outdated ways of her society and usher in a future of change, growth, and adaptability.

Aurelia’s rebellious nature was no longer driven simply by the desire to disrupt or disarm— it was driven by a love for her people and a desire to create a kingdom where progress was welcomed, not shunned. A kingdom where change could flow freely, as naturally as the waters of the Elyrian Falls.

A kingdom for change.

ABILITIES

FUNDAMENTAL ELEMENTAL MAGIC

NATURAL AFFINITY.
Water (8.0)

MIDDLING AFFINITY.
Dream (5.0)

ELEMENTAL WEAKNESS.
Air

VEINFLOW CAPACITY

7

OTHER FORMS OF MAGIC

1. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)

2. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)

3. (Rank: Beginner / Intermediate / Master)

WEAPONS

Prowess with a Bo-Staff, Sword, and Bow/Arrow. On her person, she carries a beautifully forged sword that is perfectly balanced for her smaller frame and flourishing fighting technique that utilizes her size effectively. She is rarely without it at her side and takes great pride in the blade. It has not yet been named as it has not yet seen battle.

SKILLS

Extremely well read || Perfectly Well Mannered...despite her usual temperament and penchant not to be sometimes || Musically Inclined and able to play the violin, piano, harp, as well as sing || Abnormally flexible and lithe from years of training in swordplay, staff wielding, and dance || Expert Equestrian || Calligraphy, her penmanship is impeccable || Falconry || Peculiarly high tolerance for alcohol..... ||

EXTRA

𓆩⚔𓆪 | Court sentiment surrounding Princess Aurelia is a complex and divided matter and seems to depend on whose perspective it is. To some, particularly scholars and foreign dignitaries, she is a breath of fresh air. Her ambition, fiery determination, and curiosity are seen as qualities to be admired, especially in one so young and with so much ahead of her. They typically view her as a beacon of potential, someone who dares to challenge the status quo and dares to dream of a future that transcends the, sometimes illogical, constraints of tradition that exist purely for tradition’s sake. Her youthful energy is contagious and her ideas are regarded as not only progressive but necessary for a brighter, more dynamic tomorrow.

However, among the Elyrian nobility, opinions are…less favorable. Some nobles find her strong-willed nature and relentless drive invigorating, even if they don’t fully agree with her methods but for many, her counter-culture ideals and unwavering optimism are nothing short of a threat. Her tendency to challenge their long-established customs and question the rigid hierarchies that have governed Elyria for centuries is seen as dangerous— as an affront to the sacred traditions they hold dear and the dominance over others they are unwilling to relinquish. To them, Aurelia’s vision for reform and change undermines the very fabric of their power and influence…to these traditionalists, Aurelia represents not hope, but chaos. She is an unpredictable force that, if left unchecked, could topple the balance of power that has kept them in control for generations.

𓆩⚔𓆪 | She harbors a particular fondness for the quiet luxury of sleeping in and it’s a rare sight to find her awake before the sun rises…especially on days when her schedule allows for it. While she approaches her tutelage and royal duties with utmost seriousness and dedication, she is not one to forgo the occasional indulgence in a slow, leisurely morning. When there are no pressing expectations to rise early, she takes every opportunity to retreat beneath the warmth of her covers, savoring the calm of those extra hours of rest. It is, for her, a peaceful rebellion of sorts—a small act of personal freedom in a life otherwise filled with structure and responsibility.

𓆩⚔𓆪 | Aurelia will absolutely sneak out at night and mingle amongst the people of Elyria when most nobles typically turn in for the night. Brushing elbows with the "common folk" brings her much joy and offers an escape from the monotony of royal life that can sometimes occupy her time and dull the adventurous soul within. She enjoys spending time in taverns and listening to the stories that come in and out of the local watering holes. As such, she's rather good at mimicking different accents and dialects. She's not usually caught, preferring to lurk in the far corners by rear doors, but there have been some close calls...

