A n s u r T h e F o r e f a t h e rM y t h o l o g y
Ansus has not always been. One quick jaunt through any of the historical colleges in the Heartlands and the scholars will remind you that Human-kind is not native to Ansus, rather they came from the Southern Continents after fleeing some unknown disaster.
It is here that the interpretations of Ansus' ancient history somewhat diverges. Some scholars are adamant that the current royal family is directly linked by blood to those who led the first men to the expansive land of Ansus; some are sure that the movement was pioneered by a group of tribal leaders from the Southern Continents. However, the most prevalent tale by all accounts is the 'Tale of Ansur, the Forefather.'
It is said that he was the bastard child of a Southern Queen and a rogue God, and his conception was heralded by a host of sullen angels. He is said to have emerged from the womb following the impact of a falling star from the Heavens, and he emerged with wings like tendrils of blinding light. Obviously such a story can only be the work of fiction, but it is well established that Ansur was an otherworldly child by all accounts; mastering archery and sword-fighting at an age that some say simply is not possible, and quickly rising to leadership amongst his people.
Whether Ansur was formally recognised in a state of Kinghood or not is a fact that has been lost to the winds of time, but it is well recorded that he acted as a guide and mentor to the expansive cult that formed around him, a following with such great numbers that it became a faux-nation all of it own. It is a generally accepted theory that the world before Ansur was godless and hedonistic, and that he alone brought order and fear of the Gods into his fellow Men. Some credit Ansur with the advent of civilised life; a proud accolade indeed.
However, in his thirtieth year, the land that he knew as home supposedly fell to an event that is not properly recorded. This is where the Tale of Ansur truly begins: he rallied men and women from across the land and led them through the Northern Passages, sailing through expanses of storm marred seas, trekking through hellish swamplands and battling through infestations of barbaric sub-men who guarded their lands with fury and zeal. There are countless tales and fables that stem from this period, stories of epic heroism and incredible acts of valour. It is said that the long journey through the Northern Passes took over a hundred years, many of his followers succumbing to the ravages of time, and many others bringing new disciples into the world to follow Ansur to the lands in which they could begin anew; yet Ansur himself was unfazed by time, and remained youthful for the entire century that he was at the helm of the Great Journey.
And so it was that at the end of the one hundred and first winter, a new land grew upon the horizon. Ansur's followers decided that it would be named after their leader in his honour, and to immortalise him for his undying effort to bring new hope to mankind. Ansur and his followers travelled deep into the heartlands of the newly founded Ansus, and toiled to build the Bastion of Light, a great fortress dedicated to the Gods which Ansur claimed to owe his success.
From there, the solidity of the story falters. There is little scripture detailing what became of Ansur after the creation of the Bastion of Light, but some say that he gave himself to ashes to light the Great Fire at the heart of the fortress, and there are some who believe that his spirit still resides in those holy walls, ready to return and guide the people once more.A p p e a r a n c e
"Ansur is not a giant, but his presence is felt by all. His corse is lean and strong, and his eyes pierce the very soul with naught but a glaze. The people look to him f'r strength and guidance, and he responds with valour and fortitude. He adorns himself not in gold and steel, but rather leathers and furs that he procur'd during the time he spent in his homeland; his face is ragg'd yet welcoming, and he hath the hands of a man who hath work'd his due at the forge."
- Arcillius the Scribe, year unknown.
There are many accounts of what Ansur looked like, and many of them differ tremendously. Some writings claim he was over nine feet tall and wielded a sword of holy fire, whilst others claim he was a short, stocky, stout man who was rounder than other legends would admit. While nobody can know for sure the true nature of Ansur's appearance, he is never depicted as wearing any suit of metal armour, and never adorns himself with jewels or other sightly embellishments. He is also normally depicted as hiding his face under a hood of furs, while a great hawk sits at his side. Some illustrations show him wearing a crown of dulled iron, and others with a rugged, unsightly mess of facial hair during the Great Journey.
A b i l i t i e s A n d E q u i p m e n t
Ansur is said to be like a God striding amongst mere mortal peers, a trait that some attribute to his apparent paternal figure being of divine origin. He was supposedly stronger than a Dragon (he is said to have barehandedly wrestled three such magnificent beasts to their death during the Long Journey), faster than the most mighty Jungle Stalker, and wiser than all of the Gods combined. His skill with a blade was world renowned (So incredible was his skill, in fact, that three sword-fighting styles are presently named after him) and his accuracy with a bow was as if the arrows themselves were extensions of his very being.
Some retellings of his story state that magical assaults simply did not effect him, and there are other accounts that tell of him splitting a titanic ice sheet by summoning a great, piercing flame from the sky.
Surely such tales cannot be true, but who can really know? He is a long dead man who is sure to never return to the land of his design...A g e O f L e g e n d
Ansur's mythology is one of, if not the oldest in the known world. He was extant an approximate 60,000 years prior to the present day.
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N A M E / A L I A S
T H E S K Y S P L I T T E R & H E R O O F C Y N D E R I A
Altim
T H E S K Y S P L I T T E R & H E R O O F C Y N D E R I A
A G E O F L E G E N D
1 , 9 3 7 Y E A R S A G O
M Y T H O L O G Y
Altim was born roughly 2,000 years ago in Cynderia, one of the fragmented states of the West, into the family of a merchant class father and a lower class mother, who worked and married to achieve a higher status and escape the cycle of poverty in the ghettos of Cynderia. In the capital city of Cynderia, Altim received his education, and although he performed excellently in scholarly pursuits, he felt alienated by the traditional society of his homeland and called to the adventure in the world. So compelled was he to escape the life, which his parents had intended for him from the very beginning, that he ran into the forest to find a journey of his own. By the 8th day, Altim was starving and thirsting on the brink of death, and he had no food or water. The adventure he had so painstakingly sought eluded him; all he found in the great woods was isolation and emptiness. As he lay to sleep that night beneath the boughs of the trees, Altim realized his folly and wept tears of shame. He cried for the worry of his elders, and he pitied himself for naivety and ignorance. In one act of kindness, he freed a bird whose legs were caught under a stone, and he drew his final breath.
This selfless act and tragic epiphany did not go unnoticed in the shade. In the morning, he woke in the waters of the holy fountain in the forest temple, under the care of the High Priest. The High Priest of the temple told Altim of Faerthus, the God of Wisdom, whose countenance rewarded the virtues of man with intelligence and knowledge. In the night, Faerthus had blessed Altim with new life and new wisdom, and in the day, the High Priest sent Altim home with food and drink. The prodigal son returned a prudent sage, and his family welcomed him with love, song, and joy. From that day forward, he thanked his family for what they had done for him, and they allotted him more freedom, even against his rejection of traditional Cynderian views. Altim became a devoted follower of Faerthus, whom Altim prayed to regularly for guidance and faith.
The tale, for Altim, did not end after his life-changing revelation; many years later, when Altim reached the tender age of 18, the neighboring empire of Bytheron declared war on Cynderia. The siege on the nation seemed endless, and the people grew restless and discontented by the losses experienced under their king. Altim fled the capital city for the safety of the temple of Faerthis and for the aid of the god in peaceful Cynderia's time of need. There the High Priest of Faerthis prophesied the fate of Altim's homeland and gave Altim an ultimatum: save Cynderia and bring greatness to the land, or suffer the consequences of failure and watch the land burn to the ground. Altim did not find adventure, adventure found him. From that temple, Altim took food, water, a horse, and a magical violin from the Priest, who in turn blessed the youth with power.
He rode from the temple into neighboring kingdoms to warn of the Bytheronian threat to the east and to temper his magical abilities in order to rise up and fight the Bytheronian Empire. The surrounding kingdoms united under Altim's warning, and Altim himself conquered dissenters to raise a powerful army. The army quickly retook Cynderia, and Altim used his powers in the final battle of the arcane between him and the King of Bytheron. Joyous celebration followed, and Altim was declared a hero of the Republic of Cynderia, the new nation that rose from the united sovereignties, a great uniter of the lands who called a storm and struck the King of Bytheron with a mighty bolt of lightning. Altim refused to become the leader of the new nation that rose from the ashes of the old Cynderia. Instead, he retired to become a scholar and died in the arms of the man he loved.
Beyond the grave, numerous tales were spun about Altim's greatness, and songs were sung from generation to generation, each one praising the wisdom of Faerthis and the journey Altim took to attain the artifacts and abilities that allowed Cynderia to win the war. As time passed, many of the older, truer depictions of Altim faded and disappeared, and newer versions of Altim's legend survived. His love for beautiful men, his studious nature, his divinely-gifted precepts, all of these things were erased by the passage of time and the ignorance of mankind, but no man would ever forget the great nation which owed its existence to Altim and Altim's impact on the world.
A P P E A R A N C E
The last-surviving testament to Altim incorrectly depicted the youth with short, light blond hair and a flute. He had neither, and he was never as tall, sinewy, or wealthy as the tale portrayed him. In fact, his physical appearance is very different from what his flawed description may lead people to believe about him. In reality, Altim in his prime appears 18 years old. Framing his soft, amber-brown eyes, he has medium-length, dark brown hair that he parts to the left, close-trimmed facial hair that if left unattended grows into a full beard. His stature is a little shorter than average at about 5 feet and 7 inches (or 170 centimeters), and he weighs only 150 pounds. Now, despite his meager weight and height, Altim himself is fairly strong for his age, and his strength, though nothing like the exaggerated brute he was depicted as, shows in his broad shoulders and lean, muscular frame. His fingers are long like a musician's, his arms thick like a blacksmith's, but in general, Altim is of a lithe, statuesque build. The books show Altim in rich outerwear, regal capes and crowns, but he has never worn either of those things and in fact opts for simpler clothing. He is typically caught in loose, canvas pants and tunics, covered by chainmail, belts, and hood. He puts his feet every morning into tight, knee-high black leather boots and his arms into strapped-down, brown leather gauntlets.
A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
The many stories woven about Altim speak often about a mighty warrior who smote everything in his path with sword and shield, but the truth about Altim is a history of a person who won his battles with cunning, wisdom, and high magic. The violin, which he was given by the High Priest of Faerthis those 2,000 years ago, is by far and by large the most important weapon he wielded in his lifetime. With it in his arms, he easily honed the capacity for magic that he was given by Faerthis. Although after some time he had tempered his magical powers enough to use a diverse range of skills without the help of the violin, the songs he learned were still nonetheless incredibly practical in their applications. That violin enabled Altim to play songs of healing and anthems of tempestuous destruction, to sway men and women to emotional hymns, to cry for the aid of the gods and goddesses in their hallowed temples. Aside from the violin, Altim recruited the aid of other ancient artifacts, a staff that dramatically increased the accuracy of his power, a sword that could purge souls, and a bow that could pierce dimensions and deliver an empowered shot. Of course, after the revival of the heroes of old, the other curios disappeared from his possession, but his magical violin and spellcasting voice maintain their powers at his enchanted fingertips.
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Corvidae one shot, / one kill
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T H E W I N D W I T C H
"Self-sacrifice makes me wanna puke."
N A M E / A L I A S
C R O W
Stormcaller | The Windwitch | Knightslayer
M Y T H O L O G Y
As a child growing up in the lawless outskirts of a derelict village, Crow learned to rob and cheat to get by. Growing up on the streets with little more than a gang of juvenile vagrants for company left Crow with an intimate familiarity with the delicate arts of delinquency. She was a covetous scavenger that rifled through the garbage, dug through its ilk in the vain hopes it'd earn the right to live another day - hence the name.
(Her former 'gang' leader had never been one for empty pleasantries.)
Stealing, extorting, and a tiny bit of conning honed both mental and physical agility, while life on the streets taught her self-reliance. When she was ten, a ragtag group of criminals took a shine to the young delinquent and brought her into their fold. By the time Crow was thirteen, she had become a seasoned accomplice, and she relished the thrill of every heist.
The nights were long, sometimes. Long, cold, with only the intermittent rumbles of an empty stomach to break the monotony. Wet, too, when the clouds chose Crow as the object upon which to vent their frustrations. Many a night was spent nestled between piles of snow, huddling futilely for warmth, listening to the thunder roaring a vicious lullaby.
She’d never been one for religion. She’d never hunched over her own hands, tipped her head skywards, a frantic stream of murmured pleas spilling from her lips. She’d laughed in the faces of gods and heroes alike, citing the former as nonexistent and the latter as corruption incarnate - as bastards that destroyed the lands, their treachery leaving a trail of scorched, ruined villages and destitution in its wake.
(She was seventeen the day the soldiers slaughtered one of her friends in cold blood.)
She wasn't quite sure exactly when the winds began to bend to her commands - a gentle, caressing breeze would explode into a tempestuous maelstrom in time with the flare of her temper, thunder would crack with every loud, boasting laugh.
(She was seventeen the day her 'friends' left her to die outside the barracks, their comrade avenged.)
As any starving, scared young adult might do when confronted with an unnatural phenomenon - one that threatened to crumble the relative stability of her daily routine, at that - Crow severed ties with her former compatriots, fled her backwater, ramshackle village, and turned to a life of solitary crime.
(She was eighteen the day she contemplated razing their shoddy little hovels, stripping away all they held dear, ruining them like they'd almost ruined her.)
(She was eighteen the day she promptly cut that intrusive-thought shit the fuck out.)
It came as very little surprise to anyone when the young thief ran afoul of one of the local smuggling rings. It came as even less of a surprise when the leader - an impish, capricious young lass who was as fickle as she was whimsical - took a special interest in the wayward vagabond. Not only was she a valuable asset (criminal know-how and a pretty face?), but the rumors had a way of spreading. Whispers of the witch of the wilds, knight-slayer and (alleged) rampant vigilante of the poor burned through the cities like hellfire.
(They were only partially true. That man wasn't a knight, and she sure as hell wasn't some kind of cloak-wearing do-gooder. The nerve of some people, jeez!)
Negotiations were discussed. Invitations were extended, and soon the King of the Ports had recruited her 'court mage'. Fealty was sworn, allegiances were forged, and the dynamic duo's reign of terror-but-not-quite kick-started.
It came as absolutely no surprise when they fell into bed together approximately one year later.
The legitimate, permit-wielding naval fleets took a certain, justified amount of offense to their ships being plundered and their trade routes compromised. They didn't pose much of a threat, initially - when you're a vengeful, hero-hating smuggler with the gales themselves wound delicately around your fingertips, few things do. The King of the Ports, complacent in her perceived authority, disregarded most threats, vows, and promises of war-waging with little more than a flippant, dismissive hand-wave.
(She had the skies themselves squirming beneath her nightly. The navy could, quite frankly, go fuck itself.)
Unfortunately, speculation as to the nature of the King and her Hound's relationship had spread from the King's crew to the taverns. Specifically, Crow's sapphic tendencies. She met a girl, that night. Another one, one that wasn't her King.
(She couldn't help it, how was she supposed to know that lying wretch was a spy? She was pretty, and she'd offered information to the crew in exchange for board, and she'd said nice things, and damn it, Crow was such an idiot!)
One particular battle went horridly awry, to put things mildly, and the uppity little Crow found herself impaled through the stomach on the point of her paramour's dirk, bludgeoned over the head with the flat of her own glaive, and, eventually, imprisoned. Held captive like some common war criminal. Like a dog.
(The irony was about as bitter as the rusty tang of her own blood.)
The fleet had been dispatched to dispose of the smuggler problem, and that, apparently, included the destruction of the port-side villages, too. Salvo upon salvo of cannon fire was launched. Alarmingly few hit their marks, and most of the artillery sought purchase in the clusters of homes and markets.
She couldn't abide it. As much as she loathed the weak, as much as the mere notion of self-sacrifice repulsed her to the point of nausea, a crime this heinous was exactly the sort even a lowlife bastard like her couldn't allow.
And though she was bound, life trickling out of her chest in sticky red rivulets, consciousness ebbing away with every ragged, pained breath, she could feel it. Feel the pull of the wind in her veins, the tug she'd come to know as magic yanking at her gut. The storm raging outside called to her, choppy waves and roaring thunder and steady, reverberant drum of the rain hitting the decks above combining in one harmonious symphony.
She leveled the entire fleet.
The King survived, slunk back into the city's underbelly to replete and rebuild, pride stinging as badly as her wounds.
Crow's body was never recovered, but the legends of the wild Windwitch, the Stormcaller and Knightslayer, were bandied about the land as if on the wind's whispers. Though the tales were altered to suit the bard reciting them - in some, she was a pirate; in others, a diligent young soldier; in one, a hermit that had retreated into the mountains, built a hut, and cannibalized some children - her final moments remained, mercifully, intact.
In all the stories, one thing was consistent: she had died before her time, and the concept of self-sacrifice had made her quite ill.
A P P E A R A N C E
Crow’s face is thin, all prominent cheekbones and angular cheeks and narrow, mischievous eyes. A faint, barely-distinguishable smattering of freckles spans a soft, slightly upturned nose. Small lips born to twist into a crooked, devil-may-care grin host pristine white teeth. Significantly detracting from an otherwise imposing aura, Crow clocks in at approximately 5’2”, meaning one could conceivably hoist her over one’s shoulder and carry her off mid-argument.
(The legends rarely get it right, however, preferring to depict their revered hero as a tall, strapping young lass, which...couldn’t be further from the truth.)
Straight, side-swept dark hair falls in choppy layers down her back. She’s adamant in her refusal to shear it short, and so, for pragmatism’s sake, she binds the majority of it back in a long braid. What’s allowed to hang freely has got this windblown, perpetually tousled quality, as if the wind itself is bending to its whims.
She’s lean and narrow, alabaster skin stretching taut over a reasonably toned physique. Power is written into every movement, every challenging stare or cocky smirk, brimming deceptively beneath her skin. Years of acting on the ‘fight’ portion of her instincts has imbued within her a certain sense of confidence – her posture is aggressive on the battlefield and assertive everywhere else, and she typically stands with her feet spread, hands planted firmly – defiantly – on her hips.
A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Armed with little more than a time-worn, battle-ravaged glaive and a rusty dagger, Crow has never looked the part of the legendary beastslayer, even during the height of her career. (The glaive's sole purpose was a fulcrum and means through which to preserve her balance; something to pivot around or vault off of. An enabler for a reckless, octane, highly ineffectual combat style.)
But that’s all right - she rather prefers it that way.
She’s the Windwitch, the Stormcaller, the fury of a thousand bolts of vengeful lightning, after all - not the Steelsinger, the Shieldbearer, the Beasthunter. Not a knight.
Not a true hero.
Manipulation of the wind has always come easiest, be it conjuration of an updraft to propel her skywards or a razor-sharp gale to cleave off an adversary’s arm. It’s the most comfortable, like an extension of her own body. The rush of adrenaline she gets whenever she invokes this magic is almost intoxicating - it’s like liquid euphoria, dissolving all her worries, all her cares.
The skies themselves heed her commands - while she can’t generate her own personal rainstorms or clap her hands for an emergency lightning strike, existing thunderstorms fall under her dominion. She can direct lightning, conduct it through her glaive, hurl arcs of white-hot hatred at those foolish enough to oppose her. She can’t produce it herself, though. Never could.
Rain has always been the most difficult. The most elusive. She’s reluctant to admit her ineptitude when it comes to the more nuanced art of water-management, but unfortunately, it’s a glaringly obvious shortcoming. She can’t even so much as reduce a deluge to a drizzle.
Her hidden talent is pretending she's more competent than she truly is.
A G E O F L E G E N D
Approximately 2,000 years ago, give or take a century.
Tuujaimaa The Saint of Wings
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"Beauty fades. That is why it is beautiful."
N A M E / A L I A S
Dormeria – Herald of Quietus.
A G E O F L E G E N D
48,000.
M Y T H O L O G Y
Of the Triumvirate to which Dormeria's legend belongs, the aspect she was said to embody was that of the physical realm and the corporeal, of the flesh and blood. She has long been touted as the embodiment of mortal desire, of wealth and power, but also of its temporary nature and the price which must be paid to achieve temporary greatness. Just as history is written by the victor, legends are told by those who choose to espouse the subjects of legends as the heroes that history remembers them to be, and those wont to tell terrific tales of these individuals are also those prone to exaggerating the traits they saw or admired the most. Such is the fate that befalls all who fall into the annals of the legend, and Dormeria is no exception.Born to a long gone family of minor nobility, Natalya de la Lune started her life as many in her situation did - affluent and irreverent to the world outside of her gilded cage in the bustling town of Tyral. Even at birth, Natalya was set apart from her kith and kin by the gift of magic that bled sorcery through her veins - weak and uncontrolled though it was, it set her apart and others aside. The clergy of Tyral thought her an abomination, her parents a resource, and the townsmen an object of awe - but Natalya felt something deeper. Life felt transitory to the young sorceress, and she felt her power lay in the uncharted realms beyond, in the throes of death.
Growing up, all attempted to indoctrinate Natalya with their faith, be that the Goddess of Virtue, Arete, be that the money that the de la Lune family worshipped, or be that any display of divine providence that the smallfolk longed for to give them direction and purpose in life. Natalya rejected each of their narrow-minded ways of thinking and focused only on the unfathomable sense of purpose she innately possessed - working it into its own faith, and that faith into the arcanery that simmered within her lifeblood. Years came and went, and Natalya de la Lune became withdrawn, focused so much on her own destiny and desires that everything else fell to the wayside.
When Natalya's perception became so inwardly focused that the outside world effectively ceased to be, her magic blossomed. She came into degrees of power she had only ever imagined, and whispers of that power echoed within the pious streets of Tyral. Very soon, the clergy's mistrust developed into incarceration of her by all accounts abominable magic. Seeing the perfect opportunity to test the limits of her power, Natalya unravelled the living flesh of the entire town in a burst of necromantic power and reformed it in the visage of the dead, a horde of corpses for her to command.
Though she had only intended to murder her would-be assailants, she had taken the lives of an entire town in a burst of magic that had been building for years, but left her drained of the potential she had once felt. Unable to stay where she was, Natalya de la Lune shed her very identity and moved on as Dormeria, to the lands extant of the heartlands she had called home.
~
"The inchoate stages of Dormeria's legend, her Restless March, began during her southbound travels, towards the set of islands south of the Heartlands where the Isle of Orthus was said to lie. Though Dormeria knew little of her patron god, her dreams led her to the temple dedicated to his worship and with nowhere else to go, she headed there. Much hearsay was generated by the hooded woman who was followed by rotting corpses, and the stories of her purpose and designs vary wherever one goes - we believe that she travelled south to meet the emissaries of Orthus to hone her gift and stop her Restless March.
What transpired on the isle is a mystery, even to those of us that dedicate our lives to understanding what Dormeria's motives and methods were - by far the school of thought with the most credence is that she travelled to the priests to learn of the demon that she later vanquished, Lazarus, but others think many things from her learning the intricacies of her magic and her artefacts, to simple boredom. It is well known that the Isle of Evaeryn was small but inhabited before the Restless March, and eerily vacant after she returned. None disagree that Dormeria took the lives of the entire isle, but few have any idea why. Many think she judged the isle and found it wanting, but I believe that she merely wished to test the limits of her power after her visit to the Isle of Orthus." - Historian Lachery Sissarin, Second Fate of the Order of the Skyward Eye
~
"Of the Triumvirate, it was the Herald of Quietus that took the most overt action. The Soul's Bastion is lesser known among the smallfolk, a popular tale to soothe frightened children, and the Beacon of the Lost had practically no real involvement amongst the gentry or the smallfolk, followed only by tragedy. Dormeria influenced the courts in many ways, setting a new standard for the law based on the judgement of worth by her example of deposing or killing those that she felt squandered their potential and their life and giving that very same essence to those who had potential quashed by circumstance. King Trinius Maximillian Atronan XI, Last of his Line, was the first to fall to the sorceress. While generally beloved in his small kingdom by the smallfolk, Dormeria judged him unworthy and installed a new ruler, who catapulted our society into an era of prosperity.
The gentry learned to fear her retribution and seek her patronage, and the smallfolk looked up to her as one who might deliver them from poverty and ill circumstance if she felt their cause worthy. Many villages were outright slaughtered by her, but those found worthy were often found gracing the Imperial Court. Some are reluctant to call the Herald a hero, despite her accomplishments in vanquishing Lazarus, but we inducted of the Order of the Skyward Eye firmly believe that Dormeria brought much good to the world and is worthy of the title "hero", even if she committed her fair share of acts that one would believe evil." - Sage Atroa Posarye, Third Fate of the Order of the Skyward Eye.
~
"When the Restless March was completed, the three Trials of Mind, Body, and Soul overcome, the time came for the Triumvirate of eld to set their sights upon the Elysian Plains and meet the destiny that the Prince of the Void laid out for them. Few records manage to recount precisely what it was that was fought, referring to it only as a great evil, but the true name of the scourge of the realm that they faced was Lazarus, the Undying.
As little literature survived Lazarus' various onslaughts, and history is written in the glory-emboldened eyes of those who did manage to drive the abomination into slumber, the truth of what Lazarus was or could do is lost, even to we Fates. Lazarus possessed unnatural durability, to the point that it simply could not be killed by normal means or normal men, and only with great sacrifices was it pushed to the brink of dormancy that it hovered upon before it set to consume all things. We believe that Lazarus corrupted and twisted the natural cycle of life to its own benefit, drawing strength from the untimely demise of those around it to extend its own time in this world. Perhaps, initially, it was no more than a nuisance but the continued reaping of helpless souls eventually rendered it beyond death until the Triumvirate arrived. Even now we do not know if this explanation is true, as none of the Triumvirate survived the encounter (with the exception of Lyr, whose mind was broken and thus was of no use)."
As only the three witnessed the battle, the stories that are told are all the world has to go by, with different cultures each celebrating a particular member of the Triumvirate and lording them above all others - some venerate Sarynia as an all-benevolent martyr betrayed by Dormeria, some laud Lyr as the hero who outsmarted an undying demon, and some idolise Dormeria as the very essence of power and sacrifice. The only thing these various legends have in common is that they speak of the total eradication of Lazarus - and naught has been heard of the demon since then. - Exemplar Clorissa Thossarian, First Fate of the Order of the Skyward Eye
A P P E A R A N C E
Though many legends tell of Dormeria's extravagant and ravishing looks, her appearance was far less beautiful than what was described in song and hymn. Blessed with high cheekbones and an angular face, Dormeria's features were exquisitely carved in her youth, though age was not particularly kind to her and she lost much of the beauty she possessed as her vitality was drained by Ukenagasu. Raven black hair adorned Dormeria's face until it was left white and ashen from her exertion in the final battle with Lazarus, and her iridescent violet eyes once shone with myriad colours but dulled in the wake of the horrors she saw. Never blessed with a particularly ample bosom nor any large sums of fat anywhere, Dormeria had the build typical of many mages - tall and elegant, but fragile and thin. While many would consider Dormeria to be beautiful, she was not the ravishing beauty that legends attributed to her. Striking, and noticeable, but certainly not the epitome of beauty.
E Q U I P M E N T
Legend states that Dormeria and Orthus met at a crossroads as she left Tyral to explore the world, and that he would ask her three questions. For each question answered correctly, Dormeria would receive a boon to aid her in her travels, but each question answered incorrectly would result in a boon being stripped from her. Orthus' first question pertained to the nature of life and death - "If all life leads to death, what is the purpose of life?". Orthus' second question pertained to the hearts of men - "What desire unites all mortals?". Orthus' final question pertained to power – “If life and death are yours to command, what more power could you require?”
Dormeria replied immediately:
“The purpose of life is to end. If it were not temporary, it would not have value.”
Orthus nodded.
“The desire to continue to live past their time, to accomplish all they think destined of them.”
Orthus smiled.
“To breathe life into that which has never lived, to imbue it with purpose and form.”
Orthus laughed.
The answers were not what Orthus had expected, but they were true to Dormeria’s heart and true to his teachings, and so he granted her three boons: Ukenagasu, Caller of the Dead; Silaxes, Plucked from the Void; Volayre, the Flesh Unbound. As Dormeria took the staff, the book, and the gem, she found herself alone in the crossroads and begun her march towards her destiny once more.
U K E N A G A S U , C A L L E R O F T H E D E A D
The staff Ukenagasu is the first and most important of Dormeria's legendary effects, the crux upon which tales regaling her exploits are built, and the first gift she received from Orthus in order to defeat Lazarus.
Ukenagasu is, at its core, a simple wooden staff that has been modified through careful placement of ebon-black metal plating and careful carving of the still-living wood. Approximately six feet in height, the staff was plucked from the core of an ash tree and carved into a perfect cylinder, with sigils and symbols etched just into the surface in a spiral ascending from the base to the very top. The areas not covered by the eldritch scrawling are covered with a plate of thin metal, completely matte and ebon-black, which is in turn carved with similar etchings in a reverse pattern downwards. Though plain in design, the duality of the staff represents the fluid nature of life and death, one leading to the other and back again, and showcases that all power has a price to be paid, in this life or in the next.
Once a veritable wellspring of arcane power, the staff's power has leached into its surroundings for the many thousands of years that it has been kept dormant. Blessed with a spark of Orthus, Prince of the Void's power, the staff both magnifies and restricts its bearer's innate power, affording them the capacity for great feats in areas of exceptional talent but introducing an expiry of this power far more quickly than traditional long-lasting magic would allow. The staff burns power far more brightly than it could ever reach on its own, but consumes its essence in a fraction of its potential. Imprinted originally onto Dormeria, the staff allows her innate necromancy to raise armies of corpses, to unravel and to knit the flesh, and to hasten or delay the inevitable expiry of all living things it encounters - though all of this commands a heavy toll on its owner's own inner flame, using their own potential lifespan as a fuel source. All things are temporary, and Ukenagasu is a constant mortal reminder of this singular truth.
S I L A X E S , P L U C K E D F R O M T H E V E I L
The gemstone Silaxes is the second of Dormeria's gifts, less integral to her legend than Ukenagasu, but still an example of Dormeria's lasting (if waning) influence in the hearts of men.
If not for its latent magical power, Silaxes would have found worth as a prized gemstone in a crown fit for the God-King himself. Lovingly carved from a deep violet crystal, Silaxes' facets reflect and refract light in such a fashion that each individual claims to see a different image within its crystalline folds, from images of vast wealth and riches to humble family lives. The size of a small child's fist, the gemstone is clearly exceptionally valuable, but this decadence belies a solemn aura of deep sorrow projected by the stone, as it interacts with desire but never meets or fulfills it.
Individuals that gaze upon the stone are showed a vision of whatever it is that their heart desires the most, and magical individuals who wear the gem close to their head are able to see these visions when looking at others. While the stone shows a single vision with utmost clarity, it may only read the desire of an individual once before they are unable to see anything in its myriad reflections but the constant, hungry void. Like all of Orthus' gifts to Dormeria, usage of Silaxes comes at a cost - for each desire they uncover, Dormeria loses a desire of her own corresponding to what it was that she revealed. Multiple desires of the same type can be revealed at no additional cost to the wielder, but Dormeria is incapable of finding love, having a family, or having wealth. After extended use, Silaxes can no longer pluck desires from Dormeria, however - she has paid her price, and the gem now offers its power to her freely.
V O L A Y R E , T H E F L E S H U N B O U N D
The rune-covered tome Volayre is the last of Dormeria's gifts, used only once, but was integral to defeating Lazarus, and represented the gift of life, temporary though it may have been. Volayre was the most sought-after of Dormeria's relics after her death, but was never found on her person or in the Elysian Plains after Lazarus had been defeated.
Simple and elegant in design, Volayre is an unadorned black leather grimoire that one could easily mistake for being an average book rather than a font of arcane power. The spine of the book is still uncracked, and the surfaces are matte and featureless. Even the aura of power the book innately has is smooth and nondescript, easy to pass by unless one knows what it is that they are looking for. The pages within the book crawl with runic markings that seem to shift and shy away from light, desperate not to be read, and even Dormeria does not understand the contents of the book.
Volayre acts as a veritable repository for unused flesh, bone, and blood - sustaining and nurturing it within the indecipherable scrawls of its pages. This flesh bears myriad purposes, allowing Dormeria to create corpses where none existed, to replace lost limbs, or even in the case of Lazarus to create an avatar whose life is bound to the book and to the wielder. Most often Volayre will create monstrosities of its own peculiar design, misshapen and mismatched amalgams of various body parts and functions and forms all with whatever particular intent that its bearer has at the time. Like all of Orthus' gifts, Volayre demands a price, a binding of one's own body to the book in order to lend life to its creation - and should its creation be killed, so too will the linked body part or individual. This cost was instrumental to defeating Lazarus, and following that event Dormeria is no longer subject to its thrall as she paid its price once before.
A B I L I T I E S
Dormeria's magical abilities were largely related to the manipulation of the body in various and myriad ways - most often as a necromancer raising soulless and mindless corpses to do her bidding, and in this regard she was exceptionally potent due to the power of her equipment. Dormeria's inherent magical abilities are strong, but without Ukenagasu her ability to raise the dead is severely limited. Less limited is Dormeria's power to weave and unravel the flesh of the living, to restore health or sap the last breath from those she comes across, but even this power was raised to the status of legendary by the artifacts given to her by Orthus. Dormeria is capable of transforming her appearance or the appearance of others, and is largely able to manipulate anything about the human form given time due to her broad purview of body - but the subtle intricacies of these arts are again linked to her artifacts and without their presence she does not have the power or fine control necessary to utilise these abilities.
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Luther the Pathfinder
M Y T H O L O G Y
Luther's conception was when a highly esteemed knight from the Nirlos Kingdom, nearly fifty thousand years ago, raped a young woman in one of its countless civil wars. The rape left the woman deeply shamed and damaged, and upon Luther's birth in a roadside tavern, she died. He was taken in by the tavern's owner, a rough and callous man who instead of parenting Luther, decided to beat him endlessly. For seventeen long years, Luther knew nothing but the pain of his father's fists and the constant reminder how nobody ever wanted him, and that he was nothing more than a waste of energy and space.
Yet, despite his ill fortune, Luther had a uniquely positive attitude towards life that he held tightly onto in his early years. He grew up as an underfed child, learning to sneak and steal food while his father was unaware, and it was in his early years that he learned the subtle tricks of slight of hand and distraction. It was in his father's beatings that he learned the art to block hits in ways that would only leave superficial damage. However, all that damage had left a mark on the young Luther. As he grew into a young adult, he saw himself inflicting the same damage that would befall him onto other youths his age, and in turn his father would beat him for beating them. The cycle continued circulating itself until at the age of seventeen, Luther killed his first individual.
The fact that he had killed another individual didn't sit well with him at all, and he found his nights were always haunted with images of the young man he slew, so much so, that he could barely sleep. Several months later, he decided he would take whatever little belongings he had and leave his father to his miserable, and when he stepped outside the tavern, he promised himself he wouldn't become like the man who raised him, that he would become a better man, and a better human. He decided he would start with a smile, as his father constantly wore a scowl, and traveled away from his home where he met people across all walks of life. He found that his smile would open people up to him almost instantly, and it wasn't uncommon for him to spend many hours with a stranger listening to their life tales, or helping them with their difficulties. Within a year, he left the kingdom of his birth and found himself in the city state of Boelor. The place, he found, was a city with a great divide among the rich and the poor, and since he had next to nothing himself, he found himself living in the poorest, dirtiest part of the city.
It wasn't for naught however. He found that the officers and guards of the city were similar to the man who raised him, and since the people were weaponless and had no way of defending themselves, he developed the seed of what would later become the Path of Heavenly Fists. He taught the crude fighting style to the people in an effort to help them defend themselves; little did he know of the severity of their suffering and their strong desire for vengeance. With their new strength the poor of Boelor rose in riots against the Grand Master and the Ruling Council, despite Luther's council against such a thing, and the streets of the city state flooded with the blood.
Ashamed of what he had caused, Luther left the city and in his grief for causing the murder of thousands, he became blind. He promised himself then that he would never teach others to fight in order to kill or harm others, but rather to defend themselves against their oppressors.
One morning, several years after the incident, Luther was found by a monk of Ivorine, the god of peace and tranquility, and was taken to the grand temple in the Hirrlow plains. Luther quickly adopted the methods of Ivorine's teachings, and soon became the Head of the Temple, where he would often help the dispossessed and the needy from nearby cities. It was also during this time that Luther fully developed his Path of Heavenly Fists and taught the fighting style to the younger monks. However, he was careful to teach them the Path was a method to get closer to Ivorine and should never be used to harm or for personal gain, except in defense. The students took to the lessons, and took the Seven Vows of Peace when they mastered the martial art.