𓆩⚔𓆪 | While out on her midnight journeys, Aurelia is often found attending meetings surrounding democratic rebellion and aiding those who seek a more progressive tomorrow. She is a key figure in spreading a publication called The Shifting Tide…the author of which is “unknown”…though perhaps there is an explanation as to why the young Princess sleeps in so often…

𓆩⚔𓆪 | She has a favorite book that's been read cover-to-cover many times...so much so that the book has started falling apart. It's an epic tale of a girl who defies prophecy and takes control of her own destiny. Aurelia has a difficult time trying not to talk about it and will gush with anyone who has read it.

𓆩⚔𓆪 | Aurelia has collected an array of works and pamphlets from around the continent that echo the same progressive sentiment she believes in. Her secret trove of rare books, banned texts, and even interesting trinkets from Ishkoran delegates that come and visit help to keep her enriched with tales and wisdom beyond her kingdom’s borders. Her family often questions what sort of things she reads in her free time and more often than not, it’s met with a charming smile and a deflection. It doesn’t ALWAYS work but they don’t seem to mind too much…

𓆩⚔𓆪 | Aurelia has a fondness for animals, oftentimes sneaking food out for stray cats and dogs that congregate just outside the castle walls. She adores her horse and takes special care of the steed, preferring to tend to the creature personally than leaving them to the stable hands. She's also managed to train a pet falcon which proved to be a far more intense endeavor than even her books described.

𓆩⚔𓆪 | With a scarcely, hardly, BARELY known secret of having quite the sweet tooth...one can MAYBE bribe Aurelia to be a touch more agreeable once she's been softened with a treat.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[ironhand88]

Kessandra Dvain

Kessandra “Kess” Dvain -The Lady’s Maid- Age: 25 Gender: Female Sexuality: Heteromantic Ethnicity: Caelish Blood: Airblooded Occupation: Head Lady in Waiting to the Princess of Elyria ~Personality~ Observant; it pays to see well in a court full of eyes. Pleasant; easy to smile and qu...

docs.google.com

 

[mindthekat]

The Rogue Mage

Selwyn Morgan

25

He/They

Demisexual, Panromantic

COPY PASTE LINK IN HERE

NAME.

Selwyn Anfa Morgan

AKA

Heir Apparent to the House of Morgan, The Heretic

NICKNAMES

Sel, Wynnie

ETHNICITY

Caelish

BLOOD

Airblooded

OCCUPATION

Morgan Estate Heir, Current Prisoner (Execution Row)

PERSONALITY

If you catch a glimpse beyond the sharp, biting wit and the cloak of sarcasm that constantly drips from their tongue, you might find an individual encased in a storm of quiet turmoil—someone who has long mastered the art of deflecting, never letting anyone see just how deeply the weight of expectation weighs on their shoulders. Selwyn is that person. To the untrained eye, they might appear as a playful, charming soul, always quick with a clever retort and ever ready to make others laugh, but behind the quips, there is a restless mind tangled in existential anxieties, forever questioning the purpose of their own existence.

Firstborn, they carry the burden of their family’s legacy as though it were a crown they neither chose nor wanted. So far from royalty and yet the crushing pressure of a name is all the same. Every decision they make is haunted by the unrelenting weight of that expectation, a constant reminder that duty is theirs to carry. They would rather fight tooth and nail to protect their younger sister from the same oppression that’s plagued their own life than indulge in the trivial pleasures others so easily chase. But that doesn't mean they’re immune to the allure of beauty. They are drawn to pretty words and pretty people, even if they know those things aren’t meant to last. Perhaps this reality of impermanence is what keeps them from truly letting others in. There’s little use in cracking your heart open for someone if you cannot keep them.

A constant foil to both their mother's severity and their father’s restless ambition, Selwyn stands at a precarious crossroads. They have the weight of tradition and bloodlines on one hand, and on the other, a yearning to forge a path all their own, one that would allow them to stand apart from the shadow of family expectation. But always, they put duty first, because to Selwyn, the firstborn carries a duty to the name—no matter the cost. Greater than their belief in duty is their belief that love and sacrifice are inextricably bound. They would never hesitate to sacrifice everything for the ones they love, especially their sister.