For several more years, Luther knew true peace and tranquility. Teaching the younger monks, and honing his fighting skill, and living in the temple gave him a happiness that he had not felt before in his life. But that happiness would not last. A young boy from a nearby city came and warned him that the Nirlos Kingdom was coming towards their lands and as news spread that the monks were fighters, the city was requesting their aid. Luther refused to take part in the war and told the boy that their fight was their own problem. Over the next few days, Luther's mind was plagued with the boy's message of Nirlos's forces planning to besiege the nearby city, and although he wanted to take no part in it, he knew that his martial arts was for the protection and defense against those who couldn't defend themselves, and that he was required to do something about it.
When he decided that he would help the city, after a month of meditation, the city was in the middle of a siege and Luther decided that he would go out alone to spare the lives of the younger monks, knowing full well that he could handle the army Nirlos sent. He first went into the besieged city to talk the Governor to pull back his men so that none of them would be harmed, then left from the city's eastern gate where he came face-to-face with the army and asked for parley. He talked with the commander of the army, and asked for his surrender, but when he was met with hostility, Luther unleashed the full potential of the Path of Heavenly Fists and singlehandedly fought the entire army and defeated them. Luther became a hero to the city overnight and his victory over Nirlos spread to the kingdom itself, and although they didn't believe a single man defeated an entire army, the king sent a massive force of fifty thousand men to destroy the temple.
When the news reached Luther, he was overcome with grief. His actions would once again lead to the death of those he cared for and taught. Deciding to act against Nirlos, he took a dozen of the greatest fighters from the temple and he met the Nirlos's forces in battle. Although they were an incredibly small number, their skill in the martial arts and discipline in Heavenly Magic allowed them to decimate most of the fifty thousand that met them, but the number was still too great, and the challenge too grand. Luther was slain in the battle, but his death caused such a ripple effect.
Tales of his prowess spread like wildfire, how he defeated a single legion alone with only a dozen men behind him. The people of the Hirrlow plains were the most affected, and they gathered together to defeat Nirlos with the monks from the temple offering their help, and within several decades they became an autonomous Kingdom of itself with the Seven Vows of Peace as it's tenets and the monks acting as advisors to the kings. The Temple of Ivorine grew at an alarming rate afterwards and they began to indoctrinate the Path of Heavenly Fists and the strict discipline that followed the martial arts onto their monks; and as the centuries passed by, the legend of Luther grew with it. It has become common among the monks of Ivorine and the people who know of Luther to say that he was taught the Path by Ivorine himself. It was also a common legend that he was a man who sought to bring peace to the world after being commanded to do so by Ivorine and never truly died until he had completed the mission, going under different disguises after every "death". Some even claimed that he was Ivorine come into mortal form to bring peace to the world. Despite the different views of Luther's legend, all agree that it was his Seven Vows of Peace that laid the foundation to the peace that Ansus had experienced of late.
A P P E A R A N C E
Although records show Luther as a very tall, clean shaven man with shoulder-length brown hair, and green eyes, with a very well muscled body and little blemishes, the truth is that Luther was only average in height, and mostly bald with an incredibly large and thick ponytail that he wrapped around himself like a necklace in the common fashion of monks of that era and had a small beard rimming his face. He also had tattoos on the right side of his upper body that reached and covered his arms entirely along with faded scars on both his face and upper body. As clothing, he is depicted wearing common Ivorine monk robes, of black and orange tiered robes. However, he was mostly bare chested, seeing that the old-styled robes of his era were too constricting for the Path of Heavenly Fists, and only wore black pants with an orange sash going down the middle. One thing stands true about him above all the other assumptions: he is incredibly muscular. Years of life surviving on the road by himself and developing the Path of Heavenly Fists have left him lean with strong and very compact and thick muscles so much so that nearly every fiber could be seen on the skin.
A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Many rightfully consider Luther to be a fighting genius. Although believed that it was taught to him by Ivorine, he has developed the very complex martial arts of the Path of Heavenly Fists by himself by observing nature and the way things moved throughout his many travels, and it was in these travels and development of the Path that he learned to unlock the inner magic within the body that he called Heavenly Magic, which allowed his strikes to be far stronger than they normally would be. Luther also found that the Heavenly Magic was a very aggressive sort of magic that sought to take control over his mind, and he would thus spend hours in meditation to control the power within him, and upon mastering it when he became the Grand Monk, he found that his strikes became only more powerful, strong enough to kill a fully armored knight with a well-placed blow. Because he's blind, he wears the Sash of Sight around his eyes, a red sash with a golden pendant in the center; and although they don't allow him to see, they give him incredibly heightened senses added to the compensation his body made for his blindness, allowing him to "see" with echolocation.
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"For centuries my sacrifices brought peace to this land. Now only my shadow remains."
N A M E / A L I A S
Volkimir Sturmkirk
The Mortifier
Dark Angel
The Shadow King
M Y T H O L O G Y
As a nation both vast and ancient, Ansus has a history at once both lengthy and profound. Among its many colorful legends of triumphant heroes, there are just as many tales of misery and despair. Onesuch tale regards the tragedy of House Sturmkirk, one among the many royal bloodlines descended from the venerable Forefather and his compatriots. In times long past, when the land of Ansus was divided amongst petty kingdoms and fractious empires, there were few who could called themselves nobility that held true to the honor of their ancestors. Sturmkirk was one of these few noble households; reverent to the gods, benevolent to their vassals, and merciless to their enemies. Great fortresses and cathedrals were erected in the Eastern Reaches at their command: baroque towers of stone and iron rising among the mighty trees and mountain peaks as tributes to the achievements both mortal and divine. Their territory, the Stormlands, held fast against rival kingdoms and barbarian hordes alike, and the Sturmkirk name became synonymous with power and majesty.
It is said that the glory of Sturmkirk died with their last true king, a mighty warrior and crusader. Killed in battle against one of the many barbarian tribes so deeply entrenched in the Stormlands, the crown was passed onto his son, marking the beginning of a dark new era in the legacy of that ancient breed, and indeed for all of Ansus. The newly-crowned king was not a warrior as his father was; rather, he was a scholar and alchemist, as well as a wizard if rumors were to be believed. Rather than rule by the sword, he sought to uphold the strength of his nation through more enlightened legislation, and educating his subjects. A civilized man in uncivilized times, the king's thoughtfulness was seen as weakness by both neighboring kingdoms and the barbarians plaguing his kingdom. Conflicts erupted throughout the Stormlands, as well as widely across its borders. The might of their military was enough to keep the peace, but not without cost. The stability of his kingdom lessened, the peasantry grew fearful, and the king's court began to question him.
The decline of House Sturmkirk was slow, yet gradual, and felt more strongly year by year. Border engagements became mounting defeats, and territory was lost to the Stormlands' greedy neighbors. Barbarians won out against guards and soldiers, and raids on common villages became increasingly frequent. The king grew older, and dissent grew in his court. His bannermen mocked him in their cups, and rumors circulated of dark and disturbing experiments carried out in the laboratories carried out beneath Castle Sturmkirk. His perceived failings reached their peak as the royal keep itself was assaulted by a barbarian horde. The royal guard's numbers depleted by years of conflict, the king's sons took to the walls to bring courage and inspiration to those that remained. The castle was held, but at a dire cost; the king's only sons had been killed in battle. Those closest to the king knew then that the pressure of leadership had finally come to break him, and that he was not the same man since those days.
His territory shrinking, his homeland sacked and plundered by bandits and tribesmen, and his heirs dead, the king grew desperate to restore honor and glory to his household. At first he tried what he knew best, logic and science. Logistics and law were planned and written out to revitalize the kingdom, but to no avail. Propaganda next, to stir the common folk into fighting back against the despair that had settled in their country. As even this failed, the king turned to darker arts; sorcery and enchantment were delved into, to restore the fortune and power of the Stormlands. These forbidden forays seemed to drain what was left of the king's sanity, and so he resorted to the foulest heresy of all: he procured a deal with a demon.
The demon Shilgengar was summoned from the depths of the infinite hells, promises of power and prestige on its lips and malice in its heart. The immortality and might of the divine were offered to the mad king, and were eagerly accepted. In exchange, the demon demanded that he forsake the gods of his ancestors, and offer up the very life of his family's patron angel. Without a second thought, the king cast off the gods of old, and callously lured the sacred angel Marycz to a cruel and gruesome death. The demon took the holy blood of the slaughtered angel, and after mixing it with his own foul ichor, offered it to the king and his few remaining loyalists. They partook eagerly, but were all-too-predictably fooled by the malevolent beast. Rather than bless them with divine strength, they were cursed to endure their sins eternally; they had become immortal, half-living fiends of night, Vampires.
A curse though it was, power had been restored to Sturmkirk all the same. With their newfound strength of flesh and magic, their homeland was "purified," first quickly by removing all of those who had dissented against the king. Later was the long war against the barbarians that had been a curse upon the land for time immeasurable. However, they were a blessing in comparison to what had now befallen the Stormlands. Madness of the mind and sins of the soul twisted the nobility of the Stormlands into monsters, and the entire region devolved into a cesspit of debauchery and corruption. Commoners were slaughtered in droves, and they were the lucky ones. Others became human cattle to the vampiric nobility, or were subject to the king's depraved experiments. A miasma of darkness settled over the Stormlands, as though the gods themselves had forsaken this land and everyone within it. The kingdoms of the age no longer dared to venture within its borders, and monsters and heretics from lands far and wide sought asylum in this locus of evil. Generations passed, and the black forests and looming peaks eventually became known as the Shadowlands. In a way, the mad king succeeded in returning power to Sturmkirk, as no family became more fear or hated in all of Ansus.
However, as the ages passed and the powers of the land grew fewer and mightier, a man emerged from the Shadowlands' unholy depths, bearing a forsaken name. He was Volkimir Sturmkirk, and he had come to restore honor to his name. Filled to sickening of the depravity of the vampire courts of his homeland, his personal quest had been one to return the pride of House Sturmkirk. For years untold he wandered the length and breadth of the world. In distant lands, where men spoke strange tongues and had never heard the name Sturmkirk, he learned to be a sorcerer, a swordsman and a statesman. Across the myriad kingdoms of Ansus, he delved ancient tombs and ruins, uncovering secret arts and lost artifacts. He sought out the great masters of combat and the clever craft, and upon defeating them demanded that they remember his name. With treasure and triumph, he crafted his own legend, though one spoken of only in whispers. Despite his efforts, Sturmkirk was still a cursed name, and for all of his power and prestige, he was still the same unholy monster that had bespoiled a great noble house: a vampire.
A centuries wore on, Volkimir adjusted his goals and methods, taking on a subtler approach to restoring the pride of his ancestry. Where he saw useful allies, he lent his strength to create immortal dynasties. Where rivals or antagonist could emerge, he brought destruction and ruin. From the short-sighted perspectives of men, this mysterious figure seemed to be a capricious agent of fortune, more an unreadable omen than a man. However, as he grew older, Volkimir could feel himself growing cold and distant. He felt more detached from mortal men with each passing decade, and found their ephemeral ideas and motivations increasingly unconscionable.
However, darkness loomed elsewhere than the immortal heart of the Shadowlands' outcast prince. Having finally exhausted the lives of their cursed homeland, the vampires of Volkimir's former royal lineage turned their attentions outward for the first time in many centuries. With hordes of undead, immortal warriors, and the blackest sorceries imaginable, they took to the fields of battle against the kingdoms of the age. Like a plague they spread through the continent, bringing death and despair to Ansus like the land had never seen before. These were considered the end times by many, and became known as the Horror Wars. The defending empires were ill-prepared against this unholy onslaught, and it seemed that none could stand against them. However, there was one man who could fight such monsters, as he was one of their very blood.
Volkimir beseeched the nations that still had strength to stand against the powers of the Shadowlands. He brought them his power and expertise, his wisdom and experience. Many nations turned him away at first, thinking him to be an agent of corruption or insurrection, but some were desperate enough to trust in him, and they were enough at first. The few key victories he won against the dark hordes earned him the loyalty of the greater powers, and they were enough to turn the tide of the Horror Wars. The Shadowlands' forces were legion, their ranks filled with demons and other unspeakable monstrosities, but for every monster they wielded, Volkimir had a new trick or strategy. He turned their undead against them, lured them to their holy banes, or deceived demons into accepting self-defeating contracts, among many other unorthodox tactics.
The wars ended within a year, the monsters beaten back to their unholy hive, and peace had returned to Ansus. The vampires spurned Volkimir, calling him a betrayer of his kind, and branding him as "Mortifier." Some common folk and clergy saw him as a secret blessing of the gods, silently paying tribute to this "Dark Angel." Many of the nations who fought in the wars had united in face of a common enemy and become a single state, or merely absorbed lesser, defeated nations. In sight of this united Ansus, which he had commanded to victory, Volkimir saw his perfect opportunity to achieve ultimate honor and glory. He attempted to appoint himself as king over the united kingdoms of Ansus. However, this was far from a successful ploy; though he knew the minds of his enemy, he had grown too detached from men to know their minds. Commoners viewed him as yet another monster attempting to conquer them through underhanded means. The church saw him as demonspawn, utterly unfit to rule the lands the Forefather had conquered in the name of the gods. Indeed, the Grand Ecclesiarch himself claimed that his bronze cane would sooner blossom with flowers than the gods permit such a monstrosity to rule over their people. The myriad nations that had allowed Volkimir to save them and their people washed their hands of him, seeing him as a deniable asset not expended of use.
Rage and despair overcame Volkimir. He had given everything he had to these people, and yet they still spurned him. Only then, he realized, he had not truly given them everything. With a small host of loyal soldiers, Volkimir marched back into the Shadowlands, and was never seen again. It is said on that same day, the cane of the Ecclesiarch bloomed with beautiful, bronze flowers. In years after his disappearance, monsters ceased to emerge from the tainted forests, and the aura of darkness slowly faded from the land. Gradually the peasantry returned, and the land was resettled, its dark past was forgotten to the passage of time; merely a black page in the history of Ansus.
A P P E A R A N C E
As an ageless vampire, Volkimir is considered to be an avatar of dark and forbidden beauty. Seen usually as a tallish man with the well-balanced build of an experienced warrior, Volkimir Sturmkirk is a striking figure to behold. His features are sharp and angular, balanced by his masculine brow and strong jawline. His eyes are the most distinctive feature of his face; their black sclera and icy, luminous irises are distinctly inhuman, and Volkimir's gaze is piercing and predatory. Sharp, white fangs are revealed whenever he smiles or speaks, and his incisor teeth seem unnaturally sharp and jagged. His hair hangs to the top of his shoulderblades, and is so fair that in most lighting it seems completely white. Volkimir's skin, while usually so pale as to seem translucent, takes on a sickly, ashen hue when exposed to sunlight, stripping away his last disguise of humanity.
A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
As a vampire, Volkimir is at once much more and much less than a normal man. His strength and speed are both mythic; far greater than what can be attained by common men. He can see in darkness just as well as in light, can hear a heartbeat from across a full feasting hall, and can smell a living bloodscent from a league away. If he so chooses, he can move in complete silence, become invisible, or fly through the air like a phantom of night. Neither age nor disease blights him, and his half-living flesh is greatly resistant to cold and poison. However, he is cursed to feed upon the lifeblood of mortals, requiring at least a human body's worth of blood every turn of the moon. Sunlight is his bane, searing his skin and punishing him with migraines should he come in direct contact with it. Silver nauseates him, and the sight of his own reflection fills him with delirium. Moonlight reflected in water or by a silver mirror inflicts Volkimir with temporary blindness, should it meet his eyes. Though he can recover from wounds faster than most mortal men, any wound inflicted by silver or living wood festers rather than heal cleanly.
Most mortals have but a few decades to practice their skills, whereas Volkimir has had thousands of years to perfect his own. He is a swordsman par excellence, wielding a bastard sword with inhuman power and grace. His skill as a statesman and general are both profound, and he speaks many tongues both living and dead. A master manipulator, Volkimir is able to turn both common men and entire nations to his will. These are merely his mortal skills, as his magical arts are far more profound. By plumbing ancient ruins in distant corners of the world, Volkimir is master of many magical practices forgotten by mankind. His favored spells fall under the domain of "sangromancy," a rare and secretive school of black magic that specializes in manipulating flesh, bones and blood. Volkimir's most infamous techniques are to painfully disintegrate flesh to ash, or to manipulate the matter of still-living bodies, turning his enemies and prey into puppets.
Almost as famous as the man himself is his legendary sword, Elbrus, the Bound Blade. While ornate in design and flawless in construction, Elbrus is quite unusual in having been forged of a metal not known to earthly smiths. The blade is seemingly unbreakable, with an edge as sharp as winter, and so dark in color that it appears to consume light rather than reflect it. Intensely magical, the sword absorbs the life-force of those it wounds, giving Volkimir a considerable advantage in lengthy duels. However, this is not a mere enchantment; Elbrus has bound within it a powerful demon, sealed within the sword countless ages ago by a holy warrior that gave his own life to contain the monster. The sword has an unspeakably unholy aura to those sensitive to such matters, and the demon whispers foul promises and fouler threats to anyone weak of will that comes to wield Elbrus.
In his travels Volkimir acquired many other trappings and trinkets, relics of bygone eras. Remarkable is that the man left behind almost no artifacts of his own; having "borrowed" his material strength from more ancient heroes, his ancestors and forebears. Such "reappropriated" relics include the Helvault, a mysterious meteorite said to imprison 108 different demons, and the spear Encarmine, said to have been wielded by a dragon-slaying angel of ages past.
A G E O F L E G E N D
The Horror Wars were roughly 2,000 years ago, though Volkimir was born an indeterminate number of millennia before.
N A M E / A L I A S
Ki'ira Infera – Calamity
M Y T H O L O G Y
Ki'ira is a very unusual character from legends, her first mentioning comes from records about 1800 years ago. The place was not named as it was a nameless battleground where two opposing armies clashed. At the time of her appearance there, she wrecked havoc among both armies, sending many to the embrace of death. The chaos on the battlefield continued until the two armies retreated, leaving her alone in the field of death, afterwards she vanished. From that point in time onward, she would appear at random intervals in the middle of battles, attacking everyone she comes across. She became one of the fairy tales on the fields of battle. Every commander sent to fight, would fear her appearance as it would mean the destruction of his armies. Thus she was nicknamed the Calamity on the battlefields. From that point she was remembered in history as a destructive force of nature rather than a villain or a hero.
Ten years after her first appearance, Ki'ira appeared for first time in the middle of a pillage of a town which was later recorded by survivors from there. After the town's protectors were slaughtered and the aggressors began pillaging it and indiscriminately killing it's residents in twisted games they forced them to take part of, a single caped individual walked into the town. Records state it was a woman, but on her head a pair of fox ears could be seen along with a tail that was moving around behind her. When the pillagers tried to attack her, the woman went into rampage, mowing down every last one of those who tried to fight. Records state that those who tried to run away form the carnage of their friends, were slashed from afar, using what witnesses only describe as flying blades of fire. According to the records, she was laughing during the entire slaughter and when there were no more enemies around, she just took a bag from one of the dead bodies, filled it with some food and then walked away as quickly as she appeared. It wasn't until a year later that the mystery woman was recognized as the walking calamity.
Ki'ira's stories were always similar, she would appear during a battle and would always mow down soldiers in both sides. Occasionally she would appear when there were pillages going on, would kill everyone with a weapon and then vanish again. As the number of people saved by her continued to increase, some began to regard her as a mythical fox creature that appears to save the innocent from aggressors. Which wasn't always far from the truth, in fact her rampaging on battlefields had caused many wars to stop in their tracks, effectively saving the lives of many civilians, but also costing the lives of many soldiers and capital, as the money she costed to countries wasn't insignificant at all. Eventually a coalition from several countries was formed to deal with this calamity. The strongest warriors were gathered and send after her as she had proven that her power was overwhelming.
According to legends she should have been around 29 years old when that happened. Despite the protest from the side of normal people, the expedition from multiple countries was sent after her. The calamity made her final stand near a now not existing village known as Kaleze. The soldiers had attacked the village to draw her out and she appeared for the joy of the village's inhabitants. The soldiers quickly reorganized and attacked her. Legends state the battle continued for days as the soldiers were many and strong and even had magic on their side. The calamity was not behind them though, her strange powers over fire allowed her to sweep many in her attacks. When the battle ended, not one of the soldiers send after her was standing, but they had done their jobs. Ki'ira was mortally wounded as dozens of weapons were sticking out of her body. In her final moments it's said that a single child approached her to offer her a cup of water. She took the cup, drank the water and thanked the child. As she reached a hand to pat the child by the head, she died. Her hand, softly placed on the child's head, her body still standing tall with her sword in her other hand. Following the defeat of the expedition force, all the kingdoms sent soldiers to retrieve her body and belongings, but not a single soul was to be found in the village. The final legend states, the villagers knowing soldiers will come for her again, took her body and placed it in a coffin and left Kaleze with Ki'ira's body and belongings. No one knows where they went and what happened with them. Some say they found a new place to settle down away from everyone where they idolize her to this day, other say they were ambushed on the road and killed to the last person. No one can say for sure, but what is known is that her body was never recovered or found. Still to this day she is regarded as many things, for some her story is the one of a person who gave her all to protect the innocent from the horrors of war, for other she was the personification of destruction and chaos. As some tell it to their children to learn and become a better person, others use her to scare their young into obedience.
Yet for those with the iron will to find the truth, a single clue remains, locked inside one of the many libraries. Unknown to most and ignored by those who have seen it, a single small leather bound diary lies covered in dust. It's content are nearly impossible to read as it has nearly dissolved under the relentless tides of time, but the old diary written by an old forgotten general contains a single untouched by time sentence:
“And by our hands, by attacking those who had not the power to protect themselves, we awoke a fiery monster in the form of a child...”
Another rare known fact is that Ki’ira is one of the daughters of Vinsha. Vinsha or also known as the Fox Goddess or The trickster is a deity that’s not very popular among the civilized nations. The residence of Vinsha and the cult towards the great fox known as the Daughters of Vinsha reside within the Ancient forest of Atma. The sea of trees known as Atma is among the most dreaded by travelers place to cross as the wild women within also known as Vinsha’s daughters use ancient magics that twist senses and play endless tricks upon travelers that cross their lands. The priestess(Daughters) of Vinsha doesn’t leave the Forest of Atma, but for some reason Ki’ira had broken that unspoken rule. That’s why Ki’ira’s origins are quite questioned for even those who are very familiar with the cult of Vinsha doesn’t want to admit that one of the daughters had left the forest. Many had traveled towards the great sea of trees in search for the wild women within, but none had found them, though all usually got caught up in their tricks.
A P P E A R A N C E
(Mind not the elfish ears :3)
An image created by historical records left from survivors from encounters with Ki’ira.
Ki'ira's appearance is quite the discussed topic for records that contain it have been lost so all that remains are varying legends. Some described her as astonishing otherworldy beauty while other as a mostly foxlike monster with long face and slit eyes. Still her most distinguishing feature were her fox ears and tail, they appear in every legend and even the vague mentioning in historical texts. She was always told to have the pair of red fox ears and a tail.
In reality, Ki'ira was tall 1,75 meters tall, with long straight dark brown hair, reaching down to her waist, which was often put in a braid. Her face was beautiful with clear skin and a pair of piercing gray eyes. On her bare body could be seen many of the scars she bears as marks from the devotion she had towards fighting WAR.
A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Ki'ira has been often depicted as a monster that slashes people with her bare hands, but as many myths that's simply not the truth. She was an excellent sword wielder who lived her entire live with a sword in her hand. Additionally the abilities of fire she is often told to have had are quite true. Ki’ira possessed a very unique type of fire magic known as ‘Primordial Flames’, a very rare and unique talent that allows the user to manipulate flames in any desired way. It lacks the refinement of the typical taught magic, but it makes up for it with sheer destructive power and versatility.
While her abilities themselves helped about her incredible strength, it was also her equipment that proved worthy to follow her in her legend the most. The calamity had many different artifacts, most of which no one knows how she acquired. Names and existence of many were lost in the time, but a few still live in her legends:
Infernal fang – that was her signature weapon, a longsword that she wielded with one hand. It had glowing red blade with many carved figures on it. It was a magical artifact that could withstand heat and fire and it's blade was harder than even the greatest steel. In her entire life it never broke, never chipped and never dulled. It’s probably one of the very few weapons that can withstand the heat of her magic.
Blessings of the fox goddess – The legend about her having fox ears and tail come from these artifacts. A headpiece looking like a pair of fox ears and and a small metal tablet that has a tail attached to it. Once put on, they magically connect to the user’s body and become part of it until taken off. The ears give her the ability to hear so far away that she could actually hear the clanking of an armor from miles and the tail allows her to run nearly as fast as a horse and not leave tracks behind her. Though she still tires with time and cannot run for a long time.
A G E O F L E G E N D
1815 years ago.
Ki'ira Infera – Calamity
M Y T H O L O G Y
Ki'ira is a very unusual character from legends, her first mentioning comes from records about 1800 years ago. The place was not named as it was a nameless battleground where two opposing armies clashed. At the time of her appearance there, she wrecked havoc among both armies, sending many to the embrace of death. The chaos on the battlefield continued until the two armies retreated, leaving her alone in the field of death, afterwards she vanished. From that point in time onward, she would appear at random intervals in the middle of battles, attacking everyone she comes across. She became one of the fairy tales on the fields of battle. Every commander sent to fight, would fear her appearance as it would mean the destruction of his armies. Thus she was nicknamed the Calamity on the battlefields. From that point she was remembered in history as a destructive force of nature rather than a villain or a hero.
Ten years after her first appearance, Ki'ira appeared for first time in the middle of a pillage of a town which was later recorded by survivors from there. After the town's protectors were slaughtered and the aggressors began pillaging it and indiscriminately killing it's residents in twisted games they forced them to take part of, a single caped individual walked into the town. Records state it was a woman, but on her head a pair of fox ears could be seen along with a tail that was moving around behind her. When the pillagers tried to attack her, the woman went into rampage, mowing down every last one of those who tried to fight. Records state that those who tried to run away form the carnage of their friends, were slashed from afar, using what witnesses only describe as flying blades of fire. According to the records, she was laughing during the entire slaughter and when there were no more enemies around, she just took a bag from one of the dead bodies, filled it with some food and then walked away as quickly as she appeared. It wasn't until a year later that the mystery woman was recognized as the walking calamity.
Ki'ira's stories were always similar, she would appear during a battle and would always mow down soldiers in both sides. Occasionally she would appear when there were pillages going on, would kill everyone with a weapon and then vanish again. As the number of people saved by her continued to increase, some began to regard her as a mythical fox creature that appears to save the innocent from aggressors. Which wasn't always far from the truth, in fact her rampaging on battlefields had caused many wars to stop in their tracks, effectively saving the lives of many civilians, but also costing the lives of many soldiers and capital, as the money she costed to countries wasn't insignificant at all. Eventually a coalition from several countries was formed to deal with this calamity. The strongest warriors were gathered and send after her as she had proven that her power was overwhelming.
According to legends she should have been around 29 years old when that happened. Despite the protest from the side of normal people, the expedition from multiple countries was sent after her. The calamity made her final stand near a now not existing village known as Kaleze. The soldiers had attacked the village to draw her out and she appeared for the joy of the village's inhabitants. The soldiers quickly reorganized and attacked her. Legends state the battle continued for days as the soldiers were many and strong and even had magic on their side. The calamity was not behind them though, her strange powers over fire allowed her to sweep many in her attacks. When the battle ended, not one of the soldiers send after her was standing, but they had done their jobs. Ki'ira was mortally wounded as dozens of weapons were sticking out of her body. In her final moments it's said that a single child approached her to offer her a cup of water. She took the cup, drank the water and thanked the child. As she reached a hand to pat the child by the head, she died. Her hand, softly placed on the child's head, her body still standing tall with her sword in her other hand. Following the defeat of the expedition force, all the kingdoms sent soldiers to retrieve her body and belongings, but not a single soul was to be found in the village. The final legend states, the villagers knowing soldiers will come for her again, took her body and placed it in a coffin and left Kaleze with Ki'ira's body and belongings. No one knows where they went and what happened with them. Some say they found a new place to settle down away from everyone where they idolize her to this day, other say they were ambushed on the road and killed to the last person. No one can say for sure, but what is known is that her body was never recovered or found. Still to this day she is regarded as many things, for some her story is the one of a person who gave her all to protect the innocent from the horrors of war, for other she was the personification of destruction and chaos. As some tell it to their children to learn and become a better person, others use her to scare their young into obedience.
Yet for those with the iron will to find the truth, a single clue remains, locked inside one of the many libraries. Unknown to most and ignored by those who have seen it, a single small leather bound diary lies covered in dust. It's content are nearly impossible to read as it has nearly dissolved under the relentless tides of time, but the old diary written by an old forgotten general contains a single untouched by time sentence:
“And by our hands, by attacking those who had not the power to protect themselves, we awoke a fiery monster in the form of a child...”
Another rare known fact is that Ki’ira is one of the daughters of Vinsha. Vinsha or also known as the Fox Goddess or The trickster is a deity that’s not very popular among the civilized nations. The residence of Vinsha and the cult towards the great fox known as the Daughters of Vinsha reside within the Ancient forest of Atma. The sea of trees known as Atma is among the most dreaded by travelers place to cross as the wild women within also known as Vinsha’s daughters use ancient magics that twist senses and play endless tricks upon travelers that cross their lands. The priestess(Daughters) of Vinsha doesn’t leave the Forest of Atma, but for some reason Ki’ira had broken that unspoken rule. That’s why Ki’ira’s origins are quite questioned for even those who are very familiar with the cult of Vinsha doesn’t want to admit that one of the daughters had left the forest. Many had traveled towards the great sea of trees in search for the wild women within, but none had found them, though all usually got caught up in their tricks.
A P P E A R A N C E
(Mind not the elfish ears :3)
An image created by historical records left from survivors from encounters with Ki’ira.
Ki'ira's appearance is quite the discussed topic for records that contain it have been lost so all that remains are varying legends. Some described her as astonishing otherworldy beauty while other as a mostly foxlike monster with long face and slit eyes. Still her most distinguishing feature were her fox ears and tail, they appear in every legend and even the vague mentioning in historical texts. She was always told to have the pair of red fox ears and a tail.
In reality, Ki'ira was tall 1,75 meters tall, with long straight dark brown hair, reaching down to her waist, which was often put in a braid. Her face was beautiful with clear skin and a pair of piercing gray eyes. On her bare body could be seen many of the scars she bears as marks from the devotion she had towards fighting WAR.
A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Ki'ira has been often depicted as a monster that slashes people with her bare hands, but as many myths that's simply not the truth. She was an excellent sword wielder who lived her entire live with a sword in her hand. Additionally the abilities of fire she is often told to have had are quite true. Ki’ira possessed a very unique type of fire magic known as ‘Primordial Flames’, a very rare and unique talent that allows the user to manipulate flames in any desired way. It lacks the refinement of the typical taught magic, but it makes up for it with sheer destructive power and versatility.
While her abilities themselves helped about her incredible strength, it was also her equipment that proved worthy to follow her in her legend the most. The calamity had many different artifacts, most of which no one knows how she acquired. Names and existence of many were lost in the time, but a few still live in her legends:
Infernal fang – that was her signature weapon, a longsword that she wielded with one hand. It had glowing red blade with many carved figures on it. It was a magical artifact that could withstand heat and fire and it's blade was harder than even the greatest steel. In her entire life it never broke, never chipped and never dulled. It’s probably one of the very few weapons that can withstand the heat of her magic.
Blessings of the fox goddess – The legend about her having fox ears and tail come from these artifacts. A headpiece looking like a pair of fox ears and and a small metal tablet that has a tail attached to it. Once put on, they magically connect to the user’s body and become part of it until taken off. The ears give her the ability to hear so far away that she could actually hear the clanking of an armor from miles and the tail allows her to run nearly as fast as a horse and not leave tracks behind her. Though she still tires with time and cannot run for a long time.
A G E O F L E G E N D
1815 years ago.
N A M E / A L I A S
Jacaerys the Godseer
A G E O F L E G E N D
A mere 1,500 years.
M Y T H O L O G Y
Unlike many of the ancient tales of tens of thousands of years ago, the story of Jacaerys the Godseer is perhaps unique in that it was all reasonably well-documented at the time, and the effects of the man's existence continue to ripple into the modern day.
The precise details of the Godseer's early life are unknown, though it is generally hypothesized that the boy grew up as an acolyte in the temple of Oraum, God of Purity. In the time of a millennium and a half ago, you see, almost the entirety of the continent of Ansus -- from the great deserts of the northeast to the southern coast -- was infected with a vile combination of plague and pestilence that killed men, beasts and crops alike. The general ledgers mark that approximately one-third of the population of the continent was dead of sickness or starvation by the time that we now recount. As a direct result, the tale goes, Jacaerys found himself an acolyte in the service of Oraum. Some say that the Godseer's parents died of the plague when he was a boy, prompting him to be delivered to the temple, while the man's detractors claim that he served in it as penance after being caught stealing food from a granary.
Regardless of the truth on that matter, it is well-documented that Jacaerys held thirty-nine years to his name at the time that the plague reached its peak. In the streets of once-magnificent cities bodies piled along the roads, food for dogs and maggots. Only the great Temples were safe, and even then it was said that any priest who traveled out of eyesight of the great ever-burning Fire of Oraum was liable to contract the plague. In fear, the head priest gave the order that the Temple be closed off entirely so as to keep it pure.
This did not resonate well with the Godseer, who could not bring himself to sit and wait out the plague while thousands died outside its door. It is said that he sat perilously close to the great fire for seventy-seven hours, forgoing all contact in a fervent bout of fasting and prayer. Upon the end of the seventh minute of the seventy-seventh hour, the story goes, Jacaerys, blanketed in soot and singed all about, found the favor of the God of Purity. In a great vision and a blast of light, the Godseer was told of a great and dark tower far across the deserts, where a half-dozen mountain ranges came together in one great peak. There, Oraum intoned, a great cult of necromancers channeled dark energies to bring death to the people of the continent. When too many were dead to bury or even to burn the corpses, Jacaerys learned, they would rise up and kill those who remained cowering in their keeps and temples.
Overwhelmed by prophesy, it is said that the Godseer reached blindly into the great flames, and drew out the great war mace Lightwarden, aglow with holy flame. As Jacaerys walked out of the Temple, followed by a number of acolytes who had seen what transpired, it is said that he took on a hale and healthy glow, and the charred flesh of one hand had already recovered to its natural state. His eyes, however, marked by Oraum, had turned a milky-white -- though by all accoutns Jacaerys could see even more clearly than he had before the events that transpired.
Thus began the Great Pilgrimage. The Godseer traveled northeast towards the dark tower that he had seen in his visions, and found himself able to cure the sick -- and, it is said in a slightly more hushed tone, to sometimes return the dead to the land of the living. In the center of each hamlet and great city alike he built a towering flame, and on it burned the corpses of those who had already succumbed to the plague. And as he passed nutrients returned to the soil, crops grew to five times their natural size, and the size of the Godseer's party grew with admirers -- and, perhaps more unsettlingly, worshipers. Many of the people of the furthest villages had never seen any sort of miracle performed, and to them this stranger with his holy mace who healed their sicknesses was nothing less than an Avatar of God.
So it came to pass that the Pilgrims of Oraum found themselves on the edge of the great deserts. But they were not met with emptiness -- Jacaerys had traveled at a leisurely pace indeed, and all the strength that the necromancers could muster stood before them. Thousands of reanimated corpses stood in the sands, advancing southwards. But by that time the Godseer's host numbered just as many, and he led a valiant charge into the heart of the ranks. It is said that with each strike the undead erupted into holy flame, and their souls were reclaimed for hte God of Purity. Though the costs were great, by the time that the sun set a great and cleansing bonfire glowed on the scrubby grass of the desert, white-hot with holy flame.
It was at this point, knowing that the deserts could not support such a vast host as he had accumulated, that Jacaerys sent many of his Pilgrims back to their homelands, to tend their fires and lament the dead. Embarking off into the wastes with his remaining acolytes and a few of the most devout followers, the Godseer traveled for several months across white-hot sands. Whenever it seemed that they might succumb to heat or hunger, great Oraum sent a pillar of flame to guide them to the nearest oasis.