A thousand contradictions whirl beneath the surface—someone who longs for freedom but can't escape their cage, a dreamer tied to the earth, and a soul who would rather carry the weight of the world than see their sister bear it. It’s a delicate balance, one that Selwyn approaches with calculated precision, hiding the very cracks that threaten to tear them apart.

BACKSTORY

“Run.”

Shadows curl around them, shrouding them in nearly impenetrable darkness. Some lash against their skin as raw and unfettered magic courses through his veins, an echo to the chaos stirring in his gut. His heartbeat pounds like a drum beat or a sick countdown. The footfall grows heavier in the distance and like sand slipping through his fingers, time is running out.

She hesitates, her fingers still reaching for him and trying to make contact with anything that will grant her purchase enough to drag him with her. “I can’t leave you, not like this. They’ll kill you.” Her voice is thick with despair and the sniffle that follows is enough to build the shadow storm wider and higher as his panic grows.

“I know.” He whispers, just barely loud enough to be heard over the roaring of the wind conjured. “I can’t let them take you too. I’m sorry, but you have to live.”

The shadows begin to take shape into thick tendrils, large enough to wrap around her and pull her away from him, pushing her deeper into the thick forest. She scrambles, clawing at air and shrieking when she never makes contact with him. His heart splinters and cracks and with it, so do his shadows. They begin to splinter and dive in all directions as if possessed by wild magic. Another surge and he can feel his reservoirs bleeding dry. He will burn out and there will be nothing to protect them from the fate that’s been long written. He uses the last of his strength to push her as far away as he can, until the sound of her protest is no closer than the sound of the shouting closing in on him.

The hold weakens and so too does the cover around him until there’s hardly anything left between him and the armed guards within a few paces of him. He hardly registers the restraints around his wrists or the strain of his arms being pulled behind his back. With sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, all he can do is stare into the moonlit forest and say a silent prayer that she beat time and that her figure never appears in the distance. There are multiple sets of footsteps in the dirt, enough that they will know there were two of them. But with the only other body being the corpse laid out in front of him, there’s only one soul to take the blame.

Time stretches endlessly when it slips beyond your grasp, unmarked, untethered. In the dungeon, there is no such thing as day. The cycle of light and dark is lost, swallowed whole by the oppressive shadows. When left to one’s thoughts for eternity, the minutes and hours lose their meaning, slipping away like water through fingers. It is impossible to know how long it has been since he last saw another soul, but when one finally appears, it is no comfort. A plate of food is placed before him, and though his stomach grumbles in protest, he makes no move toward it.

“Starving yourself will not change your fate.” The guard says, clearly unimpressed.

“I am not naive enough to imagine it would.” He gains nothing by dealing in falsehoods when the result will be the same so he deadpans instead.

“So then, to what end do you waste the Kingdom's resources?”

“Am I supposed to believe that my rations are anything more than table scraps that would otherwise be fed to the pigs?”

“Are you always this insolent?”

“Well, usually I’m not shackled to a wall and awaiting what I’m sure can only be execution. So, no. I am not always this insolent.”

The guard grimaces, clear disdain written all over his face. “Perhaps the pyre will enjoy your jokes.”

And just as quickly as the brief interaction came, it is gone, leaving the cell submerged in silence. The heavy stillness presses in around him, the only sound the relentless beat of his own pulse, a reminder that he is still, impossibly, alive.

At last, he picks at the stale bread before him, chewing mechanically, his mind drifting far away from the cold stone walls that surround him. He dreams of his mother’s roast dinners, the scent of fresh bread wafting through the air, of jam made from fruit plucked fresh from the garden, and the warmth of tea in the morning light. He longs for soft linens, a plush bed beneath him, the simple comforts of a life he took for granted. He wishes he could go back, to appreciate it all more when he had the chance, but that life is long gone, as unreachable as the sun.