The events that transpired at the great Tower that they found at the end of the wastes are not entirely known, as several of the lettered acolytes wrote occasionally conflicting accounts of what occurred. All logs agree that the remaining holy warriors fought their way up the great twisting stairs of the Necromancer's Tower, smiting hordes of undead. At the top of the tower, however, they found a great and dark flame, surrounded by the remaining sorcerers who channeled its power. As they had driven the forces of darkness from Ansus it had become more and more concentrated in its place of origin, until only the great Lightwarden's glow could hold out against the shadow. Several of the weaker-willed acolytes, looking on the heart of the great darkness, were consumed or driven mad by it, but not the Godseer. With a great war cry, he charged towards the source of the evil that had corrupted the continent.
This is where the accounts given by those few survivors vary. Some say that, guided by the light of his weapon, Jacaerys pushed through the overwhelming darkness to find and slay the remaining necromancers, severing the bond that kept the vile demon they channeled tied to the mortal plane. In this tale the great Godseer, it is said, built a magnificent bonfire and burned the corpses of the necromancers within, bringing their souls back to the light. When the white-hot flames burned their brightest, the story goes, Jacaerys threw himself into the blaze that he might forever sanctify the once-vile tower.
Other stories dismiss this tale, instead claiming that Jacaerys instead fought through the darkness straight to the nameless demon he faced, and there vanished from the mortal plane. In this version of the events, the Godseer does endless victorious battle with the force of evil on another plane of existence, slowly driving back the hordes of darkness that they might never again return to the world.
Both accounts agree, however, that when the tower was finally cleaned of darkness their leader had vanished. Some time after the remaining pilgrims had returned to the wastes to seek out and defeat any remaining evils that lurked, it is recorded that the tower itself burst into inferno, and stood as a glowing beacon of light for seven years. In this time, other histories tell us, not a single necromancer or bloodmage was able to channel any dark magicks into the land of the living.
In the modern day the Temple of Oraum stands somewhat divided on the status of Jacaerys the Godseer. Some of the younger and more cynical declaim it as a mere tale, Jacaerys himself the imaginary figurehead of what was actually a large and leaderless movement to end the Plague. Others still commend the Godseer as a great holy warrior. But in every temple, and especially among the smaller nightfires that burn in the continent's forgotten hamlets, there exist some who declare Jacaerys himself to have been elevated to godhood, serving as the right hand of Oraum forever and always.
In truth, perhaps the actuality lies somewhere in-between.
A P P E A R A N C E
Accounts as to the Godseer's appearance vary greatly, with many of the known descriptions coming from common farmhands and elders who themselves have had the stories passed down and twisted throughout the ages. In the majority of tales he is clean-shaven, but some describe a great beard -- in truth, no doubt it depended on the time at which the person actually saw Jacaerys. In any case, 'official' frescoes and statues from the Temple of Oraum depict a man of slightly above-average height and hair of medium-length, wearing a tatter of armor and robes.
All depictions agree, however, that the Godseer's eyes were a milky white, and in many cases he seemed to glow with trails of holy light.
A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Lightwarden
The only canonically-recognized piece of the Godseer's equipment is Lightwarden, the great glowing mace that he took from the fires of Oraum before setting of on his great pilgrimage. It is said that the weapon gave off a great glow at all times, and the mace's head was ringed with a dozen ornately-engraved steel blades. In many accounts foul mages and necromancers were rendered temporarily blind to look on it, and any blow delivered by the weapon to the undead would cause them -- and those nearby -- to erupt into white-hot flame.
Equipment aside, there are several known and documented supernatural abilities that Jacaerys seemed to possess without any special sort of equipment. It is said that he was immune to any sort of flame, and could walk across hot coals and into infernos alike without being singed. With a touch he could heal many wounds and diseases. Two times the Godseer is recorded to have raised the dead -- once at the first village he came upon, to bring a grieving mother's infant son back to life, and the second time upon finding his most trusted friend and ally, the acolye Aelar, dead following the Battle on the Sands. In both cases, eyewitnesses agree that it took significantly more effort than your average necromancer's ritual or incantation, and left the Godseer utterly drained for some time -- though unlike your average necromancer, the revived seemed to be reasonably healthy, if a bit frail, rather than walking corpses.
Jacaerys the Godseer
A G E O F L E G E N D
A mere 1,500 years.
M Y T H O L O G Y
Unlike many of the ancient tales of tens of thousands of years ago, the story of Jacaerys the Godseer is perhaps unique in that it was all reasonably well-documented at the time, and the effects of the man's existence continue to ripple into the modern day.
The precise details of the Godseer's early life are unknown, though it is generally hypothesized that the boy grew up as an acolyte in the temple of Oraum, God of Purity. In the time of a millennium and a half ago, you see, almost the entirety of the continent of Ansus -- from the great deserts of the northeast to the southern coast -- was infected with a vile combination of plague and pestilence that killed men, beasts and crops alike. The general ledgers mark that approximately one-third of the population of the continent was dead of sickness or starvation by the time that we now recount. As a direct result, the tale goes, Jacaerys found himself an acolyte in the service of Oraum. Some say that the Godseer's parents died of the plague when he was a boy, prompting him to be delivered to the temple, while the man's detractors claim that he served in it as penance after being caught stealing food from a granary.
Regardless of the truth on that matter, it is well-documented that Jacaerys held thirty-nine years to his name at the time that the plague reached its peak. In the streets of once-magnificent cities bodies piled along the roads, food for dogs and maggots. Only the great Temples were safe, and even then it was said that any priest who traveled out of eyesight of the great ever-burning Fire of Oraum was liable to contract the plague. In fear, the head priest gave the order that the Temple be closed off entirely so as to keep it pure.
This did not resonate well with the Godseer, who could not bring himself to sit and wait out the plague while thousands died outside its door. It is said that he sat perilously close to the great fire for seventy-seven hours, forgoing all contact in a fervent bout of fasting and prayer. Upon the end of the seventh minute of the seventy-seventh hour, the story goes, Jacaerys, blanketed in soot and singed all about, found the favor of the God of Purity. In a great vision and a blast of light, the Godseer was told of a great and dark tower far across the deserts, where a half-dozen mountain ranges came together in one great peak. There, Oraum intoned, a great cult of necromancers channeled dark energies to bring death to the people of the continent. When too many were dead to bury or even to burn the corpses, Jacaerys learned, they would rise up and kill those who remained cowering in their keeps and temples.
Overwhelmed by prophesy, it is said that the Godseer reached blindly into the great flames, and drew out the great war mace Lightwarden, aglow with holy flame. As Jacaerys walked out of the Temple, followed by a number of acolytes who had seen what transpired, it is said that he took on a hale and healthy glow, and the charred flesh of one hand had already recovered to its natural state. His eyes, however, marked by Oraum, had turned a milky-white -- though by all accoutns Jacaerys could see even more clearly than he had before the events that transpired.
Thus began the Great Pilgrimage. The Godseer traveled northeast towards the dark tower that he had seen in his visions, and found himself able to cure the sick -- and, it is said in a slightly more hushed tone, to sometimes return the dead to the land of the living. In the center of each hamlet and great city alike he built a towering flame, and on it burned the corpses of those who had already succumbed to the plague. And as he passed nutrients returned to the soil, crops grew to five times their natural size, and the size of the Godseer's party grew with admirers -- and, perhaps more unsettlingly, worshipers. Many of the people of the furthest villages had never seen any sort of miracle performed, and to them this stranger with his holy mace who healed their sicknesses was nothing less than an Avatar of God.
So it came to pass that the Pilgrims of Oraum found themselves on the edge of the great deserts. But they were not met with emptiness -- Jacaerys had traveled at a leisurely pace indeed, and all the strength that the necromancers could muster stood before them. Thousands of reanimated corpses stood in the sands, advancing southwards. But by that time the Godseer's host numbered just as many, and he led a valiant charge into the heart of the ranks. It is said that with each strike the undead erupted into holy flame, and their souls were reclaimed for hte God of Purity. Though the costs were great, by the time that the sun set a great and cleansing bonfire glowed on the scrubby grass of the desert, white-hot with holy flame.
It was at this point, knowing that the deserts could not support such a vast host as he had accumulated, that Jacaerys sent many of his Pilgrims back to their homelands, to tend their fires and lament the dead. Embarking off into the wastes with his remaining acolytes and a few of the most devout followers, the Godseer traveled for several months across white-hot sands. Whenever it seemed that they might succumb to heat or hunger, great Oraum sent a pillar of flame to guide them to the nearest oasis.
The events that transpired at the great Tower that they found at the end of the wastes are not entirely known, as several of the lettered acolytes wrote occasionally conflicting accounts of what occurred. All logs agree that the remaining holy warriors fought their way up the great twisting stairs of the Necromancer's Tower, smiting hordes of undead. At the top of the tower, however, they found a great and dark flame, surrounded by the remaining sorcerers who channeled its power. As they had driven the forces of darkness from Ansus it had become more and more concentrated in its place of origin, until only the great Lightwarden's glow could hold out against the shadow. Several of the weaker-willed acolytes, looking on the heart of the great darkness, were consumed or driven mad by it, but not the Godseer. With a great war cry, he charged towards the source of the evil that had corrupted the continent.
This is where the accounts given by those few survivors vary. Some say that, guided by the light of his weapon, Jacaerys pushed through the overwhelming darkness to find and slay the remaining necromancers, severing the bond that kept the vile demon they channeled tied to the mortal plane. In this tale the great Godseer, it is said, built a magnificent bonfire and burned the corpses of the necromancers within, bringing their souls back to the light. When the white-hot flames burned their brightest, the story goes, Jacaerys threw himself into the blaze that he might forever sanctify the once-vile tower.
Other stories dismiss this tale, instead claiming that Jacaerys instead fought through the darkness straight to the nameless demon he faced, and there vanished from the mortal plane. In this version of the events, the Godseer does endless victorious battle with the force of evil on another plane of existence, slowly driving back the hordes of darkness that they might never again return to the world.
Both accounts agree, however, that when the tower was finally cleaned of darkness their leader had vanished. Some time after the remaining pilgrims had returned to the wastes to seek out and defeat any remaining evils that lurked, it is recorded that the tower itself burst into inferno, and stood as a glowing beacon of light for seven years. In this time, other histories tell us, not a single necromancer or bloodmage was able to channel any dark magicks into the land of the living.
In the modern day the Temple of Oraum stands somewhat divided on the status of Jacaerys the Godseer. Some of the younger and more cynical declaim it as a mere tale, Jacaerys himself the imaginary figurehead of what was actually a large and leaderless movement to end the Plague. Others still commend the Godseer as a great holy warrior. But in every temple, and especially among the smaller nightfires that burn in the continent's forgotten hamlets, there exist some who declare Jacaerys himself to have been elevated to godhood, serving as the right hand of Oraum forever and always.
In truth, perhaps the actuality lies somewhere in-between.
A P P E A R A N C E
Accounts as to the Godseer's appearance vary greatly, with many of the known descriptions coming from common farmhands and elders who themselves have had the stories passed down and twisted throughout the ages. In the majority of tales he is clean-shaven, but some describe a great beard -- in truth, no doubt it depended on the time at which the person actually saw Jacaerys. In any case, 'official' frescoes and statues from the Temple of Oraum depict a man of slightly above-average height and hair of medium-length, wearing a tatter of armor and robes.
All depictions agree, however, that the Godseer's eyes were a milky white, and in many cases he seemed to glow with trails of holy light.
A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Lightwarden
The only canonically-recognized piece of the Godseer's equipment is Lightwarden, the great glowing mace that he took from the fires of Oraum before setting of on his great pilgrimage. It is said that the weapon gave off a great glow at all times, and the mace's head was ringed with a dozen ornately-engraved steel blades. In many accounts foul mages and necromancers were rendered temporarily blind to look on it, and any blow delivered by the weapon to the undead would cause them -- and those nearby -- to erupt into white-hot flame.
Equipment aside, there are several known and documented supernatural abilities that Jacaerys seemed to possess without any special sort of equipment. It is said that he was immune to any sort of flame, and could walk across hot coals and into infernos alike without being singed. With a touch he could heal many wounds and diseases. Two times the Godseer is recorded to have raised the dead -- once at the first village he came upon, to bring a grieving mother's infant son back to life, and the second time upon finding his most trusted friend and ally, the acolye Aelar, dead following the Battle on the Sands. In both cases, eyewitnesses agree that it took significantly more effort than your average necromancer's ritual or incantation, and left the Godseer utterly drained for some time -- though unlike your average necromancer, the revived seemed to be reasonably healthy, if a bit frail, rather than walking corpses.
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Dextkiller
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D A E N / T H E U N R A V E L L E R / T R U T H S E E K E R
M Y T H O L O G Y
Lost Exerpt from "The Stuff Of Legend: Volume 2"
This exerpt was recovered by an expedition of students from Modal's School of Scholarly pursuits who were traveling up the eastern mountains to study the stout plant life that clings there.
Originally scribed by the Renowned scholar Amadaeus Brigs, this excerpt is thought to be the last piece Brigs ever wrote.
This exerpt was recovered by an expedition of students from Modal's School of Scholarly pursuits who were traveling up the eastern mountains to study the stout plant life that clings there.
Originally scribed by the Renowned scholar Amadaeus Brigs, this excerpt is thought to be the last piece Brigs ever wrote.
The Truthseeker:
Perhaps one of, if not the least well known legend of Ansus, The Truthseeker was a particularly difficult topic of study. Recommended to me by a strange man at a pub with a tall hat and brown-grey gloves of odd material, The Truthseeker was alluded to in a variety of placed. He was often described as a force of nature rather than a man. Direct information, however, was impossible to find. After spending countless nights awake with my nose firmly planted in between the pages of some journal or yet another volume of "Notable Names of History" (of which there were forty-two, upon the publishing of this informative piece. Although I have no doubt the number reaches somewhere in the hundreds at the time of your reading this) I find that The Truthseeker appears a total of zero times.
So then, my dear reader, you may be wondering how it is that I came about this information at all. Well, I am firmly under the impression that the author of "Notable Names of History" (one Arthur Samine) is biased rapscallion who frankly smells of week old cheese. He finds it more scholarly to only pursue the most readily available information, and therefore I declare him to be not a scholar, but rather a mummer. I expect this informative piece to relegated to the back room of some dusty storehouse for such direct insult, and commend you highly for digging it out again! You shant be sorry for your search, however. Because as I have told you, I possess knowledge the general public does not! So then, on to the actual information!
Once again introduced: The Truthseeker. Known by both this name and also as "The Unraveller" (for good reason, as you will come to see) was a marvel which none other in my searches has been able to match. While there are indeed others with greater physical strength or spiritual prowess. The power of The Truthseeker was absolutely unique. For he was, at the time, the one and only disciple of the Minor Deity, Seavus, The god of truth.
Packing my sizeable collection of written knowledge for a trip into the far eastern mountains was quite the task in itself. So when I saw the sheer climb that awaited me, a gracious innkeeper charged me nearly all my limbs (a figure of speech, dear reader) to store my collections. Three days hike later, and twice nearly falling to my untimely doom at the hands of none other than the infamous gravity, I was presented with a small shrine nestled into the high reaches of a lone peak. There, bound to the raised dais by incomprehensible magics, sat a tattered book. Try as I might, I could not remove the tome (it was quite cold upon the peak, and I had no intention of setting up for a study, but that was what I was driven too). And now my dearest and most avid reader, I recount to you the words I extracted from the tome that nearly had my fingers frozen to my charcoal on half a dozen occasions.
Page 1 of the Book of Truth:
Three pages thee, o' seeker, from this book you may choose.
What truths you seek shall not be found unless you have sought before.
Choose wisely o' seeker.
Three pages thee, o' seeker, from this book you may choose.
What truths you seek shall not be found unless you have sought before.
Choose wisely o' seeker.
Three pages? Surely there must have been hundreds, but I could choose only three. I was not prepared for the stress this brought upon me. Being such a avid seeker of knowledge, I spent days decoding what I could of this book. Trying to determine what would be stored where before I made my choice. My success was extremely limited. I decided to forge on, the first page I would choose would be twenty-five. I had no particular reason for this, but without a reference of how the knowledge might be ordered, I had to start somewhere.
Page 25 of The Book of Truth:
My dearest Disciple:
By black will you fall.
By white will you rise.
Four times of four, you shall be your own guide.
Upon your return, I shall grant you this
In order to strike, at first must you miss.
And perhaps one more, for loyalty's sake.
To reclaim what you've found, you first must unmake.
My dearest Disciple:
By black will you fall.
By white will you rise.
Four times of four, you shall be your own guide.
Upon your return, I shall grant you this
In order to strike, at first must you miss.
And perhaps one more, for loyalty's sake.
To reclaim what you've found, you first must unmake.
This page was, I soon found, a message to The Truthseeker, or, for the sake of not mixing up the "seeker" as the reader is called in The Book of Truth, I shall call the Truthseeker by the name I found on the next page I opened. Daen. I must say that I considered myself rather luck-struck to come across a second page referring to that which I was seeking. But then I thought of the riddle on the first page once more:
What truths you seek shall not be found unless you have sought before.
Well, I had indeed sought knowledge of Daen before, when I searched the libraries of the east and west alike. So perhaps it was not luck, but rather the intervention of divinity. I thought briefly if I could perhaps trick this being, or magic, or whatever it was that was guiding my choices. But thought better of it rather quickly. After all, I was getting what I had come for, so why try my hand and throwing that askew?
My next choice was fifty-eight.
Page 58 of The Book of Truth
O' seeker you fall with droplets of rain
I now for thee, the tales of Daen:
O' seeker you fall with droplets of rain
I now for thee, the tales of Daen:
For the convenience of my dear readers, I have deciphered the rather long winded rhyming tales that were then perilously crammed onto this single page.
The miasma of Oaxum: Any reader of the aforementioned "Notable Names of History" knows of the famous battle between the (now fragmented) western nation of Roania and the (now extinct) Peoples of Neamia, who lived in villages that bordered the northern deserts nearly forty-thousand years ago. In an attempt to bring the Neamian peoples under the rule of the king of Roania (who's name has been lost to history) a culling was to be performed. The Roanian military was to scatter twelve villages to the wind as a threat of extinction to the Neamians. The culling was carried out with both swiftness and brutality. But instead of falling in line as the Roanian king had hoped, the Neamians retaliated fiercely. They were hunted and systematically slaughtered for their rebelliousness. But not before taking a sizeable chunk of the Roanian empire out with what was, for the next ten thousand years, referred to as the Miasma of Oaxum. The miasma was nearly fifty kilometers across, and how this plague of toxicity was created is unknown. But within the rhymes of The Book of Truth, I found how it was eventually dispersed. Daen, holding what is referred to in the book as the "seed of truth" dispersed the miasma to the winds of time. Dispelling the toxic wastelands that had been impassable for ten millenia in a matter of hours.
The book does not mention what exaclty the "seed of truth" is. But it does refer to it as shiny and reflective. With this in mind I can make an assumption that it was some sort of gem.
The Strait of Imenis: It was quite surprising to me that I had never heard this tale before. It was always rumored that a great evil once blocked the strait of Imenis, preventing trade and information being passed across the sliver of land that separates the Gray Lake north of Kolantis. It was thought that the magic binding the creature there had eroded over time (the same was thought of the Miasma of Oaxum). The evil is described in the book as blacker than any starless night. Formless and thoughtless except for a veil of killing fury. None who attempted to ever cross the Strait survived. It is said that, using his great mind and guided personally by an aspect of Seavus (which, I might mention, is said by the book later as "my aspect". This leads me to the magnificent yet somehow troubling revelation that this book was created directly by the will of the lesser deity Seavus.) Daen outsmarted the creature, tricking it into revealing it's true nature as a magical construct formed by a blood magic ritual. He then pulled the threads of this exposed magic, guided by both the Seed of Truth and the Aspect of Saevus. The outpouring of malevolent energy that appearently escaped from the construct once it was destroyed nearly flayed Daen's mind, but he was saved by the Aspect of Saevus. Who, in order to save him, removed one of Daen's eyes and replaced it with the Seed of truth.
The Mark of the Seeker: The third and final tale squeezed onto the page was by far the most interesting. While the others had shown Daen's prowess at defensive and cognitive abilities, they had not mentioned how he retaliated against offensive magicks. The mark of the seeker, as said by the book, was the tale of Daen's final hours. The writing here gets rather cryptic, but what I did manage to decrypt about the events was this. Daen, after communion with Saevus, was told a truth none other could bare. He was appearently told of a "starless night" as the book recalls it. What exactly this means, I cannot determine. His sanity was stretched to its limits by this truth. In order to regain control of his now fleeing mind, Saevus showed Daen how he could earn the "mark of the seeker".
This would restore all his faculties and protect his mind from ever being flayed by truth again. The only other to ever earn the Mark of the seeker, says the book, was Saevus itself. How exactly a god could "earn" anything is beyond me, but by this merrit it is shown that in his final hours, Daen recieved a piece of divinity. He was by no means turned into a god. But with his obtainment of the mark of the seeker, Saevus could impart all the godly knowledge upon daen without fear of destroying his only desciple. Saevus' communion with Daen here is rushed. The book suggests that no time could be sparred, and the potential destruction of Daen's sanity had to be risked so that Saevus could impart dire knowledge on him that could appearently "prevent a starless night".
Daen then traveled into the southern Sea, to an island that (as the books says it) "was wreathed in blackest night forevermore."
There are a variety of challenges that Daen faces there, several of which are more of the same magical constructs that nearly flayed his mind at the Strait of Imentis. He finds a temple of black stone perched atop the island's peak. There he manages to fight his way through the "robes of blackest night" and make it into the inner sanctum of the Black stone temple. Once within, he claims the Mark of the Seeker. Which apparently branded him with three connected circles under the seed of truth (his right eye). A trap was triggered once he claimed the mark, however, shutting him in darkness and sapping all life from him. The book ends the tales with this line.
In blackened black the seeker fell.
left cold and hardened as a shell.
But from my son the dark could not take
The breath of truth from his lips did escape.
left cold and hardened as a shell.
But from my son the dark could not take
The breath of truth from his lips did escape.
I've spent most the day copying down these tales, and look forward to my third and final page on the morrow.
The excert ends here. The student expedition found his body at the base of a nearby cliff. Frozen and impaled on sharp rocks, several strange icicles emerging from his body that seemingly fell from the heavens like raindrops.
A P P E A R A N C E
In history The Unraveller was often shown not as a man, but as a force of nature. He was often symbolized as time, as time was the greatest unraveller of all. In the very few items that describe his psysical appearance, he is tall with a lithe and athletic build. Raven black hair sits atop one striking emerald green eye, and one lightly pulsing amber gem. He wears layered robes and favors an asymmetric dress on most occasions.
P E R S O N A L I T Y
Nothing yet, writing in BBCode is super annoying, so I'm writing elsewhere and importing, I'll keep you all updated.
A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Daen is the blessed disciple of the God of Truth, Saevus. As the Truthseeker, he has the ability to unravel the most complex magics given time. His tools allow him to do this much more quickly. In many cases he can unravel offensive magic that is used against him before it can even touch him. The unravelling process is a pitting of consciousness. And every time Daen unravels he unravels his mind slowly as well. The seed of truth mitigates the unraveling of his mind, and allows him to do the process much more quickly, but the Mark of the Seeker halts the process entirely.
The Seed of Truth: Bestowed upon him by Saevus, the seed of truth allows Daen to unravel extremely complex magic very quickly. With the Seed he dispelled the Miasma of Oaxum (see mythology) in only a few hours. Similarily, he used the seed to unravel a very old and very powerful magical construct of malice created by a ring of blood mages hundreds of years ago.
The Mark of the Seeker: Daen earned The Mark of the Seeker when he infiltrated a temple of the black. He took back what was stolen from the God of Truth. Within the inner sanctum he payed for the retrieval with his life. The Mark of the Seeker reformed Daen's mind when it was nearly torn apart after Saevus imparted the knowledge of the starless night on him. The Mark's primary power is that it prevents Daen's mind from being flayed by magic ever again. His mind cannot be broken by hearing the knowledge of the gods, however since his patron god has died, he can no longer communicate with any gods. Therefore the primary purpose of the mark is protecting his sanity during the unraveling process. He can unravel even the highest forms of magic now given the time, as he no longer has to fear he'll be torn apart. Additionally, the Mark also protects Daen's mind from any type of magical influence or infiltration. He cannot succumb to fear or persuasion that is being magically imposed, and his mind is protected from psychic readings and the like
The Pendant: Known by no other name and not mentioned in any tales of Daen, the Pendant is Daen's primary force of offensive magic. Although paltry in comparison to other offensive magical artifacts, the Pendant allows Daen to quickly create rune traps. They can vary in usage from gravity traps to fireball traps etc, they take a few moments to set and must be used in conjunction with one another to be most effective.
A G E O F L E G E N D
Roughly 30000 ago from present day
Kingfisher Observing or participating?
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N A M E / A L I A S
Jaralia Xavfoukari Al-Yoreed Kamihaliuss
The Night Thirster
M Y T H O L O G Y
The Khamihaliuss line were a lineage of supposedly god-appointed desert kings and queens who ruled over the kingdom of Vasihelios; a domain of holy cities and vast barren wastes, situated in what is now the Plains of Dust.
Jaralia was the seventh born child of the thirteenth King of Vasihelios, and was brought up with her every need and whim being attended to by harmes of slaves and loyal followers. As was befitting a princess of Vasihelios, Jaralia was educated in one of the three schools of the desert people’s culture. Out of Economics, Faith, and Magic, Jaralia chose magic, and was trained in the ways of the sorceress. From a young age, it became evident that Jaralia’s magical capabilities were immense, with her area of expertise being the Law of Vicissitude.
Whilst the people of Vasihelios slaved away in the Plains of Dust, sweltering beneath the boiling rays of the twin suns, the royal Khamihalians remained tucked away, cool and pale-skinned, within the confines of their vast pyramid palaces, which was where Jaralia furthered her arcane education.
As time went by, Jaralia became drawn towards increasingly dark and twisted schools of magic, and began to conduct monstrous experiments from within the safety of her scared chambers.
It was whilst conducting a particularly dark ritual, that Jaralia had the misfortune of bringing Canistuju the Devourer, an otherworldly being with an insatiable thirst for flesh, into Ansus. Jaralia defeated the creature, but in doing so shackled a splinter of the demon’s soul to her own, and began to develop her own horrific appetite. In doing so, she developed her own school of magic: Taberyat (meaning hunger of a thousand souls in Vasihelian). By devouring the flesh of men and women alike, Jaralia became imbued with extremely potent dark magic. Over the years, Jaralia had slaves brought to her private chambers where she would dine on their quivering bodies, causing her magical abilities to grow and swelter in power.
One night, beneath the cover of a full moon, a sickly red mist swept through the Pyramid Palaces of the Khamihalians, snuffing out the other members of the royal family, until only Jaralia remained amongst the living. It would be many years before the historians of the future would discern that Jaralia’s horrific blood magics had been responsible for this mysterious plague.
Crowned as the God-Queen of Vasihelios, Jaralia now had all the resources she needed to further develop her mastery of the dark arts, with a piece of Canistuju perched on her shoulder the whole while.
Jaralia was a tyrant if ever there was one, pushing her people to breaking point in order to grant herself a deeper understanding of blood magics. She waged war on the surrounding kingdoms, stripping them of their magical artifacts, and turning their people into slaves, as her dark empire grew and grew, spreading out into the green lands beyond the desert.
By the time revolution swept through Vasihelios, Jaralia was ruling over an empire which stretched across the roof of the world.
Despite her unparalleled magical prowess, Jaralia could not compete with the sheer vastness of the mob which rose up against her. As the rebels drew closer and closer to the gates of her palaces, those few soldiers who still remained loyal to the crown threw down their banners and joined the masses.
Jaralia was dragged out into the sunlight, kicking and screaming, and cast down the side of her own pyramid, her body dashed against the rocks below
Jaralia lived on as a sort of dark superstition, her vast assortment of forbidden tomes becoming quite popular amongst the occult groups of Ansus. In the time leading up to her resurrection, Jaralia existed as a mythological figure amongst some of the land’s more sinister religions. .
A P P E A R A N C E
Jaralia is a huge, heavy young woman, who carries most of her weight in her stomach. Her plump face bares a double-chin, and she has soft arms. Her thick legs have an element of muscularity to them. She has dark lips which conceal glistening white teeth, and bright maroon eyes shimmer on either side of her stout nose. An explosion of fiery red hair cascades down her shoulders, falling in loose tangles.. Her cheeks are rosy and puffy, and she is reasonably large-breasted. She has a relaxed and casual stance, with slopped shoulders and a slightly curved spine.
Her teeth are one of her more noticeable features, as they take on a sharp, fang-like appearance. She has eerily pale skin, which is bewitched to a ghostly pale quality, glistening like water beneath the light of a full moon.
A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Taberyat magic is Jaralia’s most devastating weapon. She consumes the flesh of her enemies, and uses their very essence to fuel her dark powers. Provided she has enough sustenance, Jaralia can bend people to her will, getting inside their heads and forcing them to do her bidding. She can conjure bolts of shadow magic, create arcane explosions, and unleash terrible conflagrations upon her enemies.
Equipment wise, Jaralia dresses in the royal garb of her people, with a few adjustments. A long purple silk veil covers her lower mouth, and an ornate headdress rests atop her fiery tresses. Her large form is wrapped up in a stunning robe-like dress, encrusted with all manner of rich gems and jewelry.
A G E O F L E G E N D
15,000 years.
Jaralia Xavfoukari Al-Yoreed Kamihaliuss
The Night Thirster
M Y T H O L O G Y
The Khamihaliuss line were a lineage of supposedly god-appointed desert kings and queens who ruled over the kingdom of Vasihelios; a domain of holy cities and vast barren wastes, situated in what is now the Plains of Dust.
Jaralia was the seventh born child of the thirteenth King of Vasihelios, and was brought up with her every need and whim being attended to by harmes of slaves and loyal followers. As was befitting a princess of Vasihelios, Jaralia was educated in one of the three schools of the desert people’s culture. Out of Economics, Faith, and Magic, Jaralia chose magic, and was trained in the ways of the sorceress. From a young age, it became evident that Jaralia’s magical capabilities were immense, with her area of expertise being the Law of Vicissitude.
Whilst the people of Vasihelios slaved away in the Plains of Dust, sweltering beneath the boiling rays of the twin suns, the royal Khamihalians remained tucked away, cool and pale-skinned, within the confines of their vast pyramid palaces, which was where Jaralia furthered her arcane education.
As time went by, Jaralia became drawn towards increasingly dark and twisted schools of magic, and began to conduct monstrous experiments from within the safety of her scared chambers.
It was whilst conducting a particularly dark ritual, that Jaralia had the misfortune of bringing Canistuju the Devourer, an otherworldly being with an insatiable thirst for flesh, into Ansus. Jaralia defeated the creature, but in doing so shackled a splinter of the demon’s soul to her own, and began to develop her own horrific appetite. In doing so, she developed her own school of magic: Taberyat (meaning hunger of a thousand souls in Vasihelian). By devouring the flesh of men and women alike, Jaralia became imbued with extremely potent dark magic. Over the years, Jaralia had slaves brought to her private chambers where she would dine on their quivering bodies, causing her magical abilities to grow and swelter in power.
One night, beneath the cover of a full moon, a sickly red mist swept through the Pyramid Palaces of the Khamihalians, snuffing out the other members of the royal family, until only Jaralia remained amongst the living. It would be many years before the historians of the future would discern that Jaralia’s horrific blood magics had been responsible for this mysterious plague.
Crowned as the God-Queen of Vasihelios, Jaralia now had all the resources she needed to further develop her mastery of the dark arts, with a piece of Canistuju perched on her shoulder the whole while.
Jaralia was a tyrant if ever there was one, pushing her people to breaking point in order to grant herself a deeper understanding of blood magics. She waged war on the surrounding kingdoms, stripping them of their magical artifacts, and turning their people into slaves, as her dark empire grew and grew, spreading out into the green lands beyond the desert.
By the time revolution swept through Vasihelios, Jaralia was ruling over an empire which stretched across the roof of the world.
Despite her unparalleled magical prowess, Jaralia could not compete with the sheer vastness of the mob which rose up against her. As the rebels drew closer and closer to the gates of her palaces, those few soldiers who still remained loyal to the crown threw down their banners and joined the masses.
Jaralia was dragged out into the sunlight, kicking and screaming, and cast down the side of her own pyramid, her body dashed against the rocks below
Jaralia lived on as a sort of dark superstition, her vast assortment of forbidden tomes becoming quite popular amongst the occult groups of Ansus. In the time leading up to her resurrection, Jaralia existed as a mythological figure amongst some of the land’s more sinister religions. .
A P P E A R A N C E
Jaralia is a huge, heavy young woman, who carries most of her weight in her stomach. Her plump face bares a double-chin, and she has soft arms. Her thick legs have an element of muscularity to them. She has dark lips which conceal glistening white teeth, and bright maroon eyes shimmer on either side of her stout nose. An explosion of fiery red hair cascades down her shoulders, falling in loose tangles.. Her cheeks are rosy and puffy, and she is reasonably large-breasted. She has a relaxed and casual stance, with slopped shoulders and a slightly curved spine.
Her teeth are one of her more noticeable features, as they take on a sharp, fang-like appearance. She has eerily pale skin, which is bewitched to a ghostly pale quality, glistening like water beneath the light of a full moon.
A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Taberyat magic is Jaralia’s most devastating weapon. She consumes the flesh of her enemies, and uses their very essence to fuel her dark powers. Provided she has enough sustenance, Jaralia can bend people to her will, getting inside their heads and forcing them to do her bidding. She can conjure bolts of shadow magic, create arcane explosions, and unleash terrible conflagrations upon her enemies.
Equipment wise, Jaralia dresses in the royal garb of her people, with a few adjustments. A long purple silk veil covers her lower mouth, and an ornate headdress rests atop her fiery tresses. Her large form is wrapped up in a stunning robe-like dress, encrusted with all manner of rich gems and jewelry.
A G E O F L E G E N D
15,000 years.
General Zhan the Peaceful
"You have light and peace inside of you. If you let it out, you can change the world around you"
M Y T HO L O G Y
General Zhan was a great war hero from the East. It is said that, heading the armies of the Kingdom of Kai in the name of his brother, King Izoh, he successfully led the sieges of dozens of cities, ultimately seeing the rise of the Empire of Kai. However, during the ultimate years of the expansion period, news reached Zhan of the death of his son, Tenlu. He returned to the capital and stayed there for years, renouncing his title and spending the next decades at rest, a hero, but a minor one.
It came to pass that when Zhan reached the age of 57, the son of the Emperor, Kuzon, was shamed by the Emperor and exiled. As Kuzon's uncle, Zhan felt that it was his duty to see that Kuzon would complete the now unknown quest that the Emperor sent him out to do as penance for his transgressions.
In the following years, Kuzon gained fame as a prominent rebel and claimant to the throne, his younger sibling now the crown prince. Zhan remained by his side, giving sagely advice, and would become recognised as much of the reason as to why Kuzon was able to pull off his coup and reclaim the throne that was rightfully his.
At the age of 61, Zhan led an army of rebels against the Empire, using powerful sorcery and a genius grasp of strategy to cut his way through droves of loyalist forces. Leading a three-year siege against the capital, he finally worked with a small team of agents to enter the city undetected and assassinate the Emperor and capture the crown prince. The city quickly fell and Kuzon was crowned Emperor. Zhan is said to have devoted the rest of his life to meditation, and finally died at the age of 106, ascending to the spirit world.
There, not truly dead, he has remained for millennia, practicing his sorceries and meditating, giving sagely advice to all those who would seek him out in his new home. His legend has only grown in this time, spread by those minor heroes who would use his advice to do great deeds. He is known in many places as a powerful spirit of wisdom, and some households in what was once the Empire of Kai still lay offerings of tea leaves at small shrines with statues of him, meditating.
It is said that if you would seek him out, you need only travel to the spirit world and call out for him. It is said that you will soon come across a plain blanket with a modest campfire, a cracked teapot and an old man, making tea for two people.
Zhan is not a global legend. He is not an all-powerful omnipotent demigod. He is a war hero, and a teacher, and a guide. His legend has grown through constant retelling, as heroes come back from their journeys and tell of a fat, tea-loving sage in the spirit forests who gave great advice and encouraged them to be the best that they could be.
A P P E A R A N C E
Zhan is an elderly man, who appears fat and out of shape. His beard is long well-kept, though his head has long since balded and only some of his white, thin hair remains. His teeth are stained a very pale brown from the constant ingestion of tea, and his hands are gnarled and tough where years of practice of martial arts have strengthened and calloused them.