When the yearning for what he cannot have becomes unbearable, his thoughts turn to something darker, something more final. He prays for death, the only release that seems to await him now.

They float on the lake, weightless, the sun gently kissing their skin while the distant hum of insects fills the air. There is a profound tranquility here, a solace that only comes with stepping away from the estate, far from the endless arguments and the ceaseless dance of politics. Here, there is no mask to wear, no tempers to extinguish like a flame. For him, it is the lake—untouched by the hands of humanity, a refuge where the pulse of the world fades into the background. The hum of magic can almost be felt, vibrating beneath the surface of the earth, so undisturbed, so pure. He wonders, fleetingly, if his own magic would flow more freely here, unburdened by expectations, away from prying eyes. No tutors to judge, no mother’s gaze hovering over his every move. Just silence. Just peace.

They flick their fingers lazily, coaxing the wind to sway to their will, watching as a light breeze brushes across their cheek, just enough to feel but not enough to lift the strands of hair that cling to their forehead. Closing their eyes, they lose themselves in the symphony of the world around them—the gentle buzz of flies, the croak of frogs, the faint rustling of leaves under some unseen creature’s feet. A twig snaps in the distance, the soft flap of wings brushing past. The rhythm of nature pulses in their chest, and they let their heartbeat synchronize with the quiet pulse of the forest surrounding the lake.

They hover on the edge of something, a deeper connection, something that hums within them, a reservoir that resonates when they practice their magic. But just as they are about to reach it, the sharp splash of water against their face pulls them from the trance. The connection is severed in an instant, the world snapping back into focus, harsh and real.

“Wynnie!” Emrys’ voice rings out, bright and teasing, all melody and laughter. Another splash follows, and they feel the mud beneath their feet as they steady themselves, water rising to their sharp chin. Emrys’ golden hair is plastered to her head, soaked through from her cannonball dive off the pier. Her eyes, twin mirrors of his own, crinkle at the corners as her round cheeks pull into a mischievous grin. “You thought you could abandon me with them and have the lake all to yourself? I’m wounded.” She pouts, her dramatics pulling at him, those puppy-dog eyes working their usual magic on anyone she meets.

“I did not abandon you, drama queen.”

“You left me to the wolves and have no remorse!” she protests, her voice dripping with exaggerated sorrow.

He wades closer, splashing her in the process. “Our parents are not wolves, Em. They’re just politicians.”

“Those are synonyms,” she retorts, voice laced with mock indignation.

He pauses, considering it with a smile that lacks teeth. “They are, aren’t they?” He shakes his head, sending droplets of water cascading over her face. “And we are nothing like them.”

They wake with a jolt, their chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths, a cold sweat coating their temple. Their spine aches, stiff and sore from the unforgiving wood beneath them, a reminder that even sleep cannot offer them respite. The remnants of the dream linger, so vivid they almost believe the fire is still there, licking at the air, its heat crawling under their skin. They can almost reach out and brush the tears from Emry’s cheeks, can still feel her in their arms, fighting, desperate to rush into the flames.

They roll onto their side, trying to steady the frantic beat of their heart, willing the familiar warmth of sleep to reclaim them, but the sound of the cell door scraping open shatters the fragile peace. The guard is back, his hands empty this time, and they can’t quite grasp how much time has passed since the last visit—only that their stomach gnaws in hunger, their throat parched, raw.

“You look like shit,” the guard says first, his tone betraying a flicker of something that could almost be concern.

“Oh, do I?” They raise an eyebrow, the words slipping from their lips with the ease of reflex, so automatic they hardly recognize the instinct to deflect. “I thought I was at the spa.”

The man exhales sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose, his patience fraying. “Listen, kid. I can’t help you if you won’t talk. We know you couldn’t have channeled all that on your own.”

“My mother told me I was special.” They pout, pulling their lips down in an exaggerated display.

“Right. Your mother, she died in a fire, no?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with you.” Their jaw tightens, heart racing anew, the old pain creeping back into their chest.