His appearance has not been exaggerated in legend, but it taken for what it is. When heroes return and tell of his advice, they only speak of how calm and relaxed he seemed at all times, a paragon of serenity. Statues of him are as serene and calm as he is, exemplifying beauty on the interior, not on the exterior.
A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Zhan has always been gifted with control over the elements. He can create gusts of wind to evade his enemies. He can move the ground beneath him to guard against their blows. He can raise walls of water to divert them from their course. He can generate gouts of fire to light the error in their path.
In addition to this, Zhan is a gifted martial artist, having had millennia to practice his art.
Zhan has spent millennia in meditation, turning his attentions inward. His soul has become like diamond, uncorruptable and unbreakable. His mind, similarly, has become like adamantium, his willpower infinite.
Zhan has retained his knowledge of strategy and tactics from his mortal life, long ago. He is a brilliant strategist.
A G E O F L E G E N D
Approximately five thousand years ago.
Celaira Lore Mistress
Member
Seen
1 yr ago
"If I were to choose between saving myself, and saving another, it would always be the other person. Always."
N A M E / A L I A S
Sarynia Brael – The Soul's Bastion.
A G E O F L E G E N D
48,000.
M Y T H O L O G Y
Sarynia was born in a small farming village located beyond the southernmost mountains of the Heartlands. It was there she was raised amongst three older siblings. For much of her childhood, Sarynia's life was a happy one. It was not until her thirteenth year that her life would change. Nearly two weeks after her birthday, her father left to sell some goods in the market place. He never returned. Sarynia was sent to search for him just before dusk. When she finally managed to find him, night had fallen upon her. Having had no luck in the town, she headed home. In the darkness she almost missed her father laying to the side of the road. Were it not for a groan that left his lips, she would have walked right by him. The man had been beaten bloody, he needed help. But, as much as Sarynia screamed, she was too far from her home for her family to be able to hear her.
In a fit of panic, she rose and tried her hardest to pick him up. To her surprise, it worked. She was able to carry her father's body back to their home without much effort. When she returned, her mother opened the door and pulled the two inside. For three days the family took care of their fallen member. He seemed to be getting better, but, on the third night he breathed his last. When the morning came, Sarynia's mother found her beloved without a heartbeat.
Sarynia, heartbroken by the loss, decided that she would seek out the people who harmed her father. She went into town to ask if anyone had seen something that could point her in the right direction. No one would take her seriously. No one would listen. She did not return home that night. Instead, she sought for shelter in the woods just beyond her village.
It was there that a man clad in a dark cloak came to her. He told her a story long forgotten by history. The tale of a monster so vile that no single hero could vanquish it. It was this story that sent her on a quest to learn how to fight and vanquish beasts herself. Little did she know, the man with whom she had spoken was none other than the god, Orthus, himself.
For a year, she traveled, venturing through countless towns and villages. She learned many things from her trek through the south. One such thing being that a temple of monks resided on the southernmost island, and that they were looking for disciples. The thought of being able to actually protect people drove her to seek out this temple. When she finally found it, she was tasked with three tests. One of speed, one of strength, and one of endurance. The tests were given over a period of three days.
The first, the test of speed, was given early in the morning, just before sunrise. Sarynia was tasked with running through the mountain trails to the edge of the island, and back again before the morning of the next day. She warily accepted the challenge, and found her stride just as the sun was peeking over the ocean's surface. She managed to make it to the edge of the island and back again just as the sun was setting on the day. The monks didn't seem too surprised by her feat, but congratulated her on her passing nonetheless.
The second test, given to her on the second day, was the test of strength. In this test, she was given the first of her artifacts Nataera and tasked with breaking a boulder four times her size. She was given the whole day to achieve her task. She completed it in less than a few hours. As a reward for passing this test, she was gifted with her second artifact Saeyn.
The third test, given to her on the third day, was the test of endurance. In this test both her will and physical durability were tested. Her task was simple: "Face the threats you are given head on. Do not falter, do not yield." The test went on nearly the entire day. Sarynia stood fast, allowing multiple monks to attack her without dropping to a knee. Beaten and bloody though she was, when the bell tolled that the test was over, she wore her wounds proudly.
When the fourth day came, her training with the monks truly began. They taught her how to hone her physical prowess, and how to use it in conjunction with her two artifacts. When she left the temple she had trained in after two years, she vowed that she would not allow harm to come to any innocent if she were aware, and able to stop it. She vowed never to let something like what happened to her father happen to anyone else if it were possible to intervene.
"When the Restless March was completed, the three Trials of Mind, Body, and Soul overcome, the time came for the Triumvirate of eld to set their sights upon the Elysian Plains and meet the destiny that the Prince of the Void laid out for them. Few records manage to recount precisely what it was that was fought, referring to it only as a great evil, but the true name of the scourge of the realm that they faced was Lazarus, the Undying.
As little literature survived Lazarus' various onslaughts, and history is written in the glory-emboldened eyes of those who did manage to drive the abomination into slumber, the truth of what Lazarus was or could do is lost, even to we Fates. Lazarus possessed unnatural durability, to the point that it simply could not be killed by normal means or normal men, and only with great sacrifices was it pushed to the brink of dormancy that it hovered upon before it set to consume all things. We believe that Lazarus corrupted and twisted the natural cycle of life to its own benefit, drawing strength from the untimely demise of those around it to extend its own time in this world. Perhaps, initially, it was no more than a nuisance but the continued reaping of helpless souls eventually rendered it beyond death until the Triumvirate arrived. Even now we do not know if this explanation is true, as none of the Triumvirate survived the encounter (with the exception of Lyr, whose mind was broken and thus was of no use)."
When the Triumvirate completed their respective Trials, they each marched upon the resting grounds of the abomination Lazarus and sought to vanquish it for all of eternity. In order to weaken the creature, Dormeria raised a veritable army of the dead whose vitality and souls had long been spent to wear Lazarus down, sacrificing much of her own life force to do so. Lyr shattered Lazarus' mind, bringing his own to the very edge of madness, and grappled with the creature long enough for Sarynia to perform the ritual to bind its soul within a mortal vessel that it might be slain. Lyr was the first to sacrifice himself, utterly breaking his own mind to temporarily render Lazarus vulnerable to the psychic and spiritual onslaught of Sarynia. While Sarynia bound the creature's essence, Dormeria prepared the ritual to bind the demon within her body and then die, killing them both in the process.
Dormeria's Trial of Body had taken its toll, and continued reliance upon Ukenagasu had left her with too little of her own inherent life force to bind Lazarus within herself for long enough to kill it. With no alternative, Dormeria bound the Undying within Sarynia's body and shortly thereafter breathed her last breath, crumbling to ash as she did so. Though strong of body and soul, Sarynia's mind could only contend with Lazarus for as long as Lyr's power weakened it, and Sarynia forfeited her soul to destroy Lazarus' - with no soul, Sarynia and Lazarus both expired within moments.
As only the three witnessed the battle, the stories that are told are all the world has to go by, with different cultures each celebrating a particular member of the Triumvirate and lording them above all others - some venerate Sarynia as an all-benevolent martyr betrated by Dormeria, some laud Lyr as the hero who outsmarted an undying demon, and some idolise Dormeria as the very essence of power and sacrifice. The only thing these various legends have in common is that they speak of the total eradication of Lazarus - and naught has been heard of the demon since then.
A P P E A R A N C E
Sarynia's likeness is often depicted as a golden-skinned forest woman. More often than not, she is present in the background of a forest with a myriad of beasts surrounding her. Shown to be tall, and holding what looks to be a rather oddly shaped scythe, her eyes the color of gold, and hair dark as night that flows all the way down to her feet.
In reality, however, Sarynia is a small, five foot four woman with softly sun-kissed skin. Her frame is lean if slightly toned, leaving her typically displayed angular features to truly be rounded off quite nicely. Her eyes are that of a honey-colored brown. Her hair, night colored though it may be, trails in waves along to the small of her back, while its bangs frame her face in gentle shadows.
A B I L I T I E S & E Q U I P M E N T
V A E N Y R -- L Y S A E A, G A T E W A Y S T O M E R I D I A N
A pair of rings, one crafted of the Heaven's shadow and the other of its light, Vaenyr and Lysaea were gifts from the God Orthus granted to Lyrsaeyn and Sarynia before their fateful battle against Lazarus, the Undying. While the rings appear to be polar opposites, the two are in truth twins in disguise. Possessing identical abilities, Vaenyr and Lysaea are capable of transmitting the boons of one upon another, thus transmitting certain protective properties between the wearers.
While the rings can be worn and utilized by anyone, they become innate when worn by those who were never meant to don their forms. When worn by the two they were created to unify their effects are as follow.
Lysaea, the ring which was worn by Lyrsaeyn, grants its wearer Sarynia's protection, thus shielding the mage greatly from psychic influences, which would otherwise pull on the soul and affect the mind. This primarily works upon negative or harmful influences meaning that Raelia, one of Lyrsaeyn's other Artifacts, would be unaffected by his wearing Lysaea. In fact, the two empower one another for reasons that only the two heroes know. The result is that Lyrsaeyn's ability to resist the influence of spirits bound to his person is heightened.
On the otherhand, Vaenyr, Sarynia's ring, grants its wearer heightened spiritual awareness, thus amplifying one's natural perception as well as allowing them to view emotions and impressions much as Lyrsaeyn does.
Last among the abilities of the two rings is their ability to allow their wearers an awareness of eachother's mental and emotional state. While this does not make them capable of reading one another's minds, it does make it easier for them to work together and for either to know whether their counterpart is alive and well. However, this awareness is not acute, meaning that it is more a vague impression if anything and with distance it becomes more vague. Thus, the closer Vaenyr is to Lysaea the more clear the awareness becomes.
While the rings become largely innate when worn by another, they do emit two frequencies that remain at the very edge of human hearing and extend outwards, channeling themselves through the spiritual energies throughout the realm. This allows them to be located by individuals with heightened hearing or magical awareness however, it also reveals just how the rings function as well. In essence, Vaenyr-Lysaea remain connected to one another by way of being part of the same whole, but power themselves via an exchange of energy between wearers. However, this exchange is minimal in nature meaning that the protective properties transmitted between individuals are weakened in some manner due to their being fueled by less energy. Still, these protections are weakened not by distance as they are transmitted directly between rings, rather than crossing the space that separates them.
S A E Y N, T H E S O U L S L A Y E R
A weapon of intricate and truly unique build, Saeyn took the form of a twin bladed scythe, each blade a mighty crescent faced opposite its twin upon the shaft. Perhaps its most infamous property was the shaft's ability to split into thirds, each connected by chains wrought of a mysterious white metal--perhaps formed from the Heaven's themselves. Touted for its durability and wide range of unorthodox uses, Sarynia's Artifact has not once been wielded by one as worthy as the heroine herself and it is unlikely that this should change any time soon. While certainly an intricate tool its only known magical properties were those of immortality and surely its durability as its blades never rust and its shaft never splinters. Perhaps due this same blessing from Sarynia's patron god, Orthus, Saeyn is capable, in the right hands, of cleaving both body and spirit alike--though the latter is more legend than truth for in truth its blades are meant only to weaken these ties, rather than cut them outright.
The weapon's ability to fold or split into thirds is accessed via counter-clockwise and clockwise turns at the shaft's center, bringing to mind the idea of a turning point in one's destiny. Regardless, for those unlucky enough to face Saeyn when held by its mistress, their fate is surely sealed.
**It should be noted that this description of Saeyn is written in a mythological manner, and not the reality of the weapon. Saeyn does not grant immortality, it does, however, weaken the ties between body and soul, and even that is not to to a great extent.
N A T A E R A, T H E I R O N T W I N S
Artifacts of deceptively simple make, the Iron Twins are in truth quite the devastating pair of iron knuckles. While plain in appearance, their effectiveness is not to be underestimated as in the hands of the strong they can shatter stone and pierce flesh as well as any hammer or spear--if not far better. This ability is attributed to the blessing upon the twins, which ties the weapons into the being of their wielder, drawing from the strength of their body and soul both so as to maximize and focus all the strength of their being. With greater focus and understanding of their abilities comes greater destructive power. Still, the knuckles serve is an exceptional defense if one seeks to block with them, as their form is as durable as the energies of the soul and the fibers of the body to which they are connected.
This makes them, despite their humble appearance, truly worthy of their status as legendary items. After all, appearances can be quite deceiving.
P H Y S I Q U E O F T H E G U A R D I A N
Blessed with the strength to protect others and defeat those who would harm the innocent, Sarynia was born with an exceptional body. While upon first glance her form might appear only slightly toned, one learns quickly of her tremendous strength, speed, durability, and endurance when faced against her on any field of battle. This is due to her aspects of body and soul, which impart her with the ability to infuse her body with the strength of her indomitable spirit, granting her speed enough to strike swiftly and run just as fast; strength enough to splinter wood, dent metal, or crack stone; resistance so great as to be struck many times, yet fight on; and of course stamina to fuel such feats. Still, this ability is not without its weaknesses, the greatest of which is the fact that she cannot be all of these things at once, forcing her to decide which abilities would suite her best in each passing moment of conflict. Choosing wrong in such circumstances is hardly an option, but fate is a cruel mistress and so it is that no one is perfect and wrong moves can be made.
S O U L B A S T I O N
An ability afforded Sarynia by her indomitable will to protect the lives and freedoms of others, Soul Bastion is both the source of Sarynia's title and the only known magic she possessed. A potent ability, Soul Bastion allows Sarynia, via physical contact with another, to compel and empower their soul with a fierce will to defend itself from harm--bodily or otherwise. While its effects can be resisted or banished by some, the ability is a boon rather than a hindrance to all, but a select few rare individuals. Aside from those few, the ability's function would cease after the passage of thirty minutes or less.
Sarynia was known to use this ability both to protect others and herself, as the ability is one which she can manifest from her own soul, creating a powerful barrier of varied size in which all whom she sees as allies cannot be harmed for as long as the barrier is maintained. Still when used from her own soul to protect herself from harm it becomes a taxing thing indeed, draining her normally exceptional stamina faster than her physical abilities might. As such, she must use it wisely, lest it tire her before conflict's end leaving her bereft of defense aside from that of her prowess in the more martial of skills.
Still, even with this sort of failing, Soul Bastion is an ability which truly embodied what Sarynia was in her time:
A staunch and selfless defender of the innocent. So it is that she has been remembered as such, her name echoing through the halls of history. May its sound never fade.
jasonwolf Hunter, Trainer, Ranger, Master
Member
Seen
2 yrs ago
"Hero? Villain? Nature's will is beyond your grasp."
"Good? Bad? I'm the guy with the bird."
Theme
Land of Confusion
"The sins of man have warped the earth. I shall bring it peace by any means."
N A M E / A L I A S
Markiel Harrir and his owl Boreas
Nature’s Arbiter
M Y T H O L O G Y
Markiel Harrir was born to Talor and Madgry Harrir in the small village of Belorook. Nestled at the bottom of the Grand Rook mountains in the far north east of the Kingless Land, a territory with a great many dangers and little rewards for any empire to bother with. For the people who did live there it had many treasures: every man was his own, everyone was there together not apart, and so long as you were alive you were free.
Belorook was actually one of the larger settlements it consisted of three extended families: the Harrir, the Calus, and the Byuk. They all lived in a collection of lodges connected by interior bridges to keep people inside as much as possible. The territory was dangerously cold in the winter forcing the families to spend the entire time inside. everything that could ever be needed was inside the collection of structures, from the mill to the forge.
The brief summers were Mark’s favorite time. Summer was hunting season. Everyone was assigned a job at birth for what the village needed. There was never discontent, though mostly because of the lack of other options. You either were satisfied or adored your job. Mark was the latter. Trained in two kinds of bows and three kinds of crossbows Mark knew plenty about taking down the creatures all around him. What he was still to learn was how to tame them. His family was known for their use of falconry to collect small game quickly, and of course as the next hunter in the family he was trained in it aswell.
The first rite for falconry training among the Harir is a simple test to see if you can train a winter chickadee. Its a simple task over all, but tests patience more than anything. Mark tried to show off by training multiple, but in the end only one listened, and possibly only because he left a biscuit in his pocket. It was enough though, and taught Mark just how important focus is. From here out he only worked with one bird. His first, and only, falcon was Juro. Raising him from a fledgeling Mark adored his bird.
Sadly Juro was not long for the hunt. After an accident that injured his wing Juro was forced to remain grounded. Mark cared for the bird until it died of old age. Mark wasn’t quite the same since. Juro was more than a pet. He was a partner. Without him what kind of falconeer was he?
His family recommended he train a new falcon, but Mark simply couldn’t do it. He spent fourteen years with Juro, only six of which we hunting. He would not dishonor Juro’s memory by replacing him with another falcon. He did know he needed a new partner though.
Now in his mid twenties Mark was a grown man, and decided to finally seek out a new bird to join him. All summer he searched for a raptor fit for him, but nothing spoke to him. The falcons and hawks reminded him too much of Juro, and the rare eagles were too proud to train well. When winter set in, and the birds vanished from the forest Mark had an idea. Only one bird dared stay through the terrible winters of the north. One raptor that soared above all others. An owl whose call echoed through the darkest hours of the blizzards at night. A White Rend Owl.
As soon as spring began to show Mark packed up and headed into the mountains in desperate search of the prized bird. Eggs would be close to hatching or there would already be fledglings to take. The only problem was the mother, or worse the father. Both parents of White Rends mate for life and take entire mountains as territory. Between the two nothing can force them out.
If Mark didn’t find the nest while the parents were away he’d be torn apart and fed to the fledglings he was searching for. Mark trekked all over the mountains hiding away as much as he could. The stories said that White Rends would happily grab up anything in their territory, and Mark had no reason to distrust his ancestors. The good news was that owls tend to hunt at night. When he found the nest in the middle of the day unattended he was pleased, but terrified. There were three plump fluffy squeaking birdies in the nest.
He took a deep breath and scooped up a baby boy placing it into a satchel filled with straw he has prepared earlier. Mark was quick to leave hoping the parents didn’t know how to count. When he finally returned to the village over a month later his actions were met with both amazement and scorn. An entire month without one of the best hunters had put the village behind its quota for food, but the sheer idea of a White Rend Owl being seen and not eating anyone was a sight to see.
Mark began immediately to work with the owl but it was slow progress. The Owl was different from the other birds in a number of ways. He was already as big as Juro was fully grown first off, and Boreas, as he was named, was much more finicky. Boreas would rather hop around the ground ignoring Mark than train. He’d happily take any food Mark tried to train him with before mark even got it ready by jumping and grabbing it out of his hand.
It took years, but eventually Boreas began to grow into the most terrible of hunters. Between Mark’s decades of experience and Boreas’ instinct being combined by the totemic bond the two were almost too strong. The hunt began menial and uninteresting. A White Rend taking on a pathetic deer with the guidance of a Harrir hunter was childs play. After making peace with his family he headed to the south seeking a more glorious hunt.
His efforts were rewarded with many grand stories and prizes from beasts of all sorts. These trinkets are used as his badge of honor to prove his worth to anyone questioning him, and any remaining disbelief is silenced when he whistles for Boreas.
A neutral man with such power was a dangerous thing. While Mark intended to spend his life on a grand hunt there were others who sought to employ his skills. In some cases Mark was happy to help. Villages in need of food, towns stalked by monsters, and such were common tasks he’d fulfill, but as his fame grew kings and noblemen wanted his abilities for less valorous intentions. He refused them all dedicated only to himself and his owl. While his own morality let him help those in need he wasn’t a mercenary. The only higher power he cared for were the forces of nature.
With Markiel getting into his forties life was beginning to slow. His hair showed gray, and soon he’d have to end his days on the hunt. The world was breaking into ever greater chaos, and Mark knew he would grow old watching as nature fell to man’s arrogance. He decided that another option must be taken. He treked north beyond the nations, beyond the wilds, and into the unknown. His people’s legends told of a shrine one to an old god one that men scorned. The god was one of balance. He raised and lowered the world sowing and culling life. Man scorned balance in favor of power and left the god. In the frozen void of the north lands Markiel found his shrine and stood before a grand idol made of every material known to man. He fell before it a solemn vow in his heart. To be an Arbiter one who could decide the fate of man as nature would.
The ground shook and vines erupted from the floor and grew up the walls. Even in the frozen wastes a garden grew. The Idol was wrapped in vines before crumbling. The plants pulled away revealing a black bladed sword that Mark held aloft. Mark felt magics course through him.
Belorook was actually one of the larger settlements it consisted of three extended families: the Harrir, the Calus, and the Byuk. They all lived in a collection of lodges connected by interior bridges to keep people inside as much as possible. The territory was dangerously cold in the winter forcing the families to spend the entire time inside. everything that could ever be needed was inside the collection of structures, from the mill to the forge.
The brief summers were Mark’s favorite time. Summer was hunting season. Everyone was assigned a job at birth for what the village needed. There was never discontent, though mostly because of the lack of other options. You either were satisfied or adored your job. Mark was the latter. Trained in two kinds of bows and three kinds of crossbows Mark knew plenty about taking down the creatures all around him. What he was still to learn was how to tame them. His family was known for their use of falconry to collect small game quickly, and of course as the next hunter in the family he was trained in it aswell.
The first rite for falconry training among the Harir is a simple test to see if you can train a winter chickadee. Its a simple task over all, but tests patience more than anything. Mark tried to show off by training multiple, but in the end only one listened, and possibly only because he left a biscuit in his pocket. It was enough though, and taught Mark just how important focus is. From here out he only worked with one bird. His first, and only, falcon was Juro. Raising him from a fledgeling Mark adored his bird.
Sadly Juro was not long for the hunt. After an accident that injured his wing Juro was forced to remain grounded. Mark cared for the bird until it died of old age. Mark wasn’t quite the same since. Juro was more than a pet. He was a partner. Without him what kind of falconeer was he?
His family recommended he train a new falcon, but Mark simply couldn’t do it. He spent fourteen years with Juro, only six of which we hunting. He would not dishonor Juro’s memory by replacing him with another falcon. He did know he needed a new partner though.
Now in his mid twenties Mark was a grown man, and decided to finally seek out a new bird to join him. All summer he searched for a raptor fit for him, but nothing spoke to him. The falcons and hawks reminded him too much of Juro, and the rare eagles were too proud to train well. When winter set in, and the birds vanished from the forest Mark had an idea. Only one bird dared stay through the terrible winters of the north. One raptor that soared above all others. An owl whose call echoed through the darkest hours of the blizzards at night. A White Rend Owl.
As soon as spring began to show Mark packed up and headed into the mountains in desperate search of the prized bird. Eggs would be close to hatching or there would already be fledglings to take. The only problem was the mother, or worse the father. Both parents of White Rends mate for life and take entire mountains as territory. Between the two nothing can force them out.
If Mark didn’t find the nest while the parents were away he’d be torn apart and fed to the fledglings he was searching for. Mark trekked all over the mountains hiding away as much as he could. The stories said that White Rends would happily grab up anything in their territory, and Mark had no reason to distrust his ancestors. The good news was that owls tend to hunt at night. When he found the nest in the middle of the day unattended he was pleased, but terrified. There were three plump fluffy squeaking birdies in the nest.
He took a deep breath and scooped up a baby boy placing it into a satchel filled with straw he has prepared earlier. Mark was quick to leave hoping the parents didn’t know how to count. When he finally returned to the village over a month later his actions were met with both amazement and scorn. An entire month without one of the best hunters had put the village behind its quota for food, but the sheer idea of a White Rend Owl being seen and not eating anyone was a sight to see.
Mark began immediately to work with the owl but it was slow progress. The Owl was different from the other birds in a number of ways. He was already as big as Juro was fully grown first off, and Boreas, as he was named, was much more finicky. Boreas would rather hop around the ground ignoring Mark than train. He’d happily take any food Mark tried to train him with before mark even got it ready by jumping and grabbing it out of his hand.
It took years, but eventually Boreas began to grow into the most terrible of hunters. Between Mark’s decades of experience and Boreas’ instinct being combined by the totemic bond the two were almost too strong. The hunt began menial and uninteresting. A White Rend taking on a pathetic deer with the guidance of a Harrir hunter was childs play. After making peace with his family he headed to the south seeking a more glorious hunt.
His efforts were rewarded with many grand stories and prizes from beasts of all sorts. These trinkets are used as his badge of honor to prove his worth to anyone questioning him, and any remaining disbelief is silenced when he whistles for Boreas.
A neutral man with such power was a dangerous thing. While Mark intended to spend his life on a grand hunt there were others who sought to employ his skills. In some cases Mark was happy to help. Villages in need of food, towns stalked by monsters, and such were common tasks he’d fulfill, but as his fame grew kings and noblemen wanted his abilities for less valorous intentions. He refused them all dedicated only to himself and his owl. While his own morality let him help those in need he wasn’t a mercenary. The only higher power he cared for were the forces of nature.
With Markiel getting into his forties life was beginning to slow. His hair showed gray, and soon he’d have to end his days on the hunt. The world was breaking into ever greater chaos, and Mark knew he would grow old watching as nature fell to man’s arrogance. He decided that another option must be taken. He treked north beyond the nations, beyond the wilds, and into the unknown. His people’s legends told of a shrine one to an old god one that men scorned. The god was one of balance. He raised and lowered the world sowing and culling life. Man scorned balance in favor of power and left the god. In the frozen void of the north lands Markiel found his shrine and stood before a grand idol made of every material known to man. He fell before it a solemn vow in his heart. To be an Arbiter one who could decide the fate of man as nature would.
The ground shook and vines erupted from the floor and grew up the walls. Even in the frozen wastes a garden grew. The Idol was wrapped in vines before crumbling. The plants pulled away revealing a black bladed sword that Mark held aloft. Mark felt magics course through him.
From here the myths began.
In the midst of night a stranger would walk into town a black falchion used as a walking stick. Above him soared a massive owl ever silent. He’d call out to the people that Nature had come for it’s kingdom, and that all who joined it would harvest it’s bounties. This is how the crusade started. Every King sought to expand his land into the wilds while Mark pushed them back. The forces of nature consuming cities in his wake. The lowly people that followed his teachings took to the land living in peace.
His acts did not go unnoticed. Kings sent legions after him knights and soldiers by the hundreds. All marched into the wilds never to return. After decades of campaigns to take territory back Mark decided that the Wilds were again at balance in the north. There was a short peace before Mark was needed again.
The kings always wanted to try and disturb the balance. Though the wilds were a kingdom for nature it was not the only place it’s power was great. Long ago when the earth was shaped gifts were given to the world for all men to use in times of need. Now corrupted by greed they sought to use them for selfish gains.
The legends are numerous. One of his first stories comes from the western coasts. A massive ironwood forest grew there the trees thousands of years old. When the kingdom began to chop them down to build an even larger navy Mark traveled there. Hundreds of men used steel axes to slowly chop away at the ancient woods. It had stood for ages to protect the land keeping it from falling into the sea. The fools didn’t even realize what they did, but for coin they didn’t care. Men began to vanish. When found again they were mauled and their axes gone. One morning all the axes were discovered piled up in the center of the lumber camp and a man standing before them in a long cloak.
“You have one chance to leave this land.” He warned, but none took head.
A flame fell from the sky and the pile exploded with fire. The man vanished into the smoke as the fire spread and consumed the men and their camp. The Ironwoods ever strong stood while everything else burned.
Mark would always return to the wilds. The people there needed him as much as the world did beyond. He was sage and sentinel. A guardian for the people always there to help. He would wander the wilds tending to all his people Boreas’ shadow a blessing rather than an omen. Stories tell of him carrying herbs for all ailments, hunting monsters that plagued the people, and how he was larger than life.
None could ever capture Nature’s Arbiter. He plagued kings foolish enough to cross him. In time some accepted his presence and lived in begrudging harmony. Not all accepted the peace though. A cruel warlord came up with a plan to take the wilds and their great bounty for himself. He began to clear forests and dam rivers throughout the lands he ruled and this gained Mark’s attention. The arbiter spent months fighting in the the warlord’s lands. All the while in the north the warlord marched troops into the wilds. When Mark returned he found a grand castle city. The people of the wild were enslaved to work the land around it. Mark refused to let the castle stand. He called to his people and the beasts of the wilds. All sieged the city, but could not break it. It fell to Mark and Boreas alone. The two took to the skies and infiltrated the palace at the center and massacred the warlord’s forces. Soon he came face to face with the bloodthirsty monarch. The two did battle, but neither could take the upper hands. It would not be long before Mark was overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the warlord’s forces.
“You seek glory through blood. Then let me grant you the greatest memorial.”
Mark thrust his sword into the ground and summoned all the strength his god gave him. The hill upon which the castle was built shook violently. The stones began to crack and fire pour from them. The people of the wilds were safe outside of the city, but all who followed the warlord were trapped inside their impenetrable fort. The sky was black with smoke and all watched as fire poured out and filled the castle. Mark knelt before his sword knowing he had given his very life force to awaken the volcano. Boreas landed besides him and the two were sealed in ash their final vision that of the warlord burning with his empire. The volcano grew into a great mountain and is memorialized not to the warlord, but to Markiel. A man of nature and a man of the people. Hero to the humble, plague to the proud.
The wilds have never been the same life is dangerous up there and they find themselves pushed farther north to stay free from the other nations. None forget the arbiter. His presence is always seen in the open free lands, his voice heard in the calls of birds, and his hope in the hearts of all his kin.
A P P E A R A N C E
Mark stands at six foot three and maintains a posture like his trained owl leaning forward, but keeping his head up and scanning the area. Unlike his bird his amber eyes are kept as slits focused on one point rather than taking everything in. Mark’s face has particularly sharp features and a rather short bent down nose, possibly caused by a good punch to the face. Adorning his head is a mop of rich brown hair, which he puts into a ponytail when working and leaves be when not. Mark allows facial hair to grow around his chin, but does not maintain a mustache.
Mark is built decently well from his multiple career paths. Many a long day spent training his birds as a child gave a great endurance in running after them and an appreciation for being able to climb the trees they’d rest in. His right arm has a large number of scars and scratches on it from all the many birds who decided to test his arm guard’s thickness, as well as a few more from other incidents.
Mark wears rather plain clothes most of the time as he’s rarely ever the one to be in close quarters combat if any. Just a Dark brown tunic, pants, and boots. When he’s expecting combat to be involved he will don a simple set of studded leather with metal plates in key points. What you will almost always see Mark wearing is his falconry gear. Most obvious is the large leather glove on his right arm that extends past his elbow to supply enough area for Boreas’ talons. He keeps anything else he needs in either his satchel, or his bandoleer.
Boreas has a mostly white and gray plumage with his wing tips being the darkests and it fading to white as it gets closer to his center. Boreas is a semi-rare species of owl known as a White Rends Owl. They aren’t too uncommon, but live in the more remote areas of the north or atop mountains. They earned their name through their claws terrible ability to rend flesh of anything is pleases. Unlike normal owls who catch a lot of small prey the White Rend Owl is a big game hunter killing deer, caribou, and even moose. It will even take on wolves, cougars, and bears if it thinks it has a chance. With a ten foot wingspan and feet around the size of a human hand, not counting the four inch talons on each of its four toes per foot, the White Rends Owl is highly capable of surprising prey in the dark of night with eight deep incision to the back of the neck in an attempt to grab the spine and break it.
Another key evolution of the Rend owl is its ability to fly with wings only out half way. The massive wingspan allows much faster flight, but harms it’s maneuverability in tight quarters. To counter this the Owl has four joints in its wing instead of three. By holding the first section of its limb in it can use the other three like a normal bird would reducing its wingspan to about six foot. All of this is set on a body about the size of a three foot tall barrel. As strange as it seems though Boreas only weighs about twenty five pounds. A normal great horned is only about three for scale.
The Myths would have you believe Mark was a beast of a man able to push a tree over with a breath and breaking stones with one hand. Some even made him older and a sort of sage, but they couldn’t be farther from the truth. Boreas is sometimes exaggerated to be the size of a Roc, but again the owl is only about four feet tall. More often than not Mark is depicted as some mysterious man who would arrive from the woods and drive off the wicked before vanishing again.
A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
Mark is a master of hunters. He has hunted some of the greatest beasts using only his skill and partner. With this comes a great knowledge of monsters: how to fight them and what can be done with them afterwards being the core of his insight. Many of his belongings are trophies of his hunts.
Mark's main weapon is his falchion, Omega, a long black blade with the elegance of a sword and brute power of an axe. On occasion he has even used it with only one hand, but prefers to use both for the five foot blade. The weapon is his physical mark of fealty to the old god. A totem itself the sword is the best way he can channel his power.
He is trained with many kinds of bows and crossbows as well as knives, but he has not retained any. (He’ll probably pick some up as soon as he can).
Receiving the old god’s blessing gave him two main gifts. First was an extended life so that he could not die to the passing of time. This vitality has locked Mark into his prime keeping him as an apex predator among men.
The second was to control nature. Through rituals he can commune with nature and command it to his will. Each act has a ritual to scale with it. He can commune with beasts, especially birds, with almost no effort. At the same time he could command a tidal wave, but would require special totems and signs to cause such a thing. The greater the act the harder it is to cause, the rarer the ingredients needed, and the more energy it saps from Mark. As the conduit of the old gods power Mark must channel all the energy needed to cause these events. He can only hold oh so much safely. At great cost to himself, either horrible injury and pain up to death, he can call forth the power without rituals, but the only time used this was at his end when he caused the tremor that awoke the volcano under him.
A G E O F L E G E N D
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CLARENT
The Kingmaker
Knight Commander Coquelicot
Knight Commander Coquelicot
M Y T H O L O G Y
On the coming of the morrow
And as the dawning light catches in small places
I shall thank my Liege for my long and happy days.
Yet I see not the same Liege whose voice greets the sons of my sons.
For in grace and horror I had seen Him long decades ago
And lingers his strength revealed across my memory as I go towards the Well.
Over the mountains lie many things.
Some great and grand and wonders that call to young fools,
And I, principal among such in my youth,
Did but stray over the paths through the peaks of Sangfroid.
Haughty and proud but soon to find
The warnings upon the ancient maps were but true:
"Here there be dragons".
Over the mountains lie many things.
Some unhappy, broken, and rife with strife and war.
Under the gaze of the dark tower beyond wherein lie the Witches
Trespass many things that would soon end the life of a fool.
To me came chief of such fates as the ground 'round me shook,
As whispers of wind grew great,
And around me the pines rocked.
Great was Fafnir of the world beyond the mountains.
Terrible was the dragon lord, great among his kind,
Rumors of whom even found purchase in Ynys Mons fair.
How many walls had fallen in the lands over the hills,
Torn asunder at the shock of his tail?
How many creatures run through on his talons?
How many ripped asunder by the teeth tall and white?
As the dragon crested the pass I hid,
Sheltered shivering among the rocks, barely finding a place.
My hands across my mouth to muffle my breath
Less the scent of my fear catch in his muzzle,
Less I scream aloud as his claws crushed the rocks around me.
Sat I in dread as he stood over me unknowingly,
Looking down from the high rocks to Flanders beyond.
Hissed like acid did his drool and spit,
The rocks foaming as his hungry maw opened above me.
Panned his vast greedy eyes, alight, over the lands beyond,
And shook I with fear as he laughed.
Yet even his greed was not the end of what I was made to witness,
For even as I pulled deeper within the rocks he lifted himself,
And with a deafening roar summoned more horrors.
Seven sons had Fafnir, and seven sons came at his call.
Up they came, sliding over the rocks like vast serpents.
Soon they enveloped my place of hiding,
And my fear was consuming, and I dared scarce to breathe.
For though slight were they in stance under their sire,
Over each hung the same power,
And their eyes blazed with malice.
"My sons!" called the drake,
His voice like rumbling thunder far across distant hills,
"Tis' Ynys Mons below us, fair for the taking!
Their armies have burned,
And who fears the She-King?
Come, we go forth to take for our own
These fat lands, fit for the harvest."
New fears through me flew,
For I knew it t'was not fields of grain
Or apples shining in the summer sun,
Which they set their eyes upon as a harvest.
Nay, t'was not shining gem upon which they sought to slake their hunger
And shuddered I in fear for loved ones below,
And in horror at what awaited Ynys Mons fair.
About me they pawed at the rocks,
Their talons clawing away the layers of slate and shale
As though it were just grass upon the earth,
As they pondered the feast before them
And laughed in horrible pleasure.
Round about me pooled the acid, powerful vapor,
That dripped from hungry lips.