“Everyone perished but you and your sister.”

The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is thick, heavy with the weight of memories they’d rather not face.

“Where is your sister now?”

More silence. They say nothing.

“How long have you had an affinity for Necromancy?”

“As long as I can remember.” The words slip out without thought.

The guard hums, as if mulling over their sudden willingness to answer. “Is it a family business?”

“It is not.” The response is sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

“Can you explain where you honed your affinity, then, if not at home?”

Silence again, the kind that fills every inch of the room.

“We have it on good authority that you displayed an affinity for Air in your youth.”

“Well, look at that. I am special.” A dry smile curves their lips, the gesture cracked by thirst and exhaustion.

“Since you were brought in, you’ve not tried to defend yourself. Not once.”

“What’s the point when I know I’m a dead man?”

“You must have something worth trying to live for.”

“Au contraire, I have everything to die for.”

ABILITIES

FUNDAMENTAL ELEMENTAL MAGIC

NATURAL AFFINITY.

Air

(5.5)

MIDDLING AFFINITY.

None


ELEMENTAL WEAKNESS.

Earth

VEINFLOW CAPACITY

8

OTHER FORMS OF MAGIC

1. Shadow: Intermediate

2. Beast: Intermediate

WEAPONS

Their mind.

SKILLS

Basic combat training (5)
Proficiency in gardening (3)
Cooking (4)
Uptight and Aristocratic Dance (6)

EXTRA

HCs & likes/dislikes here!

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Zenritch]

THE SWORN KNIGHT OF ELYRIA

AELIUS Askefødt

24

MALE

HETEROROMANTIC

NAME.

Aelius Askefødt

AKA

Sir Aelius of the Azure Aegis, Flameborn Knight of Elyria, Sworn Blade of Her Royal Highness, the First Princess of Elyria | The Blazing Beast | Knight of Embers

NICKNAMES

Ael

ETHNICITY

Vostigari

BLOOD

Fireblooded

OCCUPATION

Sworn Knight of the First Princess of Elyria

PERSONALITY

For someone plagued with misfortune his whole life, one would expect Aelius to have a cynical view of the world. This, however, couldn't be farther from the truth as the boy instead gazed upon the world around him with unyielding hope in his eyes. He was grateful to have first been sold to an ill-tempered book merchant in Ish'kora who had a habit of beating him senseless for the slightest error for that same master had taught him how to decipher the world's language, if only to extend his usefulness. He counted himself fortunate to be passed on to a workaholic and profit-driven blacksmith who taught him not only smithing but both fire and runic magic despite also working him everyday to the point of exhaustion. And lastly, he was thankful for the high born noble who taught him manners and etiquette just to prove he had "tamed" a "Vostigari Savage". In retrospect, if he had been given the chance to be spared all these sufferings, he'd refuse in a heartbeat and insist that everything he had gained out of them was what ultimately led him to cross paths with his "Savior" the only person that treated him as a human.

A man of focus, commitment, and sheer will, he's the type of person that spares no effort in anything he's set out to do, ensuring he sees any task through to the end using whatever means necessary. His loyalty to the first princess means that he's willing to fulfill any request made of him. His approach to her whims can be boiled down to three simple words: "receive", "confirm", and "execute" which he follows dutifully in any situation. His past trauma and abuse he's experienced from his previous masters gave birth to the desire to be "useful" and obey every request made of him. This belief became deeply ingrained in him, and any deviation from it would make him feel "useless" and "disposable".

He maintains an impressive degree of calmness even in the most dire situations which allows him to make objective, and level-headed decisions not dictated by emotion. However, he is also capable of showing a more charismatic and ruthless side to him especially in matters concerning the safety and well-being of his liege. He will not hesitate to eliminate any threat that could endanger the life of the First Princess and anyone she cares about, going so far as to do so through whatever means necessary.