Yet, even as I shuddered in terror,
As I felt faint from the vapor,
I saw them lift their heads
And sniff at the air as does a hound
At a scent that floats upon the breeze.
So it was that the sons of Fafnir turned to him
And his head lifted in wonder at it.
"What could be so scented?"
Pondered aloud the beast, pawing at the earth,
Making rubble of the mountainside.
"D'jac, eldest of my scion," called Fafnir
"Make down these paths
And find what it is that catches as scent
And what it is that drifts about on the breeze."
So went the eldest of the sons
And as they waited they sat sunning themselves,
Laid out across the vast tables of rock
Until D'jac returned.
As he returned to them
His eyes thereon sat uncertainty,
Puzzlement was there cast.
"Father" spoke the eldest,
"There lies in these woods not far away a temople,
One of stone, yet overgrown with vine,
The rocks cast asunder.
There upon the hewn stones caught I the scent of that which approaches.
A flame burned within the halls, as if newly lit
And as such it seemed since long before my birth!"
From where I laid hidden,
Wrapped in worry and doubt,
I saw the dragon lord tilt his head
And long ponder these words.
"Sivek," called the drake,
"Most powerful of my scion,
Lift yourself and seek."
With that up rose Sivek,
Shrouded in power and might.
Down the mountain he crashed
Throwing trees before him,
Birds and beasts of the wood
Fleeing before him in fear for their lives
And in terror at his passing.
The dragons rolled there, scratching themselves
Ruining the rocks, shattering them as they awaited
The return of their brother and son.
As I waited in fear I heard his coming,
And did the dragons as well, for he bellowed
His pain carried on the air, reaching high,
And he fell among them wounded and bleeding.
"Father!" called Sivek, thrashing about,
the diamond spears deep in his leg and side,
"What approaches, it rises to this place not alone!
An army marches with it, can you not see the dust
That grows in the western sky?
Though I trampled, bit, and thundered
Had that army stood, and what comes on us now
Leads it such that we cast it not to fear but resolution!"
Listened then did I as Sivek pulled the spears from his wounds,
As he simpered and spoke of the men with cloaks of black.
Fafnir looked across his child unmoved,
"How is it you were undone by the Tuath?
By those who drink wine and and eat oat, those who sing and play?
"Jahken, most sly of my sons! Go now down this mountain,
Whisper until you find what rises against your kin!"
With that they sat and pulled at the spears,
Licked the wounds of their brother as he cursed
And promised that it was upon his teeth
That Ynys Mons would be broken.
Yet not long could he invoke such wrath
For returned did Jahken, wailing in pain
For he was less an eye.
"Father!" called the dragon that crashed to the earth,
Body tearing at the mountain as he flailed,
"Sly and clever have you named me,
yet what comes for us now
Is devious beyond any doubt!
For a trap was laid where the river enters these woods,
And as a fool I was ensnared, and an eye it has cost me!"
Rage was growing within the drake,
Fafnir, his face raw and twisting.
"How has my line come to this?
Where are my strong sons?
What has reduced my scion to wurms?
What has vexed them,
And made them as whelps that mewl and cry?"
With this I shuddered anew
And darkness itself draped o'er the rocks wherein I hid.
"Father," spoke a voice as a chorus of ghosts,
"Rhesk, I who over darkness and evil hang,
Let my blanket of loss float over the Tausi
And fear itself will fill them
And name that which vexes us."
With that he sent forth Rhesk
And as his sons licked their wounds
He paced, and watched I from my hidden place
As the old drake did crack the rocks in his talons
As though worry followed him.
Not long did the dragon lord go thusly
For a voice unfamiliar reached to him weakly.
"Father," called a voice small and beset,
And Fafnir let out a roar of disbelief.
His eyes stared over Rhesk,
The body trembling and shorn of darkness,
As forward came the broken form.
Aghast stood Fafnir, fighting to believe what he beheld,
His son thin and crushed.
"Cast I sheets of fear over them,"
Came the dragon's voice
As though spread thin over the stones of a river,
"Yet, no sooner had I done so than there was light
And in it was a presence
Of one devoted to their She-King
And I was undone, my darkness stolen on knives of light!"
Laughed then did Bomlas, arrogant and haughy.
Proud was this son of Fafnir, and he bowed to his brothers
And mockery was in it.
"Father, would my dear brothers consent to it,
I should be the one to end this menace.
For if fear, strength, and slyness shall not prevail
It is poisoned words that would make best the issue."
Off then went Bomlas, head held high,
And as the dragons awaited his return I looked on,
Watching in horror and awe as their slight motions shifted the river,
Even those wounded still wiping away with ease the ancient trees
As they rolled, moaned, and worked their wounds.
And there I saw rage tempered by concern and doubt
Living upon the face of the dragon lord.
With head held low came Bomlas
And the eyes of judgement were upon him.
"Father," came the dragon's voice, "I am beaten.
No sooner had I reached the edge of these woods
When I saw we were encircled
And though we can easily break an army
No force is there that could break that which assailed me."
"A voice echoed to me through the woods,
A million voices made of one,
And it spoke of giving its life
So the She-King would live.
It comes here, and before I could poison it with words
It laid me low, denounced me utterly in harsh speech.
It comes here, dreading not death if even one mortal to save."
"Return your craven tongue to within your disgraced head!"
Roared the father, crashing his claws across the face of his son.
"Lay here now your brothers, one less an eye,
One pierced through, another shorn and trembling.
Words beat you?
Are you not my son?
Lacon, my wise son, heed your sire and speak with me."
Now came another son of Fafnir,
One who had sat quietly pondering.
Though terrible and vast, there was in this one
Something of a thoughtful grace.
"Lacon," called the drake, "Wisest of my scion.
Go you now down the mountain
And find what you will."
Not long did Fafnir wait, for as the day grew bright
Returned to them did Lacon, and upon his face sat doubt
As deep and as powerful as the sea.
"Father, know I what has befallen us.
Though scarce can I believe what I have seen.
It must be made real to another, lest I know it true.
Send forth my brother Hylon, that he may see it too.
Now came the smallest of the seven sons,
One not so imposing, and Lacon whispered to him,
Yet from my sheltered place I did hear.
"Sit quietly and speak not. Listen and soon you will know."
Softly and uncertainly from the mountain went Hylon
And his brothers did wonder at it.
Yet Lacon spoke not and Fafnir fumed and paced.
As the day moved on my body grew weak.
Cramped was I in my earthen shelter
And yet even though I sat high above them on the mountain,
Still did the vapors of the dragons reach me
And filled me with dread whenever one would cast his gaze over the pass.
I sat there in fear, and knowing no aid would find me.
Yet my deliverance drew near.
Returned then did Hylon, his eyes wide in amazement.
"Lacon," he asked his brother in awestruck tone,
"Was it a Man that revealed himself to you?
Was it a Man in robe of black,
His words sweet and his promise sincere?"
"This is what I saw," answered the wisest,
"And in his such magic flows that ne'er I have seen."
Nearly called out did I in joy, yet I stifled my hope
As harsh eyes drew up their ire.
Began then a rumbling laugh,
One that seemed born of thunder across young mountains.
Yet not long did it last,
For soon he was berating them,
Shaming his sons.
"One Man has done all of this to my scion?
One Man hath made them crawl as wurms?
And why should this be so?
I know of the Kingmaker, and yet I know too what has been lost!
Where is his youth, in which he slew Grael?
Even now the snow creeps upon his flower.
Were you too enchanted by the pretty stones he carries?
Did he kneel and bartered, my sons, to draw you down?"
"Father," spoke Lacon, wisest of the sons,
"Doubt not that in the Man there still rests power.
The Man is the Word, the Land, the Castle.
He will suffer us not and we are already undone."
"We may go to the East!" called Hylon,
"This he promised me as I lay among the ferns,
let us make that our path, and peace here may lay."
"What has become of my sons?
Where are the dragons who laid out kingdoms?
Where are my scion who bathed continents in flame?
Come, rise! One Man shall not keep us from this land
And the mortals below will learn fear.
I am Fafnir! What can long stand against these teeth?
Who would try to stand before my scion and I?"
With that the light did draw down,
And as a Man slid down the broken shale
Rising to reveal a form of grace
And beauty in the very midst of the dragon and his kin.
Reeled did they the seven sons of Fafnir, yet stood he firm
And gazed did the dragon into the eyes of the one there revealed,
He staring back at the dragon lord from beyond ages.
"I am Clarent of Coquelicot, and this is Ynys Mons over which I reign,"
Came the voice of my prince, beautiful and terrifying at once.
Not had I heard it so in my young life,
And I pulled myself deeper into my hidden place in fear of it.
"Your sons have one and all known my presence,
Fafnir of the land beyond the Tear,
And each has felt my judgment and promise."
"Speak not to me so proudly, Kingmaker,"
Laughed the drake as he eyed him
"For I know many things.
Where are your knights?
Dare you face us alone?
How do you expect your She-King to keep her realm
When seven sons have I to make my claim?"
"Seven sons have you Fafnir,"
Came the voice of the sovereign,
"Yet only five stand near.
And as many sons as you may have
It matters not in the reckoning.
For you may have fathered sons
Yet mine is not the line
That will end upon the sunrise.
"Father!" called Lacon and Hylon,
"Listen to the words he speaks,
There is a power in this man,
One beyond us all to overcome!
He has made to us a promise,
To go to the East in peace,
Let us go now there and drop our claim!"
"Blood traitors!" called the drake,
His voice shaking the mountain,
"No sons of mine are you,
Who are so scared by a single Man!
Come, those of you who would still be my sons!
Rise, rise against the mortal here standing!
Rise, rise, now is the time to cast him down!"
At that rose the five sons,
Each looking to avenge their loss upon the man.
Darted they at he, slashed with claw,
Bit with tooth, whipped with tail.
Yet none could land a blow upon him.
Fire they spilled in long whipping cords,
Yet the sovereign slipped their wrath.
Fafnir, the great vast drake himself,
Nearly caught him, made him flash and slide,
His dark eyes coming alight at the thought of a kill,
Of divine meat across his lips.
Great was my fear for him as the drake spoke,
"Powerful are you Clarent,
Yet I know that the flower is wilting."
With small smirk
And smile upon his face
Did the Prince of Coquelicot
Flash among them,
Spoiling their motions.
With a laugh did he take to the air
And erupt as brilliant daggers.
"Do you think yourselves even half the might of those heathen devils,
From whom I wrested back our people?
Do you think yourselves even half in power and magic
As the Witches, mother and daughters, who now sleep in deathly sleep
In their towers over these mountains?
Dare you name yourself as better of your Brother
That lively wretch, Grael, yet now fallen, whom I slew?"
With that came a rumbling roar from Fafnir
One both horrible
Yet something less than what had been heard before.
"Gather to me, my sons!
The man doubts our strength?
Shall we light now our own deep and powerful magic?
Let our fires coalesce, and let it flow forth and steal out his sly tongue!"
With that Clarent was surrounded
And they growled and sought him with fierce eyes.
At once their eyes alit with light of pale grey
And from within their gaping maws,
Where stood teeth tall and horrible as stands of swords,
Flowed dark fire that did wrap and twist
Until as orbs of unholy flame it sat waiting to steal his life.
Move did I to cry to him, beg him to flee.
Yet within a moment that which has sat in my eyes ever after was revealed.
It was then that my Lord dropped his pretense of flesh
And rose the Monile in white torrent of flame.
A horrible light was in his eyes,
Light glittering from the sovereign as ten thousand spears falling to the earth
Or erupting in crackling arcs high into the skies.
Wavered did the sons of Fafnir,
And turned they to his might.
Yet he brought forth the magic within,
And with that they joined him in his assault.
Set they the pale light upon the sovereign,
Seeking his destruction and death,
And I feared for Him as it rose into the darkened skies.
Then erupted magic from the sovereign,
Great waves of it that shuddered and shook the mountain,
Threatened to collapse the sheltered place where I had but hidden.
Became he so brilliant that no longer could I look upon him,
And his voice filled the valley that the river had cut over ages,
Where the dragons looked up in amazement
And it was as though the voice radiated from him, unspoken.
"Oh, you fools!" came the voice of the sovereign,
Flying from within the prism,
"Know you not from which my power flows,
That which gives me my very name?
Know this now and despair,
And Death claim you in this moment,
For who should slay a dragon but a Knight?"
With that did the power of mountain erupted
Cascading as a stream through rapids, pouring as a waterfall
Over the valley, mountain, and river below.
Reflected was the magic of the dragons,
Returning back to them, yet greater by multitudes
And fear was in their eyes as the fire crushed them,
As his light weighed down upon them.
Oh, that I should never see such a sight again!
As the sons of Fafnir were overwhelmed
Their jaws creaked and were peeled back.
The flesh of their faces torn away,
Their eyes made as water and streaming down their faces.
Not long enough did they live to scream,
Merciful in that regard was the judgement of the Monile.
Yet still stood did Fafnir,
His magic greater than that of his sons.
Yet even he could not long stand in the face of the Kingmaker.
And he wavered and was cast down in ruin
As the very mountainside began to become molten
As the rocks glowed red and my place of hiding
Became as an oven.
"Sovereign, Majesty!" called I, lifting my voice
From where I had hidden all of that long day.
"One of your Acolytes lies here,
Awash with fear and in hiding!
I beg you, withdraw your judgement,
Less I too should be killed,
Overcome by my sovereign's might!"
At once the light lifted, and once again
Clarent of ancient face and fatherly countenance was there,
Looking to where I had beseeched him.
Yet at once did Fafnir call out to him,
Heaving in pain and wincing with each breath.
Defeated was the dragon lord, his flesh charred,
The scales flaking away, the limbs shriveled.
Slowly he lowered himself to the bowl of the mountain,
Where the fire river now hissed and steamed across the boiled rocks.
And as the earth hardened as he danced upon it
Came he before Fafnir, his enemy and that of his people,
And listened as he fought to speak.
"Do any of my sons live," asked the drake through stammers of grief,
"Do any of my scion still walk, do I still have a line?"
"The two whom you cast aside sit nearby," he spoke,
"Weeping for their father and brothers."
"Lacon! Hylon! Wisest and fairest of my sons!" called the drake,
Pain racing through him as his lips bled and he pawed at the earth,
"Go to the East! Wiser and humbler than your father are you,
For you knew what I would not hear, which I refused to believe,
You now are all that remains of my line, for your father dies here."
As I lifted myself from my shelter I watched
As the dragon lord lay dying,
As his charred flesh cracked and flowed from him his blood.
"Knew these things," he spoke softly as his eyes watered,
"From the lips of my kin, that all the Knights,
And my Brothers, and more foes,
Had you felled in times now long passed."
"As a whelp I mocked them in silence,
How could a Man, a prince who knelt before a She-King,
And cast aside steel and armor for stones
Cause such fear in vast great dragon lords of old?
When word came over the mountains
That the Knight Morgant had been killed
And we saw him as the Bane of our kind
I thought you reduced by half, and Ynys Mons mine for the taking."
"Here now I lay, a broken lord,
And before me a horror I'd spare any father,
Is before me laid bare and open.
My sons. My sons! Dead they are, and twisted in death,
Burnt by the earth itself!
Would you not tell me, I beg,
Clarent, how it is that you are still so strong?"
"Oh Fafnir," spoke my sovereign softly,
"Not you, your sons, or your Brother,
Whom I slew in equal combat
When the War of the Seven reached an end,
In pain and loss are equal to Man and Drake
In these long years much has changed,
And the Flower has wilted."
"You can not know what I have suffered,
What I would suffer still,
To give my little grandchildren who are dear to me,
Even a day without fear and pain.
You can know not what I've been made to do,
Yet my strength is now lost, and flows my magic vexed.
And 'tis not only my heart torn in twain at my enemy's fall."
"I am a fool," said he as the pain grew in him,
As his body trembled, rocked with the hurts that multiplied,
"The victory is yours, and I ask your favor,
Send me to be with my sons,
Sooner now than later, if that mercy you would grant.
For Regent is named both your sword and your throne,
And the heart of a dragon lord easily can it pierce."
"This I will grant you," spoke Clarent as he rolled to his side,
And as Fafnir wept, both from his pain and the loss of his scion,
Did my prince lay one small kiss upon his head
And place a shard of Regent to his chest.
With one heave, one push
Did the stone slide betwixt scale and flesh and deep within
And quell the fire that burned within
And there on the mountainside died the dragon lord.
Noble form dressed in the blood of their kin,
Turned He to Lacon and Hylon who wept nearby.
Bowed they in fear of his might and caught in his beauty,
And with his blessing he dismissed them.
Promised they not to eat of Man,
And to their word they must have held true,
For not again in my life have I heard their names whispered.
Stood I on that high place,
Looking across the ruins of the mountain,
The great bowl carved there by dragon claw and dragon's fire.
Yet it was the one radiant Man that stood there among the litter
And ruin of his foes
That put the most fear in me, made me tremble,
As he lifted his hand to me, calling me to him.
Laid his head across me did, my Liege
Made soft sounds of reassurance as a father would,
The mountain crashed around us, drove down the ruins.
He bade me flee, and bequethed the Shards of Regent
His magesty and words lifted me above the mountain, drew out my fear,
As the bodies of the dragon lord and his scion were entombed,
Laid beneath the crushed mountain, and the river flowed over the place,
And with a whisper of magic did crash the waters o'er the graves.
To the home of my father I returned
And scarce would any of my family believe my words.
Yet I would not retract them,
And a great bowl filled as a clear lake in the mountains beyond
The shimmering shards of my Liege
Prove these words true.
For in all the years since that day
Has no Knight, as true as Clarent
Guarded the throne of Coquelicot
And as the dawning light catches in small places
I shall thank my Liege for my long and happy days.
Yet I see not the same Liege whose voice greets the sons of my sons.
For in grace and horror I had seen Him long decades ago
And lingers his strength revealed across my memory as I go towards the Well.
Over the mountains lie many things.
Some great and grand and wonders that call to young fools,
And I, principal among such in my youth,
Did but stray over the paths through the peaks of Sangfroid.
Haughty and proud but soon to find
The warnings upon the ancient maps were but true:
"Here there be dragons".
Over the mountains lie many things.
Some unhappy, broken, and rife with strife and war.
Under the gaze of the dark tower beyond wherein lie the Witches
Trespass many things that would soon end the life of a fool.
To me came chief of such fates as the ground 'round me shook,
As whispers of wind grew great,
And around me the pines rocked.
Great was Fafnir of the world beyond the mountains.
Terrible was the dragon lord, great among his kind,
Rumors of whom even found purchase in Ynys Mons fair.
How many walls had fallen in the lands over the hills,
Torn asunder at the shock of his tail?
How many creatures run through on his talons?
How many ripped asunder by the teeth tall and white?
As the dragon crested the pass I hid,
Sheltered shivering among the rocks, barely finding a place.
My hands across my mouth to muffle my breath
Less the scent of my fear catch in his muzzle,
Less I scream aloud as his claws crushed the rocks around me.
Sat I in dread as he stood over me unknowingly,
Looking down from the high rocks to Flanders beyond.
Hissed like acid did his drool and spit,
The rocks foaming as his hungry maw opened above me.
Panned his vast greedy eyes, alight, over the lands beyond,
And shook I with fear as he laughed.
Yet even his greed was not the end of what I was made to witness,
For even as I pulled deeper within the rocks he lifted himself,
And with a deafening roar summoned more horrors.
Seven sons had Fafnir, and seven sons came at his call.
Up they came, sliding over the rocks like vast serpents.
Soon they enveloped my place of hiding,
And my fear was consuming, and I dared scarce to breathe.
For though slight were they in stance under their sire,
Over each hung the same power,
And their eyes blazed with malice.
"My sons!" called the drake,
His voice like rumbling thunder far across distant hills,
"Tis' Ynys Mons below us, fair for the taking!
Their armies have burned,
And who fears the She-King?
Come, we go forth to take for our own
These fat lands, fit for the harvest."
New fears through me flew,
For I knew it t'was not fields of grain
Or apples shining in the summer sun,
Which they set their eyes upon as a harvest.
Nay, t'was not shining gem upon which they sought to slake their hunger
And shuddered I in fear for loved ones below,
And in horror at what awaited Ynys Mons fair.
About me they pawed at the rocks,
Their talons clawing away the layers of slate and shale
As though it were just grass upon the earth,
As they pondered the feast before them
And laughed in horrible pleasure.
Round about me pooled the acid, powerful vapor,
That dripped from hungry lips.
Yet, even as I shuddered in terror,
As I felt faint from the vapor,
I saw them lift their heads
And sniff at the air as does a hound
At a scent that floats upon the breeze.
So it was that the sons of Fafnir turned to him
And his head lifted in wonder at it.
"What could be so scented?"
Pondered aloud the beast, pawing at the earth,
Making rubble of the mountainside.
"D'jac, eldest of my scion," called Fafnir
"Make down these paths
And find what it is that catches as scent
And what it is that drifts about on the breeze."
So went the eldest of the sons
And as they waited they sat sunning themselves,
Laid out across the vast tables of rock
Until D'jac returned.
As he returned to them
His eyes thereon sat uncertainty,
Puzzlement was there cast.
"Father" spoke the eldest,
"There lies in these woods not far away a temople,
One of stone, yet overgrown with vine,
The rocks cast asunder.
There upon the hewn stones caught I the scent of that which approaches.
A flame burned within the halls, as if newly lit
And as such it seemed since long before my birth!"
From where I laid hidden,
Wrapped in worry and doubt,
I saw the dragon lord tilt his head
And long ponder these words.
"Sivek," called the drake,
"Most powerful of my scion,
Lift yourself and seek."
With that up rose Sivek,
Shrouded in power and might.
Down the mountain he crashed
Throwing trees before him,
Birds and beasts of the wood
Fleeing before him in fear for their lives
And in terror at his passing.
The dragons rolled there, scratching themselves
Ruining the rocks, shattering them as they awaited
The return of their brother and son.
As I waited in fear I heard his coming,
And did the dragons as well, for he bellowed
His pain carried on the air, reaching high,
And he fell among them wounded and bleeding.
"Father!" called Sivek, thrashing about,
the diamond spears deep in his leg and side,
"What approaches, it rises to this place not alone!
An army marches with it, can you not see the dust
That grows in the western sky?
Though I trampled, bit, and thundered
Had that army stood, and what comes on us now
Leads it such that we cast it not to fear but resolution!"
Listened then did I as Sivek pulled the spears from his wounds,
As he simpered and spoke of the men with cloaks of black.
Fafnir looked across his child unmoved,
"How is it you were undone by the Tuath?
By those who drink wine and and eat oat, those who sing and play?
"Jahken, most sly of my sons! Go now down this mountain,
Whisper until you find what rises against your kin!"
With that they sat and pulled at the spears,
Licked the wounds of their brother as he cursed
And promised that it was upon his teeth
That Ynys Mons would be broken.
Yet not long could he invoke such wrath
For returned did Jahken, wailing in pain
For he was less an eye.
"Father!" called the dragon that crashed to the earth,
Body tearing at the mountain as he flailed,
"Sly and clever have you named me,
yet what comes for us now
Is devious beyond any doubt!
For a trap was laid where the river enters these woods,
And as a fool I was ensnared, and an eye it has cost me!"
Rage was growing within the drake,
Fafnir, his face raw and twisting.
"How has my line come to this?
Where are my strong sons?
What has reduced my scion to wurms?
What has vexed them,
And made them as whelps that mewl and cry?"
With this I shuddered anew
And darkness itself draped o'er the rocks wherein I hid.
"Father," spoke a voice as a chorus of ghosts,
"Rhesk, I who over darkness and evil hang,
Let my blanket of loss float over the Tausi
And fear itself will fill them
And name that which vexes us."
With that he sent forth Rhesk
And as his sons licked their wounds
He paced, and watched I from my hidden place
As the old drake did crack the rocks in his talons
As though worry followed him.
Not long did the dragon lord go thusly
For a voice unfamiliar reached to him weakly.
"Father," called a voice small and beset,
And Fafnir let out a roar of disbelief.
His eyes stared over Rhesk,
The body trembling and shorn of darkness,
As forward came the broken form.
Aghast stood Fafnir, fighting to believe what he beheld,
His son thin and crushed.
"Cast I sheets of fear over them,"
Came the dragon's voice
As though spread thin over the stones of a river,
"Yet, no sooner had I done so than there was light
And in it was a presence
Of one devoted to their She-King
And I was undone, my darkness stolen on knives of light!"
Laughed then did Bomlas, arrogant and haughy.
Proud was this son of Fafnir, and he bowed to his brothers
And mockery was in it.
"Father, would my dear brothers consent to it,
I should be the one to end this menace.
For if fear, strength, and slyness shall not prevail
It is poisoned words that would make best the issue."
Off then went Bomlas, head held high,
And as the dragons awaited his return I looked on,
Watching in horror and awe as their slight motions shifted the river,
Even those wounded still wiping away with ease the ancient trees
As they rolled, moaned, and worked their wounds.
And there I saw rage tempered by concern and doubt
Living upon the face of the dragon lord.
With head held low came Bomlas
And the eyes of judgement were upon him.
"Father," came the dragon's voice, "I am beaten.
No sooner had I reached the edge of these woods
When I saw we were encircled
And though we can easily break an army
No force is there that could break that which assailed me."
"A voice echoed to me through the woods,
A million voices made of one,
And it spoke of giving its life
So the She-King would live.
It comes here, and before I could poison it with words
It laid me low, denounced me utterly in harsh speech.
It comes here, dreading not death if even one mortal to save."
"Return your craven tongue to within your disgraced head!"
Roared the father, crashing his claws across the face of his son.
"Lay here now your brothers, one less an eye,
One pierced through, another shorn and trembling.
Words beat you?
Are you not my son?
Lacon, my wise son, heed your sire and speak with me."
Now came another son of Fafnir,
One who had sat quietly pondering.
Though terrible and vast, there was in this one
Something of a thoughtful grace.
"Lacon," called the drake, "Wisest of my scion.
Go you now down the mountain
And find what you will."
Not long did Fafnir wait, for as the day grew bright
Returned to them did Lacon, and upon his face sat doubt
As deep and as powerful as the sea.
"Father, know I what has befallen us.
Though scarce can I believe what I have seen.
It must be made real to another, lest I know it true.
Send forth my brother Hylon, that he may see it too.
Now came the smallest of the seven sons,
One not so imposing, and Lacon whispered to him,
Yet from my sheltered place I did hear.
"Sit quietly and speak not. Listen and soon you will know."
Softly and uncertainly from the mountain went Hylon
And his brothers did wonder at it.
Yet Lacon spoke not and Fafnir fumed and paced.
As the day moved on my body grew weak.
Cramped was I in my earthen shelter
And yet even though I sat high above them on the mountain,
Still did the vapors of the dragons reach me
And filled me with dread whenever one would cast his gaze over the pass.
I sat there in fear, and knowing no aid would find me.
Yet my deliverance drew near.
Returned then did Hylon, his eyes wide in amazement.
"Lacon," he asked his brother in awestruck tone,
"Was it a Man that revealed himself to you?
Was it a Man in robe of black,
His words sweet and his promise sincere?"
"This is what I saw," answered the wisest,
"And in his such magic flows that ne'er I have seen."
Nearly called out did I in joy, yet I stifled my hope
As harsh eyes drew up their ire.
Began then a rumbling laugh,
One that seemed born of thunder across young mountains.
Yet not long did it last,
For soon he was berating them,
Shaming his sons.
"One Man has done all of this to my scion?
One Man hath made them crawl as wurms?
And why should this be so?
I know of the Kingmaker, and yet I know too what has been lost!
Where is his youth, in which he slew Grael?
Even now the snow creeps upon his flower.
Were you too enchanted by the pretty stones he carries?
Did he kneel and bartered, my sons, to draw you down?"
"Father," spoke Lacon, wisest of the sons,
"Doubt not that in the Man there still rests power.
The Man is the Word, the Land, the Castle.
He will suffer us not and we are already undone."
"We may go to the East!" called Hylon,
"This he promised me as I lay among the ferns,
let us make that our path, and peace here may lay."
"What has become of my sons?
Where are the dragons who laid out kingdoms?
Where are my scion who bathed continents in flame?
Come, rise! One Man shall not keep us from this land
And the mortals below will learn fear.
I am Fafnir! What can long stand against these teeth?
Who would try to stand before my scion and I?"
With that the light did draw down,
And as a Man slid down the broken shale
Rising to reveal a form of grace
And beauty in the very midst of the dragon and his kin.
Reeled did they the seven sons of Fafnir, yet stood he firm
And gazed did the dragon into the eyes of the one there revealed,
He staring back at the dragon lord from beyond ages.
"I am Clarent of Coquelicot, and this is Ynys Mons over which I reign,"
Came the voice of my prince, beautiful and terrifying at once.
Not had I heard it so in my young life,
And I pulled myself deeper into my hidden place in fear of it.
"Your sons have one and all known my presence,
Fafnir of the land beyond the Tear,
And each has felt my judgment and promise."
"Speak not to me so proudly, Kingmaker,"
Laughed the drake as he eyed him
"For I know many things.
Where are your knights?
Dare you face us alone?
How do you expect your She-King to keep her realm
When seven sons have I to make my claim?"
"Seven sons have you Fafnir,"
Came the voice of the sovereign,
"Yet only five stand near.
And as many sons as you may have
It matters not in the reckoning.
For you may have fathered sons
Yet mine is not the line
That will end upon the sunrise.
"Father!" called Lacon and Hylon,
"Listen to the words he speaks,
There is a power in this man,
One beyond us all to overcome!
He has made to us a promise,
To go to the East in peace,
Let us go now there and drop our claim!"
"Blood traitors!" called the drake,
His voice shaking the mountain,
"No sons of mine are you,
Who are so scared by a single Man!
Come, those of you who would still be my sons!
Rise, rise against the mortal here standing!
Rise, rise, now is the time to cast him down!"
At that rose the five sons,
Each looking to avenge their loss upon the man.
Darted they at he, slashed with claw,
Bit with tooth, whipped with tail.
Yet none could land a blow upon him.
Fire they spilled in long whipping cords,
Yet the sovereign slipped their wrath.
Fafnir, the great vast drake himself,
Nearly caught him, made him flash and slide,
His dark eyes coming alight at the thought of a kill,
Of divine meat across his lips.
Great was my fear for him as the drake spoke,
"Powerful are you Clarent,
Yet I know that the flower is wilting."
With small smirk
And smile upon his face
Did the Prince of Coquelicot
Flash among them,
Spoiling their motions.
With a laugh did he take to the air
And erupt as brilliant daggers.
"Do you think yourselves even half the might of those heathen devils,
From whom I wrested back our people?
Do you think yourselves even half in power and magic
As the Witches, mother and daughters, who now sleep in deathly sleep
In their towers over these mountains?
Dare you name yourself as better of your Brother
That lively wretch, Grael, yet now fallen, whom I slew?"
With that came a rumbling roar from Fafnir
One both horrible
Yet something less than what had been heard before.
"Gather to me, my sons!
The man doubts our strength?
Shall we light now our own deep and powerful magic?
Let our fires coalesce, and let it flow forth and steal out his sly tongue!"
With that Clarent was surrounded
And they growled and sought him with fierce eyes.
At once their eyes alit with light of pale grey
And from within their gaping maws,
Where stood teeth tall and horrible as stands of swords,
Flowed dark fire that did wrap and twist
Until as orbs of unholy flame it sat waiting to steal his life.
Move did I to cry to him, beg him to flee.
Yet within a moment that which has sat in my eyes ever after was revealed.
It was then that my Lord dropped his pretense of flesh
And rose the Monile in white torrent of flame.
A horrible light was in his eyes,
Light glittering from the sovereign as ten thousand spears falling to the earth
Or erupting in crackling arcs high into the skies.
Wavered did the sons of Fafnir,
And turned they to his might.
Yet he brought forth the magic within,
And with that they joined him in his assault.
Set they the pale light upon the sovereign,
Seeking his destruction and death,
And I feared for Him as it rose into the darkened skies.
Then erupted magic from the sovereign,
Great waves of it that shuddered and shook the mountain,
Threatened to collapse the sheltered place where I had but hidden.
Became he so brilliant that no longer could I look upon him,
And his voice filled the valley that the river had cut over ages,
Where the dragons looked up in amazement
And it was as though the voice radiated from him, unspoken.
"Oh, you fools!" came the voice of the sovereign,
Flying from within the prism,
"Know you not from which my power flows,
That which gives me my very name?
Know this now and despair,
And Death claim you in this moment,
For who should slay a dragon but a Knight?"
With that did the power of mountain erupted
Cascading as a stream through rapids, pouring as a waterfall
Over the valley, mountain, and river below.
Reflected was the magic of the dragons,
Returning back to them, yet greater by multitudes
And fear was in their eyes as the fire crushed them,
As his light weighed down upon them.
Oh, that I should never see such a sight again!
As the sons of Fafnir were overwhelmed
Their jaws creaked and were peeled back.
The flesh of their faces torn away,
Their eyes made as water and streaming down their faces.
Not long enough did they live to scream,
Merciful in that regard was the judgement of the Monile.
Yet still stood did Fafnir,
His magic greater than that of his sons.
Yet even he could not long stand in the face of the Kingmaker.
And he wavered and was cast down in ruin
As the very mountainside began to become molten
As the rocks glowed red and my place of hiding
Became as an oven.
"Sovereign, Majesty!" called I, lifting my voice
From where I had hidden all of that long day.
"One of your Acolytes lies here,
Awash with fear and in hiding!
I beg you, withdraw your judgement,
Less I too should be killed,
Overcome by my sovereign's might!"
At once the light lifted, and once again
Clarent of ancient face and fatherly countenance was there,
Looking to where I had beseeched him.
Yet at once did Fafnir call out to him,
Heaving in pain and wincing with each breath.
Defeated was the dragon lord, his flesh charred,
The scales flaking away, the limbs shriveled.
Slowly he lowered himself to the bowl of the mountain,
Where the fire river now hissed and steamed across the boiled rocks.
And as the earth hardened as he danced upon it
Came he before Fafnir, his enemy and that of his people,
And listened as he fought to speak.
"Do any of my sons live," asked the drake through stammers of grief,
"Do any of my scion still walk, do I still have a line?"
"The two whom you cast aside sit nearby," he spoke,
"Weeping for their father and brothers."
"Lacon! Hylon! Wisest and fairest of my sons!" called the drake,
Pain racing through him as his lips bled and he pawed at the earth,
"Go to the East! Wiser and humbler than your father are you,
For you knew what I would not hear, which I refused to believe,
You now are all that remains of my line, for your father dies here."
As I lifted myself from my shelter I watched
As the dragon lord lay dying,
As his charred flesh cracked and flowed from him his blood.
"Knew these things," he spoke softly as his eyes watered,
"From the lips of my kin, that all the Knights,
And my Brothers, and more foes,
Had you felled in times now long passed."
"As a whelp I mocked them in silence,
How could a Man, a prince who knelt before a She-King,
And cast aside steel and armor for stones
Cause such fear in vast great dragon lords of old?
When word came over the mountains
That the Knight Morgant had been killed
And we saw him as the Bane of our kind
I thought you reduced by half, and Ynys Mons mine for the taking."
"Here now I lay, a broken lord,
And before me a horror I'd spare any father,
Is before me laid bare and open.
My sons. My sons! Dead they are, and twisted in death,
Burnt by the earth itself!
Would you not tell me, I beg,
Clarent, how it is that you are still so strong?"
"Oh Fafnir," spoke my sovereign softly,
"Not you, your sons, or your Brother,
Whom I slew in equal combat
When the War of the Seven reached an end,
In pain and loss are equal to Man and Drake
In these long years much has changed,
And the Flower has wilted."
"You can not know what I have suffered,
What I would suffer still,
To give my little grandchildren who are dear to me,
Even a day without fear and pain.
You can know not what I've been made to do,
Yet my strength is now lost, and flows my magic vexed.
And 'tis not only my heart torn in twain at my enemy's fall."
"I am a fool," said he as the pain grew in him,
As his body trembled, rocked with the hurts that multiplied,
"The victory is yours, and I ask your favor,
Send me to be with my sons,
Sooner now than later, if that mercy you would grant.
For Regent is named both your sword and your throne,
And the heart of a dragon lord easily can it pierce."
"This I will grant you," spoke Clarent as he rolled to his side,
And as Fafnir wept, both from his pain and the loss of his scion,
Did my prince lay one small kiss upon his head
And place a shard of Regent to his chest.
With one heave, one push
Did the stone slide betwixt scale and flesh and deep within
And quell the fire that burned within
And there on the mountainside died the dragon lord.
Noble form dressed in the blood of their kin,
Turned He to Lacon and Hylon who wept nearby.
Bowed they in fear of his might and caught in his beauty,
And with his blessing he dismissed them.
Promised they not to eat of Man,
And to their word they must have held true,
For not again in my life have I heard their names whispered.
Stood I on that high place,
Looking across the ruins of the mountain,
The great bowl carved there by dragon claw and dragon's fire.
Yet it was the one radiant Man that stood there among the litter
And ruin of his foes
That put the most fear in me, made me tremble,
As he lifted his hand to me, calling me to him.
Laid his head across me did, my Liege
Made soft sounds of reassurance as a father would,
The mountain crashed around us, drove down the ruins.
He bade me flee, and bequethed the Shards of Regent
His magesty and words lifted me above the mountain, drew out my fear,
As the bodies of the dragon lord and his scion were entombed,
Laid beneath the crushed mountain, and the river flowed over the place,
And with a whisper of magic did crash the waters o'er the graves.
To the home of my father I returned
And scarce would any of my family believe my words.
Yet I would not retract them,
And a great bowl filled as a clear lake in the mountains beyond
The shimmering shards of my Liege
Prove these words true.
For in all the years since that day
Has no Knight, as true as Clarent
Guarded the throne of Coquelicot
Clarent was powerful.
He sat in the center of the orphanage’s main hall, bathed in the light of his newly awakened magic. Around him orbited several dozen books. He had one of them open and was reading all about bladecasting when they came to collect him.
Two guards, lightly armored and bearing a red poppy crest, strode into the room. Between them was a tight faced man with a weathered face, garbed in fine clothes. Clarent had never seen an noble before. He recognized the symbol well, however. “You’re King Solom,” he said.
Solom regarded him for only a moment, his face expressionless. “Kneel,” he said at last.
Clarent considered his words. “Why should I?” he said. “If you’re here to execute me, I die if I kneel and I die if I don’t. If you’ve decided to conscript me, then will my bad manners really change your mind?”
Again, the king’s face did not betray his thoughts. “Leave us,” he said.
Nobody spoke. The matron as well as Solom’s guards both left immediately. The King continued to regard Clarent with his cold stare, and Clarent began to feel like a child for the first time in years. Suddenly, sitting in the center of the room seemed silly.
"Clarent,” Solom said. “You killed a boy.”
“He wasn’t a boy,” Clarent said. “He was older than me.”
“He was a boy, and you are a boy. Children both. You will tell me why he is dead.”
Clarent was amazed at how Solom could make such a deep and rich voice sound bland and lifeless. “He tried to kill me,” she said, “so I stabbed him in the neck with a rock.”
“You killed him with magic.”
“I did,” Clarent said. “He survived when I stabbed him in the neck, but I broke his voice somehow. When he came back to the orphanage, he tried to kill me again. He was choking me in the kitchens and I couldn’t stop him this time. And then I felt all warm inside, and suddenly I felt all good.”
Solom nodded. “An awakening.”
“He backed away,” Clarent said. “But I knew that he’d try again. He’d come for me in my sleep or stab me with a knife. So I grabbed him with my magic,” he said, remembering. “I pulled him in all different directions. He came apart.” There had been blood everywhere.
“Yes, Clarent, you broke it. You are an extremely special young boy.”
“Valuable,” Clarent said. Solom cocked her head. “I’m valuable. You want me to fight in your army. And if I don’t you’re going to kill me. That’s why you’re here.”
Solom began to step closer. “Essentially, yes. Magical talents are extremely valuable, and you are the most valuable magical talent. I had come here prepared to appeal to you as an orphan. I was going to tell you that everything would be okay and that I was going to care for you now. I had intended to make you feel wanted and to offer you a home.”
Clarent swallowed. “You aren’t?”
“I am,” Solom said. “But now that I have met you, I see that I can make what you will find to be a far more compelling offer, one even more true. It was in the way you refused to kneel, the way you sit before a king instead of rise, the way you described killing the boy. This will make you less inclined to rebel.”
He stepped inside Clarent’s bubble of books and leaned down. “Power, Clarent. If you come with me, become my servant, and do exactly as I say, you will become the strongest mortal man to have ever lived. I will teach you to kill your enemies, and you will make my enemies yours. You will never want for food, shelter, or attention, and you will be respected by your allies and feared by your rivals.”
Clarent looked up at him. The offer wasn’t something he had to think about. “I accept,” he said. “But I have a question.”
“Refer to me as ‘Your Highness’.”
“I have one question, Your Highness.”
Solom nodded in approval. “Ask.”
“You weren’t clear. Is this a conscription, or an adoption?”
“Name?” One of the guards asked.
“My name is Lucille,” she said. “I’d like to speak with Major Comol.”
The guard looked her over. Lucille wore no uniform, instead preferring a deep crimson gown. “No,” he said.
“I urge you to reconsider your response,” Lucille said. “I’m very important, you see.”
“What I see,” the guard said. “Is a rankless child attempting to interrupt an important meeting being held by the acting head of the army. Get out of here.”
Lucille turned her head towards down the hall. “Clarent!” she called out.
Clarent had been speaking with a soldier of the army. He appeared to excuse himself from the conversation before striding towards Lucille and the guard.
“Get us in,” Lucille said to him.
“And who’s this?” the guard asked, looking Clarent over. His eyes took in a black-robed youth somewhere close to Lucille’s age of sixteen.
Clarent gave a polite half-nod, half-bow. “I am sir Clarent, Knight of the Natural Order. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The guard laughed. “You?” he asked, “a Knight of the Natural Order? I suggest you take that robe back to its owner before he gives you a whipping, boy.”
Clarent did not appear offended in the slightest. “The Natural Order does not consider age a substitute for experience or skill. I request that you allow Lady Lucille and I into the inner ring to speak with Major Comol.”
At this, the guard’s laughter redoubled. “Is that so? Tell, me, Sir Clarent, what kind of knight of the Natural Order requests anything from a lowly guard like me?”
“A well-mannered one,” Clarent said.
“Just my luck!” the guard shouted. “I got the only polite knight out of the whole order. Any of the others would have killed me by now, right? But not you. Oh you are too kind, Sir Clarent.”
“Thank you,” Clarent said with a nod. Lucille appeared to grow impatient.
“Scram,” the guard said. “I know for a fact that the Major doesn’t have any Knight Commander with the army.”
Clarent nodded again. “I am not with the army. I have been assigned as Lucille Coquelicot’s knight protector, so that she may continue to hold no rank during her stay here.”
“Look, kid,” the guard said. “I don’t care what story you two have cooked up. You keep running your mouth and I’ll have you both strung up by your ears. Understand?”
Clarent regarded him coolly. “How stupid,” he said quietly, “can you possibly be?"
The guard’s jaw fell open. “What did you just say to me?”
Clarent continued to speak, his voice calm and level. “No man would dare impersonate a Knight of the Natural Order. I am young, yes; and so your doubts as to my rank are not entirely unfounded. But if you were to consider for even a moment that there is the slightest chance that I am who I say I am, you would have treated me with a little more respect. Just in case.
“You could have excused yourself, checked my identity on the ledger, then returned informed; and yet you did not. Do you understand that while in this camp I am the word of King Solom?”
The guard looked from Clarent to Lucille, uncertainty showing on his face. “I’ll check the ledger,” he said, “but if—”
“No,” Clarent interrupted him. “You will not. You will decide here and now whether or not you believe what I am saying is true. If you allow me through and I am an imposter, you will be punished by your superiors. If you turn me away and I am not an imposter, I will invoke the wrath of Solom.”
“That means he kills you,” Lucille said.
“That’s exactly what an imposter would say,” the guard said. “You don’t want me checking the ledger.” Clarent noticed a bead of sweat glistening on his forehead.
“It is,” Clarent said. “But it is also a pointless cruelty, if I am who I say I am. Doesn’t that fit the descriptions of a knight of the Natural Order that you’ve heard?”
“I...” the guard looked around frantically. “You can’t expect me to...”
“Three seconds,” Clarent said.
“Okay!” the guard shouted. “Just go! Major is going to have my ass for this regardless.”
“Thank you,” Clarent said as both he and Lucille strode past the guard. “You will undoubtedly wish to check my weapon.” His robe fluttered, and nine sharpened pieces of metal neatly stacked themselves onto the ground. “Nine pieces of iron.”
The guard looked down at the metal, and Clarent knew exactly what thought ran through his head: only the owner of the blade could manipulate it with magic.
“Consider it a rare kindness,” Clarent said as he turned to move deeper into the inner circle. “That I will refrain from shedding blood before the daughter of our king.”
The guard gaped at them as Lucille turned to give him a cheeky wave.
“Well,” Lucille said once they were well on their way to Major Comol. “That was almost mean of you, Clarent. I’m surprised.”
Clarent raised an eyebrow. “I was doing him a kindness,” he said. “Any other member of the order will kill him if he shows that much disrespect. I taught him a much-needed lesson. Still, I would like to use my power for something other than being your bully for once.”
“I hear Grael is getting restless again,” Lucille said. “How does slaying one of the strongest dragons in the world sound?”
“Impossible, even for you and me. I was thinking more along the lines of rescuing a damsel. Something that makes the world a better place.”
“And instead you’re stuck opening all the doors I can’t kick down,” Lucille said. “Perhaps I should ask Father for a rank.”
“King Solom,” Clarent corrected. “Titles are important.”
“All knights say that,” Lucille countered with a smile.
“Tell me,” Clarent said. “Why are we about to interrupt a meeting between Major Comol and all his most trusted officers?”
“You hadn’t already guessed? And here I thought you were suppose to be teaching me these things...”
“I have my suspicions,” Clarent said. “The greatest of which comes from the fact that you don’t wear jewelry.”
Lucille fiddled with the gemstone earrings that dangled from her ears. “You’re so observant,” she remarked. “But this is just for the worst case scenario. I’m just going to tell the major that I’m taking command of the army.”
Clarent stopped in his tracks. “You have got to—no, you know what? I know you enough to know that you aren’t joking.”
“Well,” Lucille said, stopping to face him. “Let’s hear your objections.”
“You can’t,” Clarent said. “It’s insane! King Solom put you here so you’d learn how the army works, not tear it apart from the inside out!”
“Father doesn’t ever do something for just one reason,” Lucille said. “And I have learned how Men make war, Clarent. I’m going to make some improvements.”
“By staging a coup? Can you hear yourself speaking right now?”
“I can,” Lucille said, growing irritated. “Father gave Comol this army so he could take the Tear. He has failed to take the Tear. I’ve deemed it necessary to step in.”
“You’re doing this to impress him.”
“Why else do I do anything?” Lucille asked him. “You are my knight protector and you will do as I tell you. And right now I am telling you to stand idly by while I seize command from Major Comol. You can do that, yes?”
“When your father learns of this—”
“Don’t presume to know the Princess better than I do, Clarent. Now come.” She turned and swiftly began to walk away.
“This is crazy,” Clarent muttered before following her. “I don’t have my blade, Lucille.”
“You won’t be needing it. Your job is to stand idle, remember? You’re a Knight, and if you stand near me I look important by proxy.”
“You can’t take whatever you want just through looking important, Lucille.”
“I know that,” she said. “But I can take the rest through power, intelligence, or sex appeal.”
“Sex appeal?” Clarent asked. “Is that why you walk the way you do?”
“Yes,” Lucille answered. “You’d be amazed at how easy it is to get a man to do what you want when their sole interest is taking you to bed. Back there you got us through the guard because he thought you were a Knight of the Natural Order.”
“I am a Knight of the Natural Order.”
“Irrelevant,” Lucille said. “The position is not something real; like your magic, it is an invention. The rules of bladecasting, which were selected in a fashion that is seemingly arbitrary, cause Men to look upon you with respect simply because of the color of your robe.”
“What are you getting at?” Clarent asked.
“I am the most influential woman alive in the kingdom, and yet I hold no rank, and so in many ways I am powerless. Comol is a major, and this imaginary position gives him a very real store of influence. But he’s proven he can’t use it anymore, so I’m going to take it away from him.”
“And then you’re going to win the Tear?”
“Yes,” Lucille said. “If a single man can influence others by the way they dress, and the way they act, and the way they are spoken of, cannot an army? Where is the robe that demands our enemies reconsider? Where is the title that will bring them to their knees without a drop of blood shed? I propose that an army is not unlike a man.”
“You sound like you’re a book all of a sudden.” Lucille ignored him.
The inner ring of Comol’s camp was constructed around the ruins of an ancient town that had apparently been burned to the ground by Grael in one of his more active years. The result was a collection of barely-habitable stone ruins that served as housing for the army’s commanders.
The central structure, the bare remnants of what had once been a keep, was where Major Comol held his war talks. Nobody was allowed in or out while they were ongoing.
Clarent threw the doors open with an excessive amount of noise and magical flare. Inside, over a dozen men stood around a large round table. At their center was Major Comol, an aging man with a green uniform and blue sash.
“Major Comol,” Lucille called out as every pair of eyes in the room turned to her. “Your failure to consult me before making the decision to retreat was about as ill-advised as the decision itself. King Solom will be most displeased.”
Clarent blinked in surprise. It seems he had taught the Princess a thing or two.
Establish yourself as a being of power and authority; let the disparity between the princess they see and the princess you act like intrigue them.
“Coquelicot,” Comol growled. “I told you I’m not interested in teaching a woman the intricacies of battle. Get out of here before I have your ears beaten.”
An effective counter; he made you appear little while ignoring your claim to authority. If only he had challenged it. Ah, well, nothing to do but make him appear childish as well and drive the Princess bit home.
“You act childish, Comol. Attempt to harm me and I will have you hung for treason and then quartered for incompetence.”
Enough time has passed that they will all have noticed the bladecaster standing at your side. Let them ask, who is this woman who threatens the major with death?
The major stared at her, mouth agape. Clarent didn’t blame him: she had, up to that point, played the simpering princess. “You dare,” he said at last. “You dare accuse me of betraying the crown?”
And now, answer their question.
“I am the blood of Solom himself, and I speak with his voice,” Lucille announced. “I do not accuse you of betraying the crown. I convict you of it.”
If you’re lucky, he’ll argue against the treason and not the authority.
“I have done nothing to betray my King and Princess! You speak nonsense, Coquelicot!”
That was easy. Let’s make him angry.
“My Father instructed you to take the Tear. You are about to order a retreat.”
“Staying in the Tear will result in a loss!” Comol cried.
“Retreat guarantees one!” Lucille shouted. “Or have you forgotten that, Comol?! Do I need to remind you that when you retreat, it means you lose!”
Unless you win, in the end. But we won’t let him in on that.
The major’s face was growing red. “You dare talk to me that way?” he bellowed. “I am the veteran of a decade of war! I commanded decisive victories at Hockensgrade and Middenland!”
Belittle him.
“Neither of which were won by retreating, if I recall.”
“Bitch,” was all the major whispered.
Time for the most potent weapon of all: blatant lies.
“King Solom suspected your incompetence,” Lucille said. “But even he did not think it would be this bad. Four defeats in two months. Three villages lost to Prince Theon. Your failure is indefensible and drastic actions must be taken to ensure you do not hinder the crown’s aims any longer.”
“You have no authority,” Comol said, fuming.
“On the contrary,” Lucille said. “You have no authority. I am stripping you of your rank and its privileges. You are to return to the capitol immediately. If you do not follow this order, I will invoke the wrath of Solom. Clarent, take the major and confine him to the barracks.”
Major Comol snarled and drew his sword, the tip coming to rest just at Lucille's throat. “I’d like to see you try, well-born bitch!”
Displaced air swished around Lucille as her knight came alongside her, only inches away from the major. Comol's mouth opened, but the only sound that came out was a soft gurgle before his eyes glazed over. He collapsed into three neatly sliced pieces of meat, and a torrent of blood rushed out around Clarent’s boots as they hit the floor with a meaty thud.
Lucille's earing hung empty
Clarent dismissed the blade, and the gemstones clattered to the floor. The knight had used them to cut away from his charge, and as a result the officers' faces and hair had been splattered with blood. They table looked on, motionless.
"Not all power is imaginary, princess," he told her aloud.
“I am going to tell you exactly what I want to happen,” Lucille said to her new underlings. “And you are going to make it happen. It is through this method that we will win the Tear. If that isn’t how it worked before, that’s how it works now. But please, feel free to make suggestions; my doors are always open.”
The men around the table were silent. Lucille could feel Comol’s blood soaking into her gown. She licked her lips.
“The engineers will begin clearing trees for an enforced camp three times as large as needed. The squires will begin lighting triple the current amount of campfires at night. They will set up every tent we have rather than only the amount we need, and they will space them such that they fill the new area.”
Noone spoke, so Lucille continued. “They will do this as we move towards Salvos Valley , as if to attack Bridleburg.” Lucille looked up at the table of officers again and waited.
A nearby officer took the bait. “Bridleburg appears—”
“To be an easy target, yes,” Lucille said. “The enemy wishes us to engage there so they can flank us with a surprise contingent from the south. Elementary, really; but we aren’t going to attack Bridleburg, we’re just going to make it look like that’s what we’re doing. And our foes will hesitate to attack us when scouts report an army three times its previous size is camped at their doorstep. They will assume we got reinforcements from the capitol, then wait for us to engage.
“But we won’t. By moving into position to attack us from the south, they will leave the main stretch of the Tear lightly defended. We will then send our two hundred best bladecasters, and a courier for each, to take the river south. They will operate in teams of twenty and, starting from the north, they will scorch and desolate every piece of fertile land in the Tear.”
“You can’t be serious,” a officer said.
“I am. The enemy has demonstrated that they are committed to the Tear, and they will split their contingent to deal with our guerrillas rather than attempt to force an engagement, especially when they think our numbers have tripled. They will fail, however, and every piece of edible food between here and the the end of the Tear will be consumed within the space of two months.
“Prince Theon controls an aqueduct. This means that with a committed force of engineers, they could re-sow the land. To that end we will also dam the river.”
“You’re going to turn the Tear into a wasteland,” an officer said.
“I am. Over the course of the next four months the enemy will suffer starvation, desertion, and poor morale. We will convince them we have a strong foothold here while forcing them to spread their forces thin. With our backs to a supply line, we will be relatively unhindered.”
“This is vicious,” the same officer said. “Nobody makes war like this.”
“Exactly,” Lucille said. “They won’t expect it, and they won’t know how to react. They’ll still control the Tear, and they’ll still have the larger army, so standard practice dictates that they wait for us to make our move. But we won’t. We’ll starve them out and then strike when they begin limping back to safer territory.”
“If they think we’ve reinforced,” he said. “They’ll think the King has taken a larger interest in the Tear. They may respond in kind.”
“They won’t be able to feed an army on scorched earth,” Lucille said.
“I didn’t mean soldiers,” he said. “What do we do if Sir Morgant takes the field?”
Another man barked out a humorless laugh. “What any army does when The Dragon Slayer takes the field,” he said. “Die.”
“I will kill him,” Clarent said.
The officer stopped to look at him. “You’re not serious?”
“I can best King Solom in single combat,” Clarent said. “My ultimate purpose in this war is to kill his nephew. If Morgant takes the field—” Clarent looked down at the blood he stood in. He wanted more. “—he dies.”
“Good news,” Lucille said as she entered Clarent’s chambers. “I outrank you now. Lieutenant Coquelicot.”
Valiant sat in the center of his room, sharpening a shard of his blade. “You don’t outrank me,” he said, his eyes focused on the iron shard in front of him. “I’m a knight and you’re a soldier. Different castes entirely.”
“But,” Lucille said. “I’m officially the right hand of Father himself, now.”
“King—”
Lucille waved a hand. “Whatever. He’s Master General King Solom to me now anyway.”
“And do you actually call him that?” Clarent asked.
“In public, yes. Father tolerates a great many things from me, but undermining his authority while he is present isn’t one of them. I’m a good little bastard.”
Without looking up, Clarent switched the piece of his blade for another one. “You heard about that?” he asked.
“Lucille Coquelicot!” she cried with a chuckle. “Solom's little bastard. A fine nickname to be given by your enemies, I think.”
“I disagree,” Clarent said. “But I don’t think you care. I take it our stay in the capitol is almost finished?”
“After my triumph in the Tear I’m getting my own army to conquer the North. What’s that big stretch of land north of the Tear called?”
“The Heart,” Clarent answered. “We’ll be getting closer to Grael. And his brother, Fafnir.”
“And I should care why?”
“Because they’re brothers, and the two strongest dragons in the world. Each of them can reduce an army to ash, Lucy. And they stay out of one another’s territory, which is the friendliest relationship between two dragons I’ve ever heard of. The last time Grael was seen was a month ago, when we were pulling out of the Tear. He levelled an entire village of almost a thousand men.”
“I’m not a knight, Clarent. I don’t care about dragons.”
“Oh?” Clarent said. “The last time anyone saw Morgant, he was driving Fafnir back into his lair. He is The Dragon Slayer, after all.”
Lucille frowned. “I always thought that was just a catch-all term.”
Clarent shook his head. “Even among Solom's knights, Morgant is legendary. I play chess. Morgant slays dragons. Still, he hasn’t managed to kill Grael of Fafnir yet.”
“So Morgant may still be in the Heart,” Lucille said. Killing her cousin would make her uncle end of the war. She would fulfill her purpose. Father would be proud.
“He may,” Clarent said, “But either of the dragons could make your life extremely difficult. And they’re far more likely to target us than Morgant, seeing as they know he’s a threat.”
“If they do,” Lucille said, “then we kill them. Simple enough.”
“Hardly,” Clarent said. “Still, it’s said that Grael’s hoard could buy a kingdom, and that it contains the purest gemstones known to man. The blade a caster could make out of those stones would have no equal.”
“Money and power,” Lucille said. “I never took you for the type, Clarent. Aren’t you always talking about making the world a better place?”
Clarent laughed. “The only reason I seem like such a good man is because every time someone see me I’m next to you, Lucille. I like the uniform, by the way.”
“Really?” Lucille said, looking down at her pure white button-up coat and cloak. “I think the gold trim might be a bit much.”
Clarent broke through the knights' guards with ease, leaving corpses in his wake. He roughly grabbed Lucille, forcing her against the wall. A line of iron shards crossed her neck, their tips drawing blood.
“Tell me again!” growled the knight as blood burned against his face. “That I'm dismissed!”
Lucille shut her eyes. “Clarent...”
“Knight Commander,” he corrected her. “And you won’t do this to me. You can’t just throw back everything I thought you. You can’t just undo what you and your father made me. I’m your knight protector, Your Highness, and I’ll win this war and kill your father even if I have to drown all of Ynys Mons in its own blood.
“And you,” he said, pressing his blades into Lucille’s neck. “You are going to rule when I am done. I will give you the world. And you, Lucy. You’re going to be a Queen.”
"Grael was seen again," she whispered from the door.
From the looks of things, Clarent had been packing. He was no longer the youth who acted as the shadow and her body guard. His shaven face had been gone for nearly ten winters now, a tight black beard hugging his chin.
He was no longer a young man.
Then again, she supposed she wasn't a flowering maiden herself.
He stood when Lucille entered. “Your Highness?” he asked. “Are you crying?”
Lucille realized that she was. “I can't do this,” she said, turning away. “I called the army away from the Tear.”
“You didn’t,” Clarent's eyes widened. He began to pace. “You have to send them back back. You have to reinforce those towns, and tell them to look to the skies.”
“No, Clarent. They're... they're gone. That dragon would have burned all of our men... all of our defenses. But I won’t let him. I won’t be remembered as the Queen who lost her kingdom.”
“What happened to doing whatever you thought was right?”
Lucille put a hand to her temple. “I don’t know what I'm doing!” she shouted. “This war will go on for decades! I need you,” she said to Valiant. “Bring me a list of the ten wealthiest nobles. They need to have at least a hundred banners to call upon.”
“Lucy,” Clarent said. “What are you talking about?”
“I... I need to marry. We need to have an ally to call upon. I have to have a child,” she said. “I need to—” She swallowed. “Get pregnant. My suitor will have to be a noble of considerable influence.”
“You leave a dozen villages to burn,” Clarent swore, “and you expect me to find a man for you to take to bed? You’re out of your mind.”
“What was I supposed to do, Clarent? Turn the entire army around and lose the Heart. Fail the kingdom? I am Queen Lucille Coquelicot. Do you think that any part of my position requires me to value so few lives? Does it surprise you so much that I am what I am?”
“I know you,” he said. “You aren’t a monster. Stop talking about children and go to sleep, Lucille. I’m not making you any list.”
“Why not?” Lucille asked. “Jealous?”
Clarent froze “What?"
“Come now, Knight Commander. I know what you want. So did my father—or did you think it was a coincidence that he put us together? Yes, Clarent Coquelicot, you would make me powerful children indeed,” he mocked, his voice dripping with poison.
Clarent gritted his teeth. “I am the strongest bladecaster in this army, Lucy. You know that. You wouldn’t need a list, you won't need an army, and you won't need any of this nonsense.”
“You think so?” Lucille said. “I’ve never seen you fight a real foe. Have you ever even killed anyone that wasn't on my orders? All you ever do is go on about making the world a better place. But you never will.”
“I don’t want that,” Clarent said. “Not anymore.”
“Whether you run away to your new Order's little monastery or not, this is going to happen."
“Don’t do this, Lucy. You’re acting insane.”
“You want me,” the Queen said. “You’ve followed me for years, Clarent. You don’t want to make the world a better place, you want to make me a better person. Better than father. You want to fix me. Well this is your chance. You’re a knight, so prove yourself—slay some of my enemies and call it a quest.” Queen Coquelicot turned towards the door. “Except you can’t,” she said as she left. “That's for the real knights.”
Lucille woke up the next morning and decided that she was crazy.
She was a staunch advocate of using logic; and her actions the previous day truly had no logical explanation. She’d left dozens of villages to burn in dragonfire. That made sense; it was easy to defend her decision from a tactical viewpoint. It was even easier to blame her father: the King had never taught her any sort of ethical code. It was, and had always been, victory at any cost.
Still, Lucille knew that by almost anyone's standards what she had done was evil. Indefensible, even. How would her soldiers think of her when they learned what she had done? Coupled with the heavy losses they’d sustained in battle, Lucille doubted she’d be their favorite commander for long.
Clarent despised her. Clarent, who had taught her everything her father hadn't. Clarent had done everything the Princess Lucille wanted and more, but apparently Clarent no longer wanted a Queen to serve. Lucille wondered what Clarent did want, if not her.
To run away to his temple, and train those acolytes. A Knight Commander, the head of his own personal Order.
Still, he had threatened to kill her once. In hindsight, his actions weren’t so surprising. It had been a stressful day. Clarent had cracked.
But now she was left to pick up the pieces. He would need an apology. Displaying humility would almost definitely win him back over to her side; it would bring her more in line with the Queen he wished her to be. It would mean they were winning. No doubt after she had taunted him he had gone off to sulk someplace within the camp.
She tried not to think about the baby as she got out of bed. Above all other things, it bothered her the most that she had been willing to give marry so easily. What would Princess Lucille have thought, to see her so willingly grasp for straws? Something along the lines of a coward, to be sure.
Lucille was a monster; there were nine thousand people dead in the Tear to attest to that. But without her father, that was all that she was. A masterless monster. What was the point anymore?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at her door. A glance at the sun told Lucille that she had slept in almost two hours. She didn’t mind; she’d earned it. “Enter,” she said, swinging open.
“Ma’am!” the runner said, standing at attention. “Sir Clarent has returned to the army. He has requested your presence outside.”
Lucille began to dress. “Clarent left the army?”
The runner raised his eyebrows. “Yes, ma’am. He said he was carrying out your orders. We did not think to question a Knight Commander of Coquelicot.”
“My orders,” Astor said. Prove yourself. Slay some of my enemies and call it a quest.
Lucille ran out to the center of the camp in her night clothes and began to look around frantically for Clarent. A large group of soliders was crowded around something, and she reasoned that was her best bet. “Clarent!” she shouted as tried to push her way through the crowd. “Clarent!” The soldiers around her weren’t budging.
The let out an exasperated sigh. “I am Queen Lucille Coquelicot!” she shouted.
Every one close by immediately turned to face her, then backed away. Silence descended over the crowd as Lucille slowly strode to their center. The crowd broke to reveal her knight.
He was covered in blood. Burns ran along one side of his face and down his neck. He had removed his cloak and turned it into a rope, which he was using to drag a massive red dragon’s head.
He’d slain the dragon Grael. Alone.
Lucille shook her head. “Not possible,” she said. “You told me only Morgant could fight Grael or Fafnir.”
The knight nodded. “When two beings come into conflict, Princess,” he said. “It is more than power that determines who lives and who dies.”
“How?” Lucille said.
The knight shrugged. “It’s a secret. One you wouldn’t want to hear anyway. Now,” he said. “You know the old language. What is the word for ‘king?’”
Lucille stared at him. “Regent,” she whispered at last. “Sir Clarent Regent.”
Twenty shard of what she could only assume were diamonds by the way they shone tore their way from Grael’s severed head and assembled before Clarent. “Regent can be the name of my blade,” he said. “I would rather be Clarent Coquelicot.” He fell to a knee.
Lucille could scarcely understand what was happening. Clarent was supposed to be weak. He was suppose to be her knife. Yet he’d slain a dragon that even Morgant hesitated to meet in combat. And now...
Held aloft by Clarent’s magic, a single red garnet floated towards her. When it was halfway between them, several shards of Regent shot through the air, and pieces of the gem fell away to reveal a five-petaled poppy. The sigil of Coquelicot.
Clarent looked past the gem and into Lucille’s eyes. “Marry me.”
He sat in the center of the orphanage’s main hall, bathed in the light of his newly awakened magic. Around him orbited several dozen books. He had one of them open and was reading all about bladecasting when they came to collect him.
Two guards, lightly armored and bearing a red poppy crest, strode into the room. Between them was a tight faced man with a weathered face, garbed in fine clothes. Clarent had never seen an noble before. He recognized the symbol well, however. “You’re King Solom,” he said.
Solom regarded him for only a moment, his face expressionless. “Kneel,” he said at last.
Clarent considered his words. “Why should I?” he said. “If you’re here to execute me, I die if I kneel and I die if I don’t. If you’ve decided to conscript me, then will my bad manners really change your mind?”
Again, the king’s face did not betray his thoughts. “Leave us,” he said.
Nobody spoke. The matron as well as Solom’s guards both left immediately. The King continued to regard Clarent with his cold stare, and Clarent began to feel like a child for the first time in years. Suddenly, sitting in the center of the room seemed silly.
"Clarent,” Solom said. “You killed a boy.”
“He wasn’t a boy,” Clarent said. “He was older than me.”
“He was a boy, and you are a boy. Children both. You will tell me why he is dead.”
Clarent was amazed at how Solom could make such a deep and rich voice sound bland and lifeless. “He tried to kill me,” she said, “so I stabbed him in the neck with a rock.”
“You killed him with magic.”
“I did,” Clarent said. “He survived when I stabbed him in the neck, but I broke his voice somehow. When he came back to the orphanage, he tried to kill me again. He was choking me in the kitchens and I couldn’t stop him this time. And then I felt all warm inside, and suddenly I felt all good.”
Solom nodded. “An awakening.”
“He backed away,” Clarent said. “But I knew that he’d try again. He’d come for me in my sleep or stab me with a knife. So I grabbed him with my magic,” he said, remembering. “I pulled him in all different directions. He came apart.” There had been blood everywhere.
“Yes, Clarent, you broke it. You are an extremely special young boy.”
“Valuable,” Clarent said. Solom cocked her head. “I’m valuable. You want me to fight in your army. And if I don’t you’re going to kill me. That’s why you’re here.”
Solom began to step closer. “Essentially, yes. Magical talents are extremely valuable, and you are the most valuable magical talent. I had come here prepared to appeal to you as an orphan. I was going to tell you that everything would be okay and that I was going to care for you now. I had intended to make you feel wanted and to offer you a home.”
Clarent swallowed. “You aren’t?”
“I am,” Solom said. “But now that I have met you, I see that I can make what you will find to be a far more compelling offer, one even more true. It was in the way you refused to kneel, the way you sit before a king instead of rise, the way you described killing the boy. This will make you less inclined to rebel.”
He stepped inside Clarent’s bubble of books and leaned down. “Power, Clarent. If you come with me, become my servant, and do exactly as I say, you will become the strongest mortal man to have ever lived. I will teach you to kill your enemies, and you will make my enemies yours. You will never want for food, shelter, or attention, and you will be respected by your allies and feared by your rivals.”
Clarent looked up at him. The offer wasn’t something he had to think about. “I accept,” he said. “But I have a question.”
“Refer to me as ‘Your Highness’.”
“I have one question, Your Highness.”
Solom nodded in approval. “Ask.”
“You weren’t clear. Is this a conscription, or an adoption?”
“Name?” One of the guards asked.
“My name is Lucille,” she said. “I’d like to speak with Major Comol.”
The guard looked her over. Lucille wore no uniform, instead preferring a deep crimson gown. “No,” he said.
“I urge you to reconsider your response,” Lucille said. “I’m very important, you see.”
“What I see,” the guard said. “Is a rankless child attempting to interrupt an important meeting being held by the acting head of the army. Get out of here.”
Lucille turned her head towards down the hall. “Clarent!” she called out.
Clarent had been speaking with a soldier of the army. He appeared to excuse himself from the conversation before striding towards Lucille and the guard.
“Get us in,” Lucille said to him.
“And who’s this?” the guard asked, looking Clarent over. His eyes took in a black-robed youth somewhere close to Lucille’s age of sixteen.
Clarent gave a polite half-nod, half-bow. “I am sir Clarent, Knight of the Natural Order. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The guard laughed. “You?” he asked, “a Knight of the Natural Order? I suggest you take that robe back to its owner before he gives you a whipping, boy.”
Clarent did not appear offended in the slightest. “The Natural Order does not consider age a substitute for experience or skill. I request that you allow Lady Lucille and I into the inner ring to speak with Major Comol.”
At this, the guard’s laughter redoubled. “Is that so? Tell, me, Sir Clarent, what kind of knight of the Natural Order requests anything from a lowly guard like me?”
“A well-mannered one,” Clarent said.
“Just my luck!” the guard shouted. “I got the only polite knight out of the whole order. Any of the others would have killed me by now, right? But not you. Oh you are too kind, Sir Clarent.”
“Thank you,” Clarent said with a nod. Lucille appeared to grow impatient.
“Scram,” the guard said. “I know for a fact that the Major doesn’t have any Knight Commander with the army.”
Clarent nodded again. “I am not with the army. I have been assigned as Lucille Coquelicot’s knight protector, so that she may continue to hold no rank during her stay here.”
“Look, kid,” the guard said. “I don’t care what story you two have cooked up. You keep running your mouth and I’ll have you both strung up by your ears. Understand?”
Clarent regarded him coolly. “How stupid,” he said quietly, “can you possibly be?"
The guard’s jaw fell open. “What did you just say to me?”
Clarent continued to speak, his voice calm and level. “No man would dare impersonate a Knight of the Natural Order. I am young, yes; and so your doubts as to my rank are not entirely unfounded. But if you were to consider for even a moment that there is the slightest chance that I am who I say I am, you would have treated me with a little more respect. Just in case.
“You could have excused yourself, checked my identity on the ledger, then returned informed; and yet you did not. Do you understand that while in this camp I am the word of King Solom?”
The guard looked from Clarent to Lucille, uncertainty showing on his face. “I’ll check the ledger,” he said, “but if—”
“No,” Clarent interrupted him. “You will not. You will decide here and now whether or not you believe what I am saying is true. If you allow me through and I am an imposter, you will be punished by your superiors. If you turn me away and I am not an imposter, I will invoke the wrath of Solom.”
“That means he kills you,” Lucille said.
“That’s exactly what an imposter would say,” the guard said. “You don’t want me checking the ledger.” Clarent noticed a bead of sweat glistening on his forehead.
“It is,” Clarent said. “But it is also a pointless cruelty, if I am who I say I am. Doesn’t that fit the descriptions of a knight of the Natural Order that you’ve heard?”
“I...” the guard looked around frantically. “You can’t expect me to...”
“Three seconds,” Clarent said.
“Okay!” the guard shouted. “Just go! Major is going to have my ass for this regardless.”
“Thank you,” Clarent said as both he and Lucille strode past the guard. “You will undoubtedly wish to check my weapon.” His robe fluttered, and nine sharpened pieces of metal neatly stacked themselves onto the ground. “Nine pieces of iron.”