VIRTUES

Loyalty | Determination | Reliability | Purposefulness | Perseverance | Self-Discipline | Resilience

VICES

Ruthless | Self-Deprecation | Envy | Obsessive | Stubborn| Zealous | Chauvinistic

BACKSTORY

here

ABILITIES

FUNDAMENTAL ELEMENTAL MAGIC

NATURAL AFFINITY.

Fire (8.4) - "Let my resolve burn those that stand in my way."

MIDDLING AFFINITY.

Air (5.0) - "Swift as a gale yet quiet as a breeze."

ELEMENTAL WEAKNESS.

Earth - "An obstacle and steadfast adversary."

VEINFLOW CAPACITY

8 - "Tempered from trauma like bones broken and mended incessantly."

OTHER FORMS OF MAGIC

1. Rune Magic (Master) - Ael mastered Rune Magic during his time with his second master. He was forced to do so in an extremely short amount of time as the blacksmith wanted to exploit the boy's magic to increase production of his wares. Pain proved to be great teacher as he would be beaten for his failures and shortcoming, eventually prompting him to decipher its intricacies to stave off further injuries.

2. Shadow Magic (Beginner) - Magic that he picked up from his mentor when he joined the knights, he found it useful for its many applications in and out of combat. Ael is still working on improving his mastery over it.

WEAPONS

Hexcalibur - his faithful sword that he forged himself. The runic enchantments he painstakingly inscribed allows the sword to channel and amplify his magic without risking its structural integrity. Other enchantments include one that maintains its sharpness at an optimal level, and another that adheres the handle to the wielders hand when drawn, significantly lowering the chances of being disarmed.

Several daggers he uses as backup weapons.

SKILLS

Swordsmanship (8) - Arguably one of his most important skills other than magic, Ael underwent rigorous, hellish training under the tutelage of the Kingdom's best knights and fighters so he could hone his blade in defense of the First Princess.

Forging/Blacksmithing (8) - He picked up the skill under the threat of being cast out as his second master wanted to exploit the boy to increase production while deviating only ever so slightly with quality. He has retained knowledge of his time then and uses it to thoroughly maintain all his equipment.

Multilingual (6) - A skill he picked up from his original master who taught him how to read and write in all of the world's common languages. While not perfectly fluent, he is still able to decently comprehend, converse and write in the languages used in the four kingdoms.

EXTRA

Writing Sample (X) - Decided to use one I did for another rp for now.

Since he doesn't remember his family name, the First Princess decided to give him the surname "Askefødt" derived from the Vostigari language which meant "Ashborn". Thus, his full name means "The Sun that was Born from Ashes" aptly describing the life he has had before he became her faithful servant.

Ael is an early bird and an extremely light sleeper, often waking up even before the rooster crows so he can get started with his daily routine.

He used to do blacksmith work for his fellow knights at practically no cost so long as they provided him with material. He was only forced to stop when the Elyria's blacksmith association wrote a formal protest to the king as apparently his actions had resulted in an abrupt and sharp decrease of profits for them.

He has several scars all over his body, an unwelcome memento of the life he's lived before the royal family took him in.

He's described by his peers as having a stomach of steel, as he's able to handle even the worst-tasting dishes without getting sick. He owes this from his past experiences wherein he was forced to settle for table scraps and even dig through trash to nourish himself after earning the ire of his master. Naturally, he's not a picky eater and would graciously wolf down anything nourishing he is served with.

More to come.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[November Witch]

THE ISH'KORAN DELEGATE

Chloria, the Delegate

23

Female

Bisexual

NAME

Chloria Litheh

AKA

Ish'Koran Delegate

NICKNAMES

Chor/Ria/Ms. Litheh

ETHNICITY

Ish'Koran

BLOOD

Fireblooded

OCCUPATION

Ish'Koran Delegate/Assassin/Information Broker

PERSONALITY

Chloria is an empathetic, caring person... At least, she was. That soft heart has been hardened due her a sister held hostage and continued empty promises to let her go if Chloria continues to obey and complete her tasks. She is suspicious of everyone, and trusts nobody. Her demeanor is cold and uncaring if you talk to her when she's not on a job. If she is, then she's likely playing a character, and making her emotions fit the character she's portraying. She does have some semblance of a teasing, playful side left, but it's not often shown. She can be quick to anger when not pretending to be someone else and is quick to blame others when it's their fault. She's independent to a fault, often never asking for help. She doesn't even like others to know she is struggling or having a problem in the first place, often hiding it or playing it off.