The guard looked down at the metal, and Clarent knew exactly what thought ran through his head: only the owner of the blade could manipulate it with magic.
“Consider it a rare kindness,” Clarent said as he turned to move deeper into the inner circle. “That I will refrain from shedding blood before the daughter of our king.”
The guard gaped at them as Lucille turned to give him a cheeky wave.
“Well,” Lucille said once they were well on their way to Major Comol. “That was almost mean of you, Clarent. I’m surprised.”
Clarent raised an eyebrow. “I was doing him a kindness,” he said. “Any other member of the order will kill him if he shows that much disrespect. I taught him a much-needed lesson. Still, I would like to use my power for something other than being your bully for once.”
“I hear Grael is getting restless again,” Lucille said. “How does slaying one of the strongest dragons in the world sound?”
“Impossible, even for you and me. I was thinking more along the lines of rescuing a damsel. Something that makes the world a better place.”
“And instead you’re stuck opening all the doors I can’t kick down,” Lucille said. “Perhaps I should ask Father for a rank.”
“King Solom,” Clarent corrected. “Titles are important.”
“All knights say that,” Lucille countered with a smile.
“Tell me,” Clarent said. “Why are we about to interrupt a meeting between Major Comol and all his most trusted officers?”
“You hadn’t already guessed? And here I thought you were suppose to be teaching me these things...”
“I have my suspicions,” Clarent said. “The greatest of which comes from the fact that you don’t wear jewelry.”
Lucille fiddled with the gemstone earrings that dangled from her ears. “You’re so observant,” she remarked. “But this is just for the worst case scenario. I’m just going to tell the major that I’m taking command of the army.”
Clarent stopped in his tracks. “You have got to—no, you know what? I know you enough to know that you aren’t joking.”
“Well,” Lucille said, stopping to face him. “Let’s hear your objections.”
“You can’t,” Clarent said. “It’s insane! King Solom put you here so you’d learn how the army works, not tear it apart from the inside out!”
“Father doesn’t ever do something for just one reason,” Lucille said. “And I have learned how Men make war, Clarent. I’m going to make some improvements.”
“By staging a coup? Can you hear yourself speaking right now?”
“I can,” Lucille said, growing irritated. “Father gave Comol this army so he could take the Tear. He has failed to take the Tear. I’ve deemed it necessary to step in.”
“You’re doing this to impress him.”
“Why else do I do anything?” Lucille asked him. “You are my knight protector and you will do as I tell you. And right now I am telling you to stand idly by while I seize command from Major Comol. You can do that, yes?”
“When your father learns of this—”
“Don’t presume to know the Princess better than I do, Clarent. Now come.” She turned and swiftly began to walk away.
“This is crazy,” Clarent muttered before following her. “I don’t have my blade, Lucille.”
“You won’t be needing it. Your job is to stand idle, remember? You’re a Knight, and if you stand near me I look important by proxy.”
“You can’t take whatever you want just through looking important, Lucille.”
“I know that,” she said. “But I can take the rest through power, intelligence, or sex appeal.”
“Sex appeal?” Clarent asked. “Is that why you walk the way you do?”
“Yes,” Lucille answered. “You’d be amazed at how easy it is to get a man to do what you want when their sole interest is taking you to bed. Back there you got us through the guard because he thought you were a Knight of the Natural Order.”
“I am a Knight of the Natural Order.”
“Irrelevant,” Lucille said. “The position is not something real; like your magic, it is an invention. The rules of bladecasting, which were selected in a fashion that is seemingly arbitrary, cause Men to look upon you with respect simply because of the color of your robe.”
“What are you getting at?” Clarent asked.
“I am the most influential woman alive in the kingdom, and yet I hold no rank, and so in many ways I am powerless. Comol is a major, and this imaginary position gives him a very real store of influence. But he’s proven he can’t use it anymore, so I’m going to take it away from him.”
“And then you’re going to win the Tear?”
“Yes,” Lucille said. “If a single man can influence others by the way they dress, and the way they act, and the way they are spoken of, cannot an army? Where is the robe that demands our enemies reconsider? Where is the title that will bring them to their knees without a drop of blood shed? I propose that an army is not unlike a man.”
“You sound like you’re a book all of a sudden.” Lucille ignored him.
The inner ring of Comol’s camp was constructed around the ruins of an ancient town that had apparently been burned to the ground by Grael in one of his more active years. The result was a collection of barely-habitable stone ruins that served as housing for the army’s commanders.
The central structure, the bare remnants of what had once been a keep, was where Major Comol held his war talks. Nobody was allowed in or out while they were ongoing.
Clarent threw the doors open with an excessive amount of noise and magical flare. Inside, over a dozen men stood around a large round table. At their center was Major Comol, an aging man with a green uniform and blue sash.
“Major Comol,” Lucille called out as every pair of eyes in the room turned to her. “Your failure to consult me before making the decision to retreat was about as ill-advised as the decision itself. King Solom will be most displeased.”
Clarent blinked in surprise. It seems he had taught the Princess a thing or two.
Establish yourself as a being of power and authority; let the disparity between the princess they see and the princess you act like intrigue them.
“Coquelicot,” Comol growled. “I told you I’m not interested in teaching a woman the intricacies of battle. Get out of here before I have your ears beaten.”
An effective counter; he made you appear little while ignoring your claim to authority. If only he had challenged it. Ah, well, nothing to do but make him appear childish as well and drive the Princess bit home.
“You act childish, Comol. Attempt to harm me and I will have you hung for treason and then quartered for incompetence.”
Enough time has passed that they will all have noticed the bladecaster standing at your side. Let them ask, who is this woman who threatens the major with death?
The major stared at her, mouth agape. Clarent didn’t blame him: she had, up to that point, played the simpering princess. “You dare,” he said at last. “You dare accuse me of betraying the crown?”
And now, answer their question.
“I am the blood of Solom himself, and I speak with his voice,” Lucille announced. “I do not accuse you of betraying the crown. I convict you of it.”
If you’re lucky, he’ll argue against the treason and not the authority.
“I have done nothing to betray my King and Princess! You speak nonsense, Coquelicot!”
That was easy. Let’s make him angry.
“My Father instructed you to take the Tear. You are about to order a retreat.”
“Staying in the Tear will result in a loss!” Comol cried.
“Retreat guarantees one!” Lucille shouted. “Or have you forgotten that, Comol?! Do I need to remind you that when you retreat, it means you lose!”
Unless you win, in the end. But we won’t let him in on that.
The major’s face was growing red. “You dare talk to me that way?” he bellowed. “I am the veteran of a decade of war! I commanded decisive victories at Hockensgrade and Middenland!”
Belittle him.
“Neither of which were won by retreating, if I recall.”
“Bitch,” was all the major whispered.
Time for the most potent weapon of all: blatant lies.
“King Solom suspected your incompetence,” Lucille said. “But even he did not think it would be this bad. Four defeats in two months. Three villages lost to Prince Theon. Your failure is indefensible and drastic actions must be taken to ensure you do not hinder the crown’s aims any longer.”
“You have no authority,” Comol said, fuming.
“On the contrary,” Lucille said. “You have no authority. I am stripping you of your rank and its privileges. You are to return to the capitol immediately. If you do not follow this order, I will invoke the wrath of Solom. Clarent, take the major and confine him to the barracks.”
Major Comol snarled and drew his sword, the tip coming to rest just at Lucille's throat. “I’d like to see you try, well-born bitch!”
Displaced air swished around Lucille as her knight came alongside her, only inches away from the major. Comol's mouth opened, but the only sound that came out was a soft gurgle before his eyes glazed over. He collapsed into three neatly sliced pieces of meat, and a torrent of blood rushed out around Clarent’s boots as they hit the floor with a meaty thud.
Lucille's earing hung empty
Clarent dismissed the blade, and the gemstones clattered to the floor. The knight had used them to cut away from his charge, and as a result the officers' faces and hair had been splattered with blood. They table looked on, motionless.
"Not all power is imaginary, princess," he told her aloud.
“I am going to tell you exactly what I want to happen,” Lucille said to her new underlings. “And you are going to make it happen. It is through this method that we will win the Tear. If that isn’t how it worked before, that’s how it works now. But please, feel free to make suggestions; my doors are always open.”
The men around the table were silent. Lucille could feel Comol’s blood soaking into her gown. She licked her lips.
“The engineers will begin clearing trees for an enforced camp three times as large as needed. The squires will begin lighting triple the current amount of campfires at night. They will set up every tent we have rather than only the amount we need, and they will space them such that they fill the new area.”
Noone spoke, so Lucille continued. “They will do this as we move towards Salvos Valley , as if to attack Bridleburg.” Lucille looked up at the table of officers again and waited.
A nearby officer took the bait. “Bridleburg appears—”
“To be an easy target, yes,” Lucille said. “The enemy wishes us to engage there so they can flank us with a surprise contingent from the south. Elementary, really; but we aren’t going to attack Bridleburg, we’re just going to make it look like that’s what we’re doing. And our foes will hesitate to attack us when scouts report an army three times its previous size is camped at their doorstep. They will assume we got reinforcements from the capitol, then wait for us to engage.
“But we won’t. By moving into position to attack us from the south, they will leave the main stretch of the Tear lightly defended. We will then send our two hundred best bladecasters, and a courier for each, to take the river south. They will operate in teams of twenty and, starting from the north, they will scorch and desolate every piece of fertile land in the Tear.”
“You can’t be serious,” a officer said.
“I am. The enemy has demonstrated that they are committed to the Tear, and they will split their contingent to deal with our guerrillas rather than attempt to force an engagement, especially when they think our numbers have tripled. They will fail, however, and every piece of edible food between here and the the end of the Tear will be consumed within the space of two months.
“Prince Theon controls an aqueduct. This means that with a committed force of engineers, they could re-sow the land. To that end we will also dam the river.”
“You’re going to turn the Tear into a wasteland,” an officer said.
“I am. Over the course of the next four months the enemy will suffer starvation, desertion, and poor morale. We will convince them we have a strong foothold here while forcing them to spread their forces thin. With our backs to a supply line, we will be relatively unhindered.”
“This is vicious,” the same officer said. “Nobody makes war like this.”
“Exactly,” Lucille said. “They won’t expect it, and they won’t know how to react. They’ll still control the Tear, and they’ll still have the larger army, so standard practice dictates that they wait for us to make our move. But we won’t. We’ll starve them out and then strike when they begin limping back to safer territory.”
“If they think we’ve reinforced,” he said. “They’ll think the King has taken a larger interest in the Tear. They may respond in kind.”
“They won’t be able to feed an army on scorched earth,” Lucille said.
“I didn’t mean soldiers,” he said. “What do we do if Sir Morgant takes the field?”
Another man barked out a humorless laugh. “What any army does when The Dragon Slayer takes the field,” he said. “Die.”
“I will kill him,” Clarent said.
The officer stopped to look at him. “You’re not serious?”
“I can best King Solom in single combat,” Clarent said. “My ultimate purpose in this war is to kill his nephew. If Morgant takes the field—” Clarent looked down at the blood he stood in. He wanted more. “—he dies.”
“Good news,” Lucille said as she entered Clarent’s chambers. “I outrank you now. Lieutenant Coquelicot.”
Valiant sat in the center of his room, sharpening a shard of his blade. “You don’t outrank me,” he said, his eyes focused on the iron shard in front of him. “I’m a knight and you’re a soldier. Different castes entirely.”
“But,” Lucille said. “I’m officially the right hand of Father himself, now.”
“King—”
Lucille waved a hand. “Whatever. He’s Master General King Solom to me now anyway.”
“And do you actually call him that?” Clarent asked.
“In public, yes. Father tolerates a great many things from me, but undermining his authority while he is present isn’t one of them. I’m a good little bastard.”
Without looking up, Clarent switched the piece of his blade for another one. “You heard about that?” he asked.
“Lucille Coquelicot!” she cried with a chuckle. “Solom's little bastard. A fine nickname to be given by your enemies, I think.”
“I disagree,” Clarent said. “But I don’t think you care. I take it our stay in the capitol is almost finished?”
“After my triumph in the Tear I’m getting my own army to conquer the North. What’s that big stretch of land north of the Tear called?”
“The Heart,” Clarent answered. “We’ll be getting closer to Grael. And his brother, Fafnir.”
“And I should care why?”
“Because they’re brothers, and the two strongest dragons in the world. Each of them can reduce an army to ash, Lucy. And they stay out of one another’s territory, which is the friendliest relationship between two dragons I’ve ever heard of. The last time Grael was seen was a month ago, when we were pulling out of the Tear. He levelled an entire village of almost a thousand men.”
“I’m not a knight, Clarent. I don’t care about dragons.”
“Oh?” Clarent said. “The last time anyone saw Morgant, he was driving Fafnir back into his lair. He is The Dragon Slayer, after all.”
Lucille frowned. “I always thought that was just a catch-all term.”
Clarent shook his head. “Even among Solom's knights, Morgant is legendary. I play chess. Morgant slays dragons. Still, he hasn’t managed to kill Grael of Fafnir yet.”
“So Morgant may still be in the Heart,” Lucille said. Killing her cousin would make her uncle end of the war. She would fulfill her purpose. Father would be proud.
“He may,” Clarent said, “But either of the dragons could make your life extremely difficult. And they’re far more likely to target us than Morgant, seeing as they know he’s a threat.”
“If they do,” Lucille said, “then we kill them. Simple enough.”
“Hardly,” Clarent said. “Still, it’s said that Grael’s hoard could buy a kingdom, and that it contains the purest gemstones known to man. The blade a caster could make out of those stones would have no equal.”
“Money and power,” Lucille said. “I never took you for the type, Clarent. Aren’t you always talking about making the world a better place?”
Clarent laughed. “The only reason I seem like such a good man is because every time someone see me I’m next to you, Lucille. I like the uniform, by the way.”
“Really?” Lucille said, looking down at her pure white button-up coat and cloak. “I think the gold trim might be a bit much.”
Clarent broke through the knights' guards with ease, leaving corpses in his wake. He roughly grabbed Lucille, forcing her against the wall. A line of iron shards crossed her neck, their tips drawing blood.
“Tell me again!” growled the knight as blood burned against his face. “That I'm dismissed!”
Lucille shut her eyes. “Clarent...”
“Knight Commander,” he corrected her. “And you won’t do this to me. You can’t just throw back everything I thought you. You can’t just undo what you and your father made me. I’m your knight protector, Your Highness, and I’ll win this war and kill your father even if I have to drown all of Ynys Mons in its own blood.
“And you,” he said, pressing his blades into Lucille’s neck. “You are going to rule when I am done. I will give you the world. And you, Lucy. You’re going to be a Queen.”
"Grael was seen again," she whispered from the door.
From the looks of things, Clarent had been packing. He was no longer the youth who acted as the shadow and her body guard. His shaven face had been gone for nearly ten winters now, a tight black beard hugging his chin.
He was no longer a young man.
Then again, she supposed she wasn't a flowering maiden herself.
He stood when Lucille entered. “Your Highness?” he asked. “Are you crying?”
Lucille realized that she was. “I can't do this,” she said, turning away. “I called the army away from the Tear.”
“You didn’t,” Clarent's eyes widened. He began to pace. “You have to send them back back. You have to reinforce those towns, and tell them to look to the skies.”
“No, Clarent. They're... they're gone. That dragon would have burned all of our men... all of our defenses. But I won’t let him. I won’t be remembered as the Queen who lost her kingdom.”
“What happened to doing whatever you thought was right?”
Lucille put a hand to her temple. “I don’t know what I'm doing!” she shouted. “This war will go on for decades! I need you,” she said to Valiant. “Bring me a list of the ten wealthiest nobles. They need to have at least a hundred banners to call upon.”
“Lucy,” Clarent said. “What are you talking about?”
“I... I need to marry. We need to have an ally to call upon. I have to have a child,” she said. “I need to—” She swallowed. “Get pregnant. My suitor will have to be a noble of considerable influence.”
“You leave a dozen villages to burn,” Clarent swore, “and you expect me to find a man for you to take to bed? You’re out of your mind.”
“What was I supposed to do, Clarent? Turn the entire army around and lose the Heart. Fail the kingdom? I am Queen Lucille Coquelicot. Do you think that any part of my position requires me to value so few lives? Does it surprise you so much that I am what I am?”
“I know you,” he said. “You aren’t a monster. Stop talking about children and go to sleep, Lucille. I’m not making you any list.”
“Why not?” Lucille asked. “Jealous?”
Clarent froze “What?"
“Come now, Knight Commander. I know what you want. So did my father—or did you think it was a coincidence that he put us together? Yes, Clarent Coquelicot, you would make me powerful children indeed,” he mocked, his voice dripping with poison.
Clarent gritted his teeth. “I am the strongest bladecaster in this army, Lucy. You know that. You wouldn’t need a list, you won't need an army, and you won't need any of this nonsense.”
“You think so?” Lucille said. “I’ve never seen you fight a real foe. Have you ever even killed anyone that wasn't on my orders? All you ever do is go on about making the world a better place. But you never will.”
“I don’t want that,” Clarent said. “Not anymore.”
“Whether you run away to your new Order's little monastery or not, this is going to happen."
“Don’t do this, Lucy. You’re acting insane.”
“You want me,” the Queen said. “You’ve followed me for years, Clarent. You don’t want to make the world a better place, you want to make me a better person. Better than father. You want to fix me. Well this is your chance. You’re a knight, so prove yourself—slay some of my enemies and call it a quest.” Queen Coquelicot turned towards the door. “Except you can’t,” she said as she left. “That's for the real knights.”
Lucille woke up the next morning and decided that she was crazy.
She was a staunch advocate of using logic; and her actions the previous day truly had no logical explanation. She’d left dozens of villages to burn in dragonfire. That made sense; it was easy to defend her decision from a tactical viewpoint. It was even easier to blame her father: the King had never taught her any sort of ethical code. It was, and had always been, victory at any cost.
Still, Lucille knew that by almost anyone's standards what she had done was evil. Indefensible, even. How would her soldiers think of her when they learned what she had done? Coupled with the heavy losses they’d sustained in battle, Lucille doubted she’d be their favorite commander for long.
Clarent despised her. Clarent, who had taught her everything her father hadn't. Clarent had done everything the Princess Lucille wanted and more, but apparently Clarent no longer wanted a Queen to serve. Lucille wondered what Clarent did want, if not her.
To run away to his temple, and train those acolytes. A Knight Commander, the head of his own personal Order.
Still, he had threatened to kill her once. In hindsight, his actions weren’t so surprising. It had been a stressful day. Clarent had cracked.
But now she was left to pick up the pieces. He would need an apology. Displaying humility would almost definitely win him back over to her side; it would bring her more in line with the Queen he wished her to be. It would mean they were winning. No doubt after she had taunted him he had gone off to sulk someplace within the camp.
She tried not to think about the baby as she got out of bed. Above all other things, it bothered her the most that she had been willing to give marry so easily. What would Princess Lucille have thought, to see her so willingly grasp for straws? Something along the lines of a coward, to be sure.
Lucille was a monster; there were nine thousand people dead in the Tear to attest to that. But without her father, that was all that she was. A masterless monster. What was the point anymore?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at her door. A glance at the sun told Lucille that she had slept in almost two hours. She didn’t mind; she’d earned it. “Enter,” she said, swinging open.
“Ma’am!” the runner said, standing at attention. “Sir Clarent has returned to the army. He has requested your presence outside.”
Lucille began to dress. “Clarent left the army?”
The runner raised his eyebrows. “Yes, ma’am. He said he was carrying out your orders. We did not think to question a Knight Commander of Coquelicot.”
“My orders,” Astor said. Prove yourself. Slay some of my enemies and call it a quest.
Lucille ran out to the center of the camp in her night clothes and began to look around frantically for Clarent. A large group of soliders was crowded around something, and she reasoned that was her best bet. “Clarent!” she shouted as tried to push her way through the crowd. “Clarent!” The soldiers around her weren’t budging.
The let out an exasperated sigh. “I am Queen Lucille Coquelicot!” she shouted.
Every one close by immediately turned to face her, then backed away. Silence descended over the crowd as Lucille slowly strode to their center. The crowd broke to reveal her knight.
He was covered in blood. Burns ran along one side of his face and down his neck. He had removed his cloak and turned it into a rope, which he was using to drag a massive red dragon’s head.
He’d slain the dragon Grael. Alone.
Lucille shook her head. “Not possible,” she said. “You told me only Morgant could fight Grael or Fafnir.”
The knight nodded. “When two beings come into conflict, Princess,” he said. “It is more than power that determines who lives and who dies.”
“How?” Lucille said.
The knight shrugged. “It’s a secret. One you wouldn’t want to hear anyway. Now,” he said. “You know the old language. What is the word for ‘king?’”
Lucille stared at him. “Regent,” she whispered at last. “Sir Clarent Regent.”
Twenty shard of what she could only assume were diamonds by the way they shone tore their way from Grael’s severed head and assembled before Clarent. “Regent can be the name of my blade,” he said. “I would rather be Clarent Coquelicot.” He fell to a knee.
Lucille could scarcely understand what was happening. Clarent was supposed to be weak. He was suppose to be her knife. Yet he’d slain a dragon that even Morgant hesitated to meet in combat. And now...
Held aloft by Clarent’s magic, a single red garnet floated towards her. When it was halfway between them, several shards of Regent shot through the air, and pieces of the gem fell away to reveal a five-petaled poppy. The sigil of Coquelicot.
Clarent looked past the gem and into Lucille’s eyes. “Marry me.”
A P P E A R A N C E
"The theme of the Clarent myths has always been a subject shrouded in mystery and conflict. In most children's stories, he plays the archetype of the "Magician Hero", valiant in all knightly endeavors. He is both trickster and hero, lover and sage, usually guiding his charge through the many perils her quest takes her through. Some historical texts, however, paint a different picture; that the daughter of a murdered king ascended the throne up a mountain of corpses, carried by an assassin named Clarent. A man who fought with monsters because his fellow man could pose no such challenge. While our Order has many recorded instances of our mythical founder, especially during the later years of the Red Queen's reign, to date we have discovered only possible illumination from that time period that could be attributed to him. Knight Scribe Calles, a brother of our Order's predecessor who lived during the days of the Red Queen, was one of the authors of the "Morte D' Roi," which chronicled the life of the Black King Solom. The illustrations and ornamentation of the book surpass that of other insular books in extravagance and complexity. The decoration combines traditional Bevalian iconography with the ornate swirling motifs typical of insular art. Figures of humans, animals and mythical beasts, together with poppies and interlacing patterns in vibrant colors, enliven the manuscript's pages. No mention of the Knight Commander is specifically mentioned within the book, but he can still be found. One of the illumination depicts a day in the court of King Solom. At the right hand of the throne stands a young maiden in crimson. Behind her, her shadow; a tall fresh faced youth garbed in a black robe. A shock of unruly black hair crowns his face, and to credit Brother Calles's skill, particular detail gifted for those closest to the throne. To date, one can still see the blue ink vibrant against the pages of the vellum, peeking out from beneath the shade of the black robe of our Order."
“Knight in Black. Went to the Spaid.
Burned all the homes that the farmers made.
First came the sword. Then came the flame.
Then he cursed the Red Queen's name.”
A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
"A lot of those stories, the ones they tell to children... we all know they aren't real. Ansur never wrestled three dragons, Norco Khan was most likely a group of barbarian warriors whose collective name became grouped under one identity, and Volkimir is simply a story to tell naughty children at bed time. So no, Clarent never singely handedly fought off an army of trolls, plucked a star out of the sky to give to the Red Queen, or is spending all eternity protecting some magical cup.
That doesn't mean the myth is greater than the man.
The art of bladecasting has been the heart of our Order since its founding. We know that its origins predate Clarent, but it was he who perfected many of the techniques we now use. At its core, bladecasting is all about the blade - or more specifically, blade shards. Having more components or shards than an opponent gives you a major edge. Most blades are made of steel, but a few, like the Knight Commander's, use gems. Every one of these pieces respond individually to a Knight's magic. Together, encapsulated by a single moment field, they form a whole blade. They can split the blade apart into projectiles, lock together, make them deflect other projectiles, or just flail it around and use it to cut through things. At its core, bladecasting is all about versatility.
Well, and I guess not getting hit.
We train our knights must be as swift as the wind, and as flexible as a reed. Our draw must be faster than our opponents, for our speed, reflexes, and dexterity are the only things that will protect us. While the cloaks we wear posses some degree of enchantments such as to keep us warm or dry, the only thing we have is ourselves. Thick heavy armor just guarantees death when your opponent can fling metal piercing gemstones into.
The average knight can handle nine shards. Hierophant can do ten, but that bastard has been at it his entire life. The Knight Commander Arcon can do about thirteen, but he's Knight Commander for a reason.
Knight Commander Clarent lived during one of the most violent times in history. He was present at three sieges, twenty-seven field battles, commander of nine and led the vanguard in at least four of those. He was the personal teacher in martial arts to the Red Queen herself, whose savagery cemented her in the annals of history. Strategic geniuses, the both of them. They changed almost everything we know about warfare today. He survived all of those, and lived to found our Order. And I trust you've heard 'The Song of Clarent'?
I believe every word of it. When you've lived through all that, just how else are you suppose to die?
What I can tell, without a doubt, is that Grand Knight Commander Clarent Coquelicot was the greatest blade caster who ever lived. How do we know this? Just look at his sword, Regent. The Order still keeps it at Clarent's shrine, near the lake where he fell.
Twenty shards of diamond. That's how you know Clarent was real.
A G E O F L E G E N D
2523 YEARS
LancerOfBlue
Member
Seen
8 yrs ago
The Cursed Warrior
N A M E / A L I A S
Éamon Ó Briain
The Valiant Defender | The Cursed Warrior | The Protector of Death
M Y T H O L O G Y
The tale of Eamon was a simple tale, that through the passing of time has been told sometimes as a children's tale. As it would begin with the birth of a wonderful baby boy whose parents would come to name their child Eamon, born long ago in a kingdom has disappeared through the sands of time. But unfortunately, they were only simple folks and those dreams on living in a castle would never come true and accepted the harsh fact as their every day life. Despite their positions in life, they still raised their son Eamon as the best they could provide and continued at their attempts to bring more children into the family but the attempts were futile with only Eamon to be their only child.
With their baby boy growing, they could not be proud as they watched him become a handsome young man who helped around with his father's job and his mother's chores when he had the time. They watch him as he was turning into a reliable and young man who was surprisingly mature for his age, and worked hard until one day everything washed down the drain. His family knew about their situation but failed to stop it as they fell into debt after the loss of his father's job and inability to obtain a new one. Before long, they soon were taken in and thrown into jail for not paying their taxes that were collected every month for living in their kingdom. Leaving Eamon to fend for himself in the world, he promised himself that he would free his mother and father from their imprisonment and joined the army at the young age of 14. While he lacked experienced his body was already toned and athletic on top of his willingness to learn and youth as he has the entirety of his life still ahead of him.
He over the years often visited his family as he was still in the army, collecting money that he earned from the army and at the age of 16 he paid the fees that were owed. Setting his family free he technically had no reason to stay in the army anymore but made the excuse of providing for his family until they could get back on their own feet which was quite plausible. In reality, Eamon loved the trill of battle and was learning quickly in the art of being a warrior honing his instincts and body to become accustomed to it. From there Eamon grew into a talented warrior of the kingdom, and by the age of 18 he had already begun to being second to none in terms of pure skill with the spear and could hold off against his senior knights.
His talent was known through the Festival of Arms which was a event in the kingdom where the royal family and the army would rejoice and have a tournament to determine who was the strongest competitor. As Eamon, easily defeated his peers and teammates before the tournament was grated down to the senior knights who were participating and Eamon himself, being the youngest competitor in the tournament still in the event. The tournament continued until 4 competitors were left, which included Eamon and three other senior knights before the 4 were thrown into a free-for-all leaving the 4 warriors to fight against each other in the effort to show who was the most skilled. The most obvious solution for the competitors was to unfairly team up against the 'weakest' competitor which was presumed to be Eamon who was the youngest but perhaps the reason for teaming up against Eamon was perhaps he was truly strong enough to intimidate his opponents. But besides that, it was a widely accepted tactic for the tournament to show the 4th competitor's skill before they were usually taken down, as the two knights charged at him from his left and right side. Taking on both of her senior knights, he defended himself blocking both of their swords near simultaneously, deftly keeping his defense tight and strong wasting nothing as he slowly but surely pushed them back. Surprising his seniors from his young blossoming skill, he continued to push them back intimidating him with his tenacity on holding the two of them at bay and even pushing them back. Distracted with his two opponents in front of him, he turned against the third senior knight, who came from behind him and managed to hold off all three knights for the moment. However he knew that defending himself would get him nowhere, before disengaging using his flexibility and agility to escape the situation to outside the triangle. Escaping from the three man attack, Eamon quickly dispatched the knight closest to him before tripping up the second with his spear and fighting the third straight on. Ending the tournament in ablaze with Eamon as the winner.
After the surprising victory of Eamon, the King awarded their newest and youngest victor with something worthy and meaningful for his valiant effort. Giving him the spear Gáe Dearg, a crimson spear enchanted with magic but its ability was unknown as none where capable of wielding it with enough skill to truly use it. Also another gift to offer Eamon they wished for him the privilege to marry their daughter, and so he did. His Captain was espically proud of Eamon, who cared and trained the young victor since he was young and too left him a gift of congratulations. His captain's gift was in the from of another spear Gáe Buidhe, a golden spear that was too enchanted with magic but similarly his captain was given the spear as he was once a victor as well but was unable to wield it and did not want to shamefully use such a beautiful weapon in experienced hands. Life after the tournament was well, and both the royal family was proud to see who wed their daughter, while Eamon's family were proud for their son to reaching new heights they thought were impossible.
Thus, is where the children's tale if there was ever any to end. Historical texts specifically recording the legend of the tournament fighter Eamon, knew about the fate of that kingdom for no Colosseum of great size would leave some sign of its construction even if it was long, long ago. It is said that the kingdom which Eamon lived in was thrown into war shortly after, disrupting the tournament fighter's peaceful life. Forcing him to once again as a sense of duty to help protect the kingdom and fight so he could protect both of their families. Eamon was never a tragedy in war, historian can say for a fact as several entries state that the young warrior who was the age of 20 at the time was an intimidating opponent and ally. His speed and agility was incomparable to the rest of the army, as blurred colors of red and yellow spears danced across the battle field quickly ending the lives of the invading force. The red spear of Gáe Buidhe was said to wound the opponents and bled them until they died as magical healing could not restore the wounds from the spear for it removed cause and left only effect. Leaving his opponents considered at full health while having the wounds of the Yellow Spear of Morality making healing magic ineffective on the wounds. While the crimson spear of Gáe Dearg pierced through the magic of those who used them capable of severing any projection with magical energy, capable of piercing through enchantments and barriers. Forcing his opponents to defend only by their own physical means, allowing him to pierce through anything magical rendering them ineffective.
The dance of Red and Yellow was a beautiful sight, but deadly as Eamon slew who dared proceeded further to their kingdom as he was unbeatable by mere men who were either drafted or care little about their training. But inevitably the opposing army pressed Eamon back as the forces were simply too much in numbers which overwhelmed the rest of the forces. Defending the gates by himself, he slowly was pushed back by the numbers but with each step he took dozens more were slain. This process continued to an entire day, with bodies littered in a path slowly leading to the castle walls which Eamon's focus and resolve still strong and sturdy as he willed himself to fight on despite his fatigue. Then it come again as anther day with relentless troops thrown at Eamon, and he too was forced back once more slaying more people for every step he took back until he bumped his back against the walls of the castle. Fearing the result of what happen if he let the forces through he too continued to fight with fatigue and stress clouding his mind, he used his bare instincts to keep himself alive and managed to survive the day but his impenetrable defense with the use of his two spears of Red and Yellow was broken.
The 2nd night of the war, Eamon was given some rest as the hordes of soldiers were going to be saved for the next day most presumably. So, Eamon wondered through the castle until his wife found him bloodied and worn who she tended to the next few hours before it would start all over again. Escape was futile when the walls of the kingdom were surrounded by enemy forces, the only thing he could hope for was to outlast them. Promising his love that she'll be safe, Eamon left once more at the notice of a scout and went towards the gates once more. Wounds and Fatigue still plagued the talented spear man but he did not waver nor show his weakness for he had something to protect and he will defend it with all his might even if it included taking his own life. At the end of the day, the wounds were deeper and plentiful, the creeping chains of exhaustion dragging him down and the aches of his body surpassing its limits everyday burned him. It was obvious they were doomed the next day, but still Eamon denied the outrageous end that they might received in bitter tears before he went to guard the gates once more. The fourth and final day, Eamon simply could not do it, as upon noon his two spears of crimson and gold pierced the earth as he glared menacingly at the enemies, before long darkness overtook him.
Four Days he had lasted, wasn't it enough? Wasn't it his best effort to save those that he loved? Simply the answers to the question was No.
Gripping the two spears in his hands, he wielded the two spears as they glowed a menacing light as redish marking appeared on Eamon. They were the glowing color of dead autumn leaves which was the colors of the two spears as it signaled the cycle of death to soon come as winter will freeze cover soon the beautiful colors of red and yellow. But after winter, the dead colors of red and yellow would bring birth to the colors of life which is something that Eamon could not do. All he could do was paved the road that was required for that path and so he continued his duty to struggle against the masses of enemies. Death will have to wait for Eamon's as his hourglass was broken, the sands of time began to flow out as he was burning his soul and passion to live longer for this moment. Wielding his spears with pure intent of killing them, this was the events of the 4th day where the opposing army left for they discarded 4 days worth of men trying to invade a small kingdom but what they lost was far greater, or so they thought. Not wishing his love to see what he had done to himself, he quickly wrote a note to her to see and gave a simple knock at her door before he disappeared.
The Autumn Marking glowed dully at the sign of the end of the season and with his two spears, he disappeared in the wind as Death greeted him. He was awed at 'her' figure which she choose to be a woman, for her name was simply Death. She never made it clear whether she was a god or merely a concept that humanity created. Either way, Eamon smiled to her as she would be his companion and he would be hers for the Spear of Mortality and Exorcism would be united by is master and its creator. What is presumed afterward of the soul of Eamon is that Death had made the spear man's soul as her companion for sacrificing his own potential, as he saved the lives of those whose worth was inferior to the spear man. The last part while seemingly ambiguous it was the report of Eamon's wife which gives this ending some truth or perhaps it was her own delusion, we may never know.
Reports over the centuries have claimed a man who wields spears the same color of Crimson Roses and Golden Yellow flowers have been spotted in populated places where undead gather and necromancer been known to have gathered. His presence has rid the area of undead and whoever was causing the disturbance, but the identity of whoever cleansed the areas have never been recorded nor identified besides the colors of the spears. The only evidence of the legendary spears being seen are the bones and dead body of the necromancer who lay defeated in the appearance of them.
A P P E A R A N C E
The appearance of Eamon was quite accurate, as he was described as a noble looking man and even as a body when born made his parents doubt themselves that he was really their baby. For when he grew up his features were fine and was generally considered handsome by the women most of the time. Dark black hair and having a hard cut mouth marks him and gives a stoic air around him. Having a real pleasant smell around him if you were to approach him and simply stand next to him as well.
But after the death of Eamon, his appearance tremendously changed as after death his dark black hair was turned into a uneasy gray. While his eyes turned silent and emotionless hiding whatever he was feeling underneath him, giving him again a stoic air around him like before but more uneasily and eerie than before. Having the Mark of Autumn tattooed onto him, it appears on the entirety of his body and even his clothes that he wears as like decorated blood stains. In generally, you get an uncomfortable feeling from Eamon but you feel strangely comfortable next to him or behind him if not intimidated beforehand by his appearance.
A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
The two gifted spears of Autumn are Gáe Buidhe: Yellow Rose of Mortality and Gáe Dearg: Crimson Rose of Exorcism they are both created by the entity known as Death. Whether she is an god or something entirely else, no one really knows but it is presumed that she is an higher entity on a similar level of Gods.