BACKSTORY

-Born to a poor family in Ish'Kora, Chloria and her sister, Shora were taken care of as best as their parents could. While they always had a roof over their head, their stomachs weren't always full. One night when the sisters were 6 and 7 respectively, their parents disappeared. Whether killed, kidnapped, falsely accused as slaves or left of their own accord, nothing could be gleaned as to the reason why they were gone. But the sisters had to survive on their own now. And they did for a few years, with Chloria unlocking a talent. A way she could alter the perception of others and steal from right under their noses. For some years they survived this way until Shora was caught and branded as a slave before being sold off.

-At age 11, Chloria was approached by a man saying he had her sister. That if she worked for him for a few years, for the cost of Shora, he would give ownership of her to Chloria herself. The immature took this man up on the deal, no questions asked. Thankfully he wasn't lying about having Shora, and the two were reunited for a brief moment of time. But then the relentless training started. Mastering her shadow magic, then she was instructed to start alchemy, and master that as well. All the while being physically trained for fighting. All kinds of martial arts and fighting had to have with no weapons.

-Through her teenage years, as this training was happening, she would occasionally attend events in high society. Parties, dinners, special events, and more. Each time she was told play the part of some alias. This began acclimating her to lying, playing any part she was given, and blending in with those in nobility and royalty, even if she didn't belong. At age 16, she started attending more frequently and putting her knowledge to the test. Tasked with sneaking in, creating a whole character herself, and leaving with something. Whether it be an object, information she had to talk out of a target, or someone's watch.

-It was at this time, the girl started to get impatient over her sister's wellbeing and asked when she would have worked enough to get her sister back. This man simply replied with something along the lines of "When I say so." It was then that Chloria realized this man had no intention of letting Shora go anytime soon. But she also couldn't do anything about it, for fear of him hurting her sister. She had no choice but to continue down this path.

-At age 19 is when she was first tasked with poisoning a target. She didn't take pleasure in killing, but at this point, Chloria knew it was follow the orders or her sister would get killed. Thankfully, poison allowed some separation from her target. It wasn't as personal as killing with a blade or her bare hands. But with this task completed, she was promoted to an official Delegate. Leading her to realize this man was either part of the government or had connections. And that the government wasn't exactly squeaky clean if they needed people of her talents...

-Currently, with four years of experience doing this, Chloria is comfortable in her ability to kill and get away with it. This was just another mission. Just another step closer to freeing her sister... A wedding would be easy. She just needed to wait until all eyes were on those special two, then she could sneak into the kitchen and add a little something to the prepared meals. But we all know what happened before this could take place...

ABILITIES

FUNDAMENTAL ELEMENTAL MAGIC

NATURAL AFFINITY.

Fire - 5

ELEMENTAL WEAKNESS.

Wind & Fire

VEINFLOW CAPACITY

7

OTHER FORMS OF MAGIC

1. Shadow - Master

2. Alchemy - Master

WEAPONS

Hidden, retractable blades in her footwear.

SKILLS

Disguise - 8
Sewing/Stitching - 7
Cooking - 8
Voice - 9
Martial Arts - 9
Flexibility - 7
Acting - 9
Perception - 8

These are all skills tied to her training and backstory. Mostly tied to deception, manipulation, or defending herself.

EXTRA

+Food, cooking, and eating
+Fashion, clothing, designwork
+Music, operas, singing
-Physically demanding tasks
-Inequality
-Animals
-Vegetables

Writing Sample: Fantasy - ┌ spellsword ┘ Amaric Temple

♡coded by uxie♡