The Yellow Rose of Mortality or Gáe Buidhe, is clearly expanded in its myth as it has the ability to inflict wounds incapable of being healed, for it leaves the effect and removes the cause. This principle can be explained as healing magic would heal whatever 'caused' the wounds, while the wounds themselves would be the 'effect'. It is a simple form of time magic if you wish to call it as that, as it removes whatever attack was used to do the infliction of the wound and simply leaves the wounds there. If higher magic is used to entirely remove the 'effect' entirely making it simply disappear from time then that too is a possible way to reverse the curse. In more scientific terms, the body registers the wounds as being already part of the body, since the infliction of the wound never happens it perceives the wound as something already there with nothing bad to signal the body to do anything. The curse of Gáe Buidhe is capable of being dispelled by destroying the spear itself, reverting the effects and healing its victims to full health when done so.
The Crimson Rose of Exorcism, or also known as Gáe Dearg on the other hand, is the lesser known spear that was never fully used in the battle with Eamon but it is said that the Crimson Spear is capable of piercing through magical projections and sever them making magical enchantments and barriers break down in the most simplest of terms. However, it should be known that crimson spear in incapable of breaking down complete magic such as magically binding contracts in the past or curses already inflicted on poor souls but can suppress their effects with the tip of Gáe Dearg.
Eamon during the last few hours of his life was granted a special tattoo called 'The Mark of Autumn' which spread throughout his body as he burned his soul for more energy. Its latent powers still remain as it gives Eamon increased stamina, strength and speed but its true use will never be capable of being used. As Eamon's soul is something not even a god can repair once shredded for to repair and replicate the original soul of such a person with power like Eamon, would require more power and time than the God resurrecting him had time to do so. If the mark should be used, it presumed that Eamon would be disintegrated immediately for the amount of his soul he still has left in him is insignificant.
Outside of our hero's armaments, Eamon was known to be a skilled combatant and wasn't afraid to use dirty underhand tactics when needed. Being a youthful and young soul in his prime around the age of 20, his body was at its peak where he obtained speed and agility that was at the peak of human potential but after death it went beyond the peak of human capability being faster than any human capable of being. While his endurance and tenacity was also a noticeable trait from his legend, that he was capable of defending a castle for 4 days before finally stumbling into the arms of death. But not before making a last-ditch effort into defending what he treasured making him quite willful to defy and even amuse Death herself to giving the Spearman a chance. The least noticeable ability was his strength which may have been lacking in flashy example, but he was still capable of wielding two spears of different length and fight using both of them without problem while still being deadly. Capable of blocking two swords of older and stronger men whose stature were bigger than him it also is an example of his seemingly unnoticeable strength which is outshined by his agility making his attacks look weak.
His prowess and experience as a warrior is also noticeable when he was capable of defending his two senior knights and was capable of pushing them back before finally holding against three knights on his own. Knowing that he would be defeated if he simply defended, he used his smarts to distrupt the flow of battle and take them all down individually. Also in the battle to defend the castle, he is also shown to be capable of taking out multiple opponents and never wasting a single action for every step he takes he makes sure something worthy comes out of it. Showing that Eamon was an expierence warrior, capable of observing the flow of battle and leading to the most suitable outcome possible.
While not part of his legend, under the teaching of Death herself who pity the warrior for his potential being wasted decided to train the young man to be her companion and guardian. Training Eamon to fight necromancers basically who disturbed the naturally flow of life, he was taught the basics of magic and how to detect the most noticeable signs of magic being used beside it being fired at you. Learning much more about runic magic and its capabilities, Death pleasantly taught him so that her trusty knight wouldn't so easily be destroyed when she sent him out. Being a very capable Runic Mage, using his latent magical prowess and knowledge to create clever chains of runes to create interesting effects. All this training Death done was for making Eamon her executioner for the souls of the dead who suffer from those who are living and manipulating them, however, he only is sent out when an undead problem gets too serious otherwise it is left alone. It was a mutial relationship, where he learned and in exchanged tested it out by serving Death.
A G E O F L E G E N D
46, 000 Years
yoshua171 The Loremaster
Member
Seen
11 hrs ago
"It is my last conscious breath which shall sunder your being, demon! Let history remember that. Let him know that were it not for you, he would know my fury!"
N A M E / A L I A S
Lyrsaeyn Dryeir – Beacon of the Lost.
A G E O F L E G E N D
48,000.
M Y T H O L O G Y
As told from the Journals of Orthun Raith:
“Born among the once petty folk of Evaeryn, the larger of two islands off the southern coast of Evaeryn, Lyrsaeyn's story is one of tragedy. Loved only by his poor urchin parents, the young child was kept secret from the townsfolk so that the family, though poor and miserly, might live a peaceful life. It was not to be so, for at the age of seven their secret was discovered and so was revealed to the Islanders the blindness of the child. First he was cast into the forests, made to survive in the wilds of the town.
"Lost and alone for days Lyrsaeyn wandered among the trees, yet no beast attacked him and even what plants could have harmed him, did not. So it was that a month later the young, frightened child emerged from the forest...but alas he was changed. His blind eyes could see and his awakened sight was frightening to the villagers, as his eyes shone a haunting light, full of an intensity which pierced the soul itself. So he was chained and brought to knee before the city's leader and the execution whom he controlled.
"Yet, when his form they sought to kill, the winds rose, the woods shrieked, and the earth trembled—sky shrouded in malicious clouds. Thunder and lightning descended upon the village and so, as the blade swung through the air, it was struck, the executioner felled, and the blade struck through the air, where it pierced the leader's heart.
"Then, as if nothing at all had transpired, the sky was clear and the marketplace of the city...calm. The folk of Evaeryn looked at one another, and then to the boy with terror and awe in their eyes and so...they allowed him stay in the village for five more years. Still, as nothing further occurred in this time, the Islanders grew restless, forgetting the results before, and so sent him into Evaeryn's forests once more, bidding him farewell and warning him never to return.
"So the boy wandered among the wilderness, now more aware of his circumstances...and the world around him. He came to feel comfortable among the forests of the land, but the island, with its vile memories, made him restless. So it was that he came to Evaeryn's coast, and as if waiting for him, was a fishing boat. Allowed on board, the boy was delivered to the mainland, South of Heartlands.
"His path taking him through towns and forests, Lyrsaeyn brought peace to wherever he went, as spirits were called to him...and away from those whom they tormented. With time they became a burden and so, hearing of the Wisemen of Orthus' Isle, the young man made way to the smaller of the southern islands: The Isle of Orthus.
"Twas here, in the forests of the temple islands that the Wisemen taught him the ways of the Invoker, showing him the path he was to tread. It is said that he stayed for two years, before the winds of fate called him away.
"There were no winds. No, only the words of a hooded stranger come in the dead of night. To him the stranger spoke these words, 'To the Heartlands go, scion of mind and spirit both. Your life, while a burden to you, is one of just purpose. For in the Heart of these lands there slumbers a beast, and only by your hand and that of two others, can it be slain. Without one the others fail. Do not fail.' The man, it is said, turned and began to walk away. If the young man replied history does not remember his words.
"Nonetheless, given purpose by the enigmatic stranger, Lyrsaeyn bid the Wisemen farewell, and set sail, then made way to the Heartlands on foot. However, granted greater power and understanding of the world, Lyrsaeyn became a saviour to the people—or so many would like to think.
"Often untold by storytellers and minstrels both, there are those few who tell the story of Lyr's wretched trek. For while much good was wrought in his wake, the world is a balance, and so—though I regret speak it—evil was wrought as well. Though most benefited from his passing, there were those unlucky few who drew the mage's ire, and to them and all who were near came depravity of a sort not seen since his passing.
"Villages left with not a conscious soul, minds torn from their bodies while others still are haunted to this day, the taint of rage and fury in the errant spirits of old. Still, perhaps the outcome was worth the cost.
"However, with the fateful meeting of Lyrsaeyn and Sarynia, the storm calmed and so the beginnings of the Triumvirate were made. Then as news of blood spilled on the soil of Evaeryn reached his ears Lyrsaeyn, pulled by fate, made his way to the island where the third of the Triumvirate came to know the other two.
“Retracing his steps, Lrysaeyn made his way back to the Island of Evaeryn, a place which had brought little but despair to his life. So it was that he caught a boat to its shores and upon arriving discovered the people of the island in a sorry state. Everyone of them, women and children included, had been slaughtered—they had been judged unworthy, some say.
Twas on that island that the Triumvirate united, though little is known as to exactly why. From there, the trio made their way northwest.
It was there, in the Heartlands, that the Triumvirate's Legend truly began."
"When the Restless March was completed, the three Trials of Mind, Body, and Soul overcome, the time came for the Triumvirate of eld to set their sights upon the Elysian Plains and meet the destiny that the Prince of the Void had laid out for them. Few records manage to recount precisely what it was that was fought, referring to it only as a great evil, but the true name of the scourge of the realm that they faced was Lazarus, the Undying.
As little literature survived Lazarus' various onslaughts, and history is written in the glory-emboldened eyes of those who did manage to drive the abomination into slumber, the truth of what Lazarus was or could do is lost, even to we Fates. Lazarus possessed unnatural durability, to the point that it simply could not be killed by normal means or normal men, and only with great sacrifices was it pushed to the brink of dormancy that it hovered upon before it set to consume all things. We believe that Lazarus corrupted and twisted the natural cycle of life to its own benefit, drawing strength from the untimely demise of those around it to extend its own time in this world. Perhaps, initially, it was no more than a nuisance but the continued reaping of helpless souls eventually rendered it beyond death until the Triumvirate arrived. Even now we do not know if this explanation is true, as none of the Triumvirate survived the encounter (with the exception of Lyr, whose mind was broken and thus was of no use)."
When the Triumvirate completed their respective Trials, they each marched upon the resting grounds of the abomination Lazarus and sought to vanquish it for all of eternity. In order to weaken the creature, Dormeria raised a veritable army of the dead whose vitality and souls had long been spent to wear Lazarus down, sacrificing much of her own life force to do so. Lyr shattered Lazarus' mind, bringing his own to the very edge of madness, and grappled with the creature long enough for Sarynia to perform the ritual to bind its soul within a mortal vessel that it might be slain. Lyr was the first to sacrifice himself, utterly breaking his own mind to temporarily render Lazarus vulnerable to the psychic and spiritual onslaught of Sarynia. While Sarynia bound the creature's essence, Dormeria prepared the ritual to bind the demon within her body and then die, killing them both in the process.
Dormeria's Trial of Body had taken its toll, and continued reliance upon Ukenagasu had left her with too little of her own inherent life force to bind Lazarus within herself for long enough to kill it. With no alternative, Dormeria bound the Undying within Sarynia's body and shortly thereafter breathed her last breath, crumbling to ash as she did so. Though strong of body and soul, Sarynia's mind could only contend with Lazarus for as long as Lyr's power weakened it, and Sarynia forfeited her soul to destroy Lazarus' - with no soul, Sarynia and Lazarus both expired within moments.
As only the three witnessed the battle, the stories that are told are all the world has to go by, with different cultures each celebrating a particular member of the Triumvirate and lording them above all others - some venerate Sarynia as an all-benevolent martyr betrated by Dormeria, some laud Lyr as the hero who outsmarted an undying demon, and some idolise Dormeria as the very essence of power and sacrifice. The only thing these various legends have in common is that they speak of the total eradication of Lazarus - and naught has been heard of the demon since.” - Historian Clorissa Thossarian, First Fate of the Order of the Skyward Eye.
A P P E A R A N C E
Standing at 5'9, slim form covered by cloak, hood, and the garments of a traveler, Lyrsaeyn has about him an air of mystery. His steps silent and his presence subtle, this mage is a man who keeps to himself. Often shaven despite his travels, Lyrsae does his best not to garner the attention of those around him, but despite his largely unassuming appearance, it is often that the lithe man finds others approaching him.
His form fairly athletic in musculature, features sharp and handsome, perhaps Lyr's most striking physical asset are his eyes. Shining from dark blue at the edges to a light cyan as they near their centers, Lyr's eyes have a subtle glow to them that, in the dim, clearly shine. Furthermore, should one catch the mage using his magic, this subtle glow shifts to a blinding ethereal fire. This is accompanied by the whispers, screams, and songs of any number of spirits as they whirl about him, bound to his being.
Lyrsaeyn's full traveling garb consists of many billowing layers, meant to insulate him from cold, but be loose enough to protect from heat. With the outer cloaks being largely waterproof from the oils of various plants and animals, Lyr's clothes serve him well in his travels.
A B I L I T I E S & E Q U I P M E N T
V A E N Y R -- L Y S A E A, G A T E W A Y S T O M E R I D I A N
A pair of rings, one crafted of the Heaven's shadow and the other of its light, Vaenyr and Lysaea were gifts from the God Orthus granted to Lyrsaeyn and Sarynia before their fateful battle against Lazarus, the Undying. While the rings appear to be polar opposites, the two are in truth twins in disguise. Possessing identical abilities, Vaenyr and Lysaea are capable of transmitting the boons of one upon another, thus transmitting certain protective properties between the wearers.
While the rings can be worn and utilized by anyone, they become innate when worn by those who were never meant to don their forms. When worn by the two they were created to unify their effects are as follow.
Lysaea, the ring which was worn by Lyrsaeyn, grants its wearer Sarynia's protection, thus shielding the mage greatly from psychic influences, which would otherwise pull on the soul and affect the mind. This primarily works upon negative or harmful influences meaning that Raelia, one of Lyrsaeyn's other Artifacts, would be unaffected by his wearing Lysaea. In fact, the two empower one another for reasons that only the two heroes know. The result is that Lyrsaeyn's ability to resist the influence of spirits bound to his person is heightened.
On the otherhand, Vaenyr, Sarynia's ring, grants its wearer heightened spiritual awareness, thus amplifying one's natural perception as well as allowing them to view emotions and impressions much as Lyrsaeyn does.
Last among the abilities of the two rings is their ability to allow their wearers an awareness of eachother's mental and emotional state. While this does not make them capable of reading one another's minds, it does make it easier for them to work together and for either to know whether their counterpart is alive and well. However, this awareness is not acute, meaning that it is more a vague impression if anything and with distance it becomes more vague. Thus, the closer Vaenyr is to Lysaea the more clear the awareness becomes.
While the rings become largely innate when worn by another, they do emit two frequencies that remain at the very edge of human hearing and extend outwards, channeling themselves through the spiritual energies throughout the realm. This allows them to be located by individuals with heightened hearing or magical awareness however, it also reveals just how the rings function as well. In essence, Vaenyr-Lysaea remain connected to one another by way of being part of the same whole, but power themselves via an exchange of energy between wearers. However, this exchange is minimal in nature meaning that the protective properties transmitted between individuals are weakened in some manner due to their being fueled by less energy. Still, these protections are weakened not by distance as they are transmitted directly between rings, rather than crossing the space that separates them.
R A E L I A, C H A R M O F T H E S I R E N
While it is said that Lyr bound the soul of a great magus into the amulet, the truth of the matter is far different. In truth, the Charm of the Siren was given to him by Sarynia Bael as a gift to sooth his pain and sharpen his focus. This reveals the Artifact's ability to bring a form of peace, infusing them with a dangerously disarming calm as the voice of the being held within, like a siren, sings its wearer into paradise. At least, this would be its effect should another without the blessing of its owner wear it. Instead, when worn by those with the blessing of its owner the Charm of the Siren diffuses stress, soothes the soul, and increases the focus of the wearer. In Lyrsaeyn's case, the amulet also serves to amplify his focus almost twenty-fold, thus increasing his range and potency phenomenally. This is largely due to the resonance which takes place between Lyrsaeyn and the Amulet's soul. How the amulet came to be inhabited by this soul is a detail lost to time, but perhaps, with his Resurrection, the mystery can be unraveled. Perhaps.
A R L A Y R E, W E L L O F S O U L S
An artifact of immense power, the Well of Souls is a long sword and sheath, the first more plain than the second. The longsword, which has been glimpsed by many, but remembered by few due to its nature possesses a host of complex inscriptions upon its form written in an unknown tongue. The longer the blade is exposed, the more these runes shift and shimmer upon the blade's surface. In regards to its sheath, which the longsword should have never been drawn from, it is ornately gilded with materials resembling silver, gold, and obsidian. The last of these three constantly shifts its location and arrangement when the blade is sheathed. It is said that this material is the essence of the Merkstave made stone, but such things are impossible to confirm.
What is not difficult to realize however are the devastating consequences of drawing the Artifact. In fact, so great is the power of the drawn blade, Arlayre, that since the loss of its sheath during the slaying of Lazarus, The Undying, the weapon has been placed upon the Altar of Souls in the center of the temple on the Isle of Orthus where it remains to this day. Since its relocation to the Isle, none, but the priests of Orthus have been capable of setting foot upon the island without being entrapped by the tool's insidious influence. This influence is such that it draws those with spirit, be they dead or living, to its form—culling their reason and sense of self. As a result those affected by the cursed blade often die of exposure, dehydration, or starvation—whichever comes first—due to the mindless urge to become one with its form. For the living, death binds the soul to the object while the spirits of the dead are bound the moment they enter its sway. While the blade's influence appears to cover the island itself, in truth it is the spirits which cover the twenty miles around the island, as well as the island itself. It is this storm of dead that prevents most from setting foot 'pon the island. Nonetheless, the blade's true influence spreads only a mile from its form.
As a result the Isle of Orthus has come to be known as the Bedlam of Souls and none who have so foolishly sailed the waters which surround it, let alone walked upon its shores, have left since the blade was relocated to it 30,000 years ago.
While the origins of Arlayre have never been confirmed, it is likely that, due to its immense power, it was not crafted by the hands of any mortal man, but was instead given as a gift to Lyr by Orthus himself.
It should be known that while the blade may appear powerful when unsheathed, it is useless without its sheath as it cannot even be carried into any populated location unless it has first been sheathed. It is this sheath which, so long as any portion of the blade is in it, restrains the more harmful influences of the blade--particularly its capability to influence the living. Additionally, the Well of Souls is not without its disadvantages, the most notable of which is the fact that while the unsheathed blade may have nigh indisputable power, this power is essentially useless to someone even so skilled as Lyrsaeyn. In fact, it is only with the sheath that the power can be contained within the blade, allowing its wielder to contain the spiritual power which has gathered to the blade over the millenia that it has been unsheathed. Still, even with its sheath the power's influence is not entirely curbed for its wielder. In fact, the very nature of Arlayre practically assures that the blade may only be partially unsheathed unless its wielder wishes to sacrifice themselves in one final attempt at victory.
While more rumor than fact, it is said that the strength of one's consciousness, and thus mind and will, dictate how strongly the Well of Souls will influence any given person. So it is seen that the weaker the will or lower the power, the less ability to resist one possesses. It is said that the ability of the Priests of Orthus to resist the blade's infernal power is evidence of this. However, it is just as true that no one has seen a living member of the isle's priests since the blade made the temple its home.
Who knows what is fact or fiction now?
V A L E ' S I N S I G H T
Born into a world of indistinct colors and shapes, Lyrsaeyn was said to be almost blind to the physical world, and this holds true. Rather than view the material layer of Ansus like most mortal men, Lyrsaeyn was born with the ability to perceive both the spiritual energies around him as well as the realms of Heaven and Merkstave. This makes him abundantly aware of the subtle energies of magic, the emotions, and the mind in particular. However, while he can sense those with powerful magics or strong minds, Lyr cannot intrude into the minds of the living in any direct sense. Instead, the mage can pick up on the emotions projected between people, allowing him to tell how someone is feeling and gain impressions as to their basic intentions or mind state. Still, this is not to say that he can ordain the intricate details of one's mind, nor the reason for one's emotions any better than most men—though the ability does allow him to largely circumvent his inability to read body language or facial expressions due to the blurry nature of his physical sight.
While this ability is primarily tied to his vision, over the course of his life it progressed further, tying itself into all of his senses, allowing him to better discern energies through the use of taste, touch, smell, and even sound. This as such allows him to hear the voices of the dead or disembodied as well as feel the whispers of consciousness which remain woven into the very fabric of Ansus itself.
Perhaps least known of his perceptual abilities is related to his awareness of the Heavens and Merkstave respectively. Once his awareness of the former allowed him a unique connection to what became his patron god, Orthus, Prince of the Void. Unfortunately, with the death of the gods, the Heavens are largely empty now and so it is that the Merkstave writhes while its counterpart remain earily quiet. Nonetheless, this ability may serve some purpose in the conflicts to come, after all, the future is a strange and nebulous thing and one can never be too prepared.
I N V O C A T I O N
A magic art which few in the lands of Ansus have ever taken to and even fewer have mastered, Invocation is the power to call upon and manipulate spirits or beings from either the Merkstave, or perhaps for the most favored of the gods, the Heavens themselves. For Lyrsaeyn, this allowed him, via his Mind aspect, to tap into the energies inherent to the spirit, namely the emotions and consciousness itself. By tapping into these forces Lyrsaeyn is capable of manipulating, purifying, and otherwise influencing the spirit and its energies—known commonly as thoughts, emotions, and lifeforce. A wielder of this magic is first and foremost capable of affecting change to the spirit by imposing their will and their emotion upon them.
In the case of the living, Lyrsaeyn is only capable of emitting emotional or thought-form suggestions, which can influence one's natural actions only if their own will and emotion does not overpower the suggestion—as it so often does. However, unlike the minds of living men, the consciousness of a spirit is often weaker as it fades away and is integrated with the fabrics of Ansus. Due to Lyr's unique perception he is even capable, unlike any after or before him, of drawing spiritual energy, which has been integrated with Ansus, out and moulding it into a physical force, which he may wield to his own devices. More often than not this energy is utilized to impart greater tangibility to the spirits which he so frequently used as his tool in the world.
It is said that with this power, Lyrsaeyn could sunder even the minds of immortal beasts, but storytellers do love their drama do they not?
B I N D I NG
An advanced form of Invocation, Binding is an art, which Lyr is said to have created himself, thus being the first Bound Mage in history. In essence, an Invoker can call upon the energies at their disposal and weave them into the bonds which hold an errant spirit to the physical world via their life's attachments. Once this is done the Mage imposes their will upon the bond, which the spirit's attachments have crafted and shifts the focus of said bonds. For Lyr, the Beacon of the Lost, this ability was utilized to bind errant spirits to his own, giving him greater influence, and ultimately complete control over both their energies and consciousness as a whole.
This art comes with great boons, allowing a bound mage to utilize the spirit to do their bidding, act as envoy for them, and supply them with its mental and spiritual energies thus empowering them in the process. However, binding or utilizing the energies of another is not an act which comes without a price—a fact which Lyrsaeyn was acutely aware of. When consuming the psychic or spiritual energies of a spirit bound to oneself, the user becomes reliant on these energies over time in addition to their own psyche becoming weaker and weaker over time. Additionally, should a malignant spirit or force be bound to something or someone that force will feed on their consciousness regardless to whether or not they feed on its energies, thus causing them to gradually lose their sanity. This incidentally makes it more likely for a Bound Mage to impart in the energies of these spirits to keep themselves sane.
This, as such, can turn its wielder into a form of psychic vampire, feeding off of the spiritual energies of other entities to maintain their own. In Lyr's case the Charm of the Siren was utilized, increasing his ability to resist the pull of the spirits bound to his person in addition to placating their lust for spiritual energies greatly. This alongside his proximity to Sarynia, the Soul's Bastion kept him sane and in relatively good mental health till the fateful battle against Lazarus.
A U R A
As a result of Lyrsaeyn's excessive use of Bound magic in his time, the man has become what one might call a spiritual Beacon. This is caused by a passive aura of psychic and spiritual energies, which flows from his form, created via his own energies mixing with those of Ansus, where they spread outwards. The resultant effect is an air which beckons people to come to him whether alive...or dead. The further away one is from him the weaker the effect, with few exceptions. The primary way in which this ability influences others is by causing an impulse to interact with Lyr, whether one knows who he is or not. However, this impulse is not specific and so the nature of that interaction is undefined. Furthermore, due to the sheer density of spiritual energy which became inherent to his being, Lyrsaeyn is a spiritual beacon, making him easily detectable by almost anyone with even a shred of magical sensitivity. While he can mask his exact location and suppress this energy greatly with the use of bound spirits, it is impossible for him to become wholly without presence. Perhaps this will remain a burden in this life as it was in the past...or maybe the world has changed.
Nonetheless, it is said that in life, it was this Aura which brought many a tragedy upon Lyrsaeyn. Though perhaps it brought him good fortune as well, since it is likely the very force which brought the Triumvirate together. Such things are hard to tell as in legend fact and fiction are blurred together making the truth quite the illusive thing indeed. Such is the nature of Myth.
R E N D I N G
A dark power discovered only due to the mind enhancing effects of Binding Lyr was capable of achieving heights unheard of by any before or after him. By this it is meant that he discovered that with sufficiently vast quantities of spiritual energy one is capable of damaging the soul or spiritual energy of others. Considered his most devastating ability, Rending came to be known particularly well among select communities south of the Heartlands, who were exposed to Lyrsaeyn's power before he had gained hold sufficient enough to contain it.
It is this power in its strongest form that served to slay the seemingly immortal Lazarus. In its most powerful form, Rending is capable of shattering the very bonds of soul and mind and forcibly integrating them into the world or the mage themselves. This spell, known as Mind Rend, is however immensely taxing not only in the energy required, but in the fact that it draws not only from the spiritual energies gathered by the user. No, instead, Mind Rend sacrifices both four times the energy density of the soul the mage wishes to affect, and a portion of the user's consciousness. It is for this reason that the use of Mind Rend upon Lazarus sundered Lyrsaeyn's mind as well, rendering him practically bereft of any mind at all, the rest of which he lost in the years that followed.
Due to its immense power and the sacrifices which are intrinisic to its use, Mind Rend is an ability not to be utilized lightly. Furthermore, the greater the power and psychic resistance or resilience of an individual the more energy it requires to use Mind Rend upon them. Lyrsaeyn, though legend tells not of it, firmly abhors this spell, despite being its creator.
Born into a world of indistinct colors and shapes, Lyrsaeyn was said to be almost blind to the physical world, and this holds true. Rather than view the material layer of Ansus like most mortal men, Lyrsaeyn was born with the ability to perceive both the spiritual energies around him as well as the realms of Heaven and Merkstave. This makes him abundantly aware of the subtle energies of magic, the emotions, and the mind in particular. However, while he can sense those with powerful magics or strong minds, Lyr cannot intrude into the minds of the living in any direct sense. Instead, the mage can pick up on the emotions projected between people, allowing him to tell how someone is feeling and gain impressions as to their basic intentions or mind state. Still, this is not to say that he can ordain the intricate details of one's mind, nor the reason for one's emotions any better than most men—though the ability does allow him to largely circumvent his inability to read body language or facial expressions due to the blurry nature of his physical sight.
While this ability is primarily tied to his vision, over the course of his life it progressed further, tying itself into all of his senses, allowing him to better discern energies through the use of taste, touch, smell, and even sound. This as such allows him to hear the voices of the dead or disembodied as well as feel the whispers of consciousness which remain woven into the very fabric of Ansus itself.
Perhaps least known of his perceptual abilities is related to his awareness of the Heavens and Merkstave respectively. Once his awareness of the former allowed him a unique connection to what became his patron god, Orthus, Prince of the Void. Unfortunately, with the death of the gods, the Heavens are largely empty now and so it is that the Merkstave writhes while its counterpart remain earily quiet. Nonetheless, this ability may serve some purpose in the conflicts to come, after all, the future is a strange and nebulous thing and one can never be too prepared.
I N V O C A T I O N
A magic art which few in the lands of Ansus have ever taken to and even fewer have mastered, Invocation is the power to call upon and manipulate spirits or beings from either the Merkstave, or perhaps for the most favored of the gods, the Heavens themselves. For Lyrsaeyn, this allowed him, via his Mind aspect, to tap into the energies inherent to the spirit, namely the emotions and consciousness itself. By tapping into these forces Lyrsaeyn is capable of manipulating, purifying, and otherwise influencing the spirit and its energies—known commonly as thoughts, emotions, and lifeforce. A wielder of this magic is first and foremost capable of affecting change to the spirit by imposing their will and their emotion upon them.
In the case of the living, Lyrsaeyn is only capable of emitting emotional or thought-form suggestions, which can influence one's natural actions only if their own will and emotion does not overpower the suggestion—as it so often does. However, unlike the minds of living men, the consciousness of a spirit is often weaker as it fades away and is integrated with the fabrics of Ansus. Due to Lyr's unique perception he is even capable, unlike any after or before him, of drawing spiritual energy, which has been integrated with Ansus, out and moulding it into a physical force, which he may wield to his own devices. More often than not this energy is utilized to impart greater tangibility to the spirits which he so frequently used as his tool in the world.
It is said that with this power, Lyrsaeyn could sunder even the minds of immortal beasts, but storytellers do love their drama do they not?
B I N D I NG
An advanced form of Invocation, Binding is an art, which Lyr is said to have created himself, thus being the first Bound Mage in history. In essence, an Invoker can call upon the energies at their disposal and weave them into the bonds which hold an errant spirit to the physical world via their life's attachments. Once this is done the Mage imposes their will upon the bond, which the spirit's attachments have crafted and shifts the focus of said bonds. For Lyr, the Beacon of the Lost, this ability was utilized to bind errant spirits to his own, giving him greater influence, and ultimately complete control over both their energies and consciousness as a whole.
This art comes with great boons, allowing a bound mage to utilize the spirit to do their bidding, act as envoy for them, and supply them with its mental and spiritual energies thus empowering them in the process. However, binding or utilizing the energies of another is not an act which comes without a price—a fact which Lyrsaeyn was acutely aware of. When consuming the psychic or spiritual energies of a spirit bound to oneself, the user becomes reliant on these energies over time in addition to their own psyche becoming weaker and weaker over time. Additionally, should a malignant spirit or force be bound to something or someone that force will feed on their consciousness regardless to whether or not they feed on its energies, thus causing them to gradually lose their sanity. This incidentally makes it more likely for a Bound Mage to impart in the energies of these spirits to keep themselves sane.
This, as such, can turn its wielder into a form of psychic vampire, feeding off of the spiritual energies of other entities to maintain their own. In Lyr's case the Charm of the Siren was utilized, increasing his ability to resist the pull of the spirits bound to his person in addition to placating their lust for spiritual energies greatly. This alongside his proximity to Sarynia, the Soul's Bastion kept him sane and in relatively good mental health till the fateful battle against Lazarus.
A U R A
As a result of Lyrsaeyn's excessive use of Bound magic in his time, the man has become what one might call a spiritual Beacon. This is caused by a passive aura of psychic and spiritual energies, which flows from his form, created via his own energies mixing with those of Ansus, where they spread outwards. The resultant effect is an air which beckons people to come to him whether alive...or dead. The further away one is from him the weaker the effect, with few exceptions. The primary way in which this ability influences others is by causing an impulse to interact with Lyr, whether one knows who he is or not. However, this impulse is not specific and so the nature of that interaction is undefined. Furthermore, due to the sheer density of spiritual energy which became inherent to his being, Lyrsaeyn is a spiritual beacon, making him easily detectable by almost anyone with even a shred of magical sensitivity. While he can mask his exact location and suppress this energy greatly with the use of bound spirits, it is impossible for him to become wholly without presence. Perhaps this will remain a burden in this life as it was in the past...or maybe the world has changed.
Nonetheless, it is said that in life, it was this Aura which brought many a tragedy upon Lyrsaeyn. Though perhaps it brought him good fortune as well, since it is likely the very force which brought the Triumvirate together. Such things are hard to tell as in legend fact and fiction are blurred together making the truth quite the illusive thing indeed. Such is the nature of Myth.
R E N D I N G
A dark power discovered only due to the mind enhancing effects of Binding Lyr was capable of achieving heights unheard of by any before or after him. By this it is meant that he discovered that with sufficiently vast quantities of spiritual energy one is capable of damaging the soul or spiritual energy of others. Considered his most devastating ability, Rending came to be known particularly well among select communities south of the Heartlands, who were exposed to Lyrsaeyn's power before he had gained hold sufficient enough to contain it.
It is this power in its strongest form that served to slay the seemingly immortal Lazarus. In its most powerful form, Rending is capable of shattering the very bonds of soul and mind and forcibly integrating them into the world or the mage themselves. This spell, known as Mind Rend, is however immensely taxing not only in the energy required, but in the fact that it draws not only from the spiritual energies gathered by the user. No, instead, Mind Rend sacrifices both four times the energy density of the soul the mage wishes to affect, and a portion of the user's consciousness. It is for this reason that the use of Mind Rend upon Lazarus sundered Lyrsaeyn's mind as well, rendering him practically bereft of any mind at all, the rest of which he lost in the years that followed.
Due to its immense power and the sacrifices which are intrinisic to its use, Mind Rend is an ability not to be utilized lightly. Furthermore, the greater the power and psychic resistance or resilience of an individual the more energy it requires to use Mind Rend upon them. Lyrsaeyn, though legend tells not of it, firmly abhors this spell, despite being its creator.
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Caecilia The Dancing Duelist
Her movements graced every battlefield and no foe could scratch her skin. She dazzled and scared her foes and led her troops like she had been doing it for years.
Mythology
Music sounds around the campfire. Men holler and laugh, women dance and sing. Spirits are high and morale surges. That is the power of music. Music isn't only used for entertainment. Music can calm the fiercest beast, empower the bravest warrior, and inspire crowds of thousands to march into battle.
Dancers aren't known for their battle prowess, but beauty can be a facade. Such is the way of Caecilia, the battle dancer. A vision of beauty, femininity, and softness, under the mask she is a fierce warrior and strong battlemaster.
She wasn't always the warrior she ended up becoming. Born to a family of warriors, she was the only girl after a line of 6 boys. Her father was a strong swordsman and her mother was a fierce archer. Her older brothers followed in their footsteps, each one becoming a fighter and joining the forces. Still too young, Caecilia stayed home when her family fought. She stayed with her grandmother and helped cook for the soldiers. This battle was hard and the casualties ran high, including her parents and four of her brothers. The two that returned were scarred and severely wounded. The clan lost many able fighters in that battle, and fear made them disperse.
With only her grandmother and two brothers with her, they ventured on their way to find a new home. Being the only one in the group, Caecilia took a sword and fended off attacks from creatures and raiders.
They finally found a traveling group that allowed them to stay and travel with them. Her brothers, once able, joined the combat forces. Her grandmother continued to help cook, but shortly after she passed on. It was here that Caecilia found her love of dancing and music when she stayed with the group's lead musician. Her name was Leywin and she inspired Caecilia to feel the rhythm and pursue her love of dancing.
Fates had a different idea in mind and a group of marauders attacked the camp while part of the soldiers were scouting. They started slaughtering the women and children first before her new home started fighting back. As the marauders attacked, Leywin took up a sword and fended off a few of them before getting stabbed. Caecilia, in a fit of anger, took up the sword and killed her attackers. She ventured out and joined the forces and pushed back the attackers. The marauders wounded them, but all was not lost. Fueled by vengeance, Caecilia took it upon herself to lead the charge against the marauders, detailing battle plans and coming up with tactics. In memory of Leywin, Caecilia used her dance background to gracefully dodge attacks and fight off her enemies, leading the clan to victory.
Caecilia soon led her own league of warrior women, all dancers and fighters. To this day, she is seen as the spirit of the dance and is valued for her bravery, determination, strong will, and loyalty to her cause.
Dancers aren't known for their battle prowess, but beauty can be a facade. Such is the way of Caecilia, the battle dancer. A vision of beauty, femininity, and softness, under the mask she is a fierce warrior and strong battlemaster.
She wasn't always the warrior she ended up becoming. Born to a family of warriors, she was the only girl after a line of 6 boys. Her father was a strong swordsman and her mother was a fierce archer. Her older brothers followed in their footsteps, each one becoming a fighter and joining the forces. Still too young, Caecilia stayed home when her family fought. She stayed with her grandmother and helped cook for the soldiers. This battle was hard and the casualties ran high, including her parents and four of her brothers. The two that returned were scarred and severely wounded. The clan lost many able fighters in that battle, and fear made them disperse.
With only her grandmother and two brothers with her, they ventured on their way to find a new home. Being the only one in the group, Caecilia took a sword and fended off attacks from creatures and raiders.
They finally found a traveling group that allowed them to stay and travel with them. Her brothers, once able, joined the combat forces. Her grandmother continued to help cook, but shortly after she passed on. It was here that Caecilia found her love of dancing and music when she stayed with the group's lead musician. Her name was Leywin and she inspired Caecilia to feel the rhythm and pursue her love of dancing.
Fates had a different idea in mind and a group of marauders attacked the camp while part of the soldiers were scouting. They started slaughtering the women and children first before her new home started fighting back. As the marauders attacked, Leywin took up a sword and fended off a few of them before getting stabbed. Caecilia, in a fit of anger, took up the sword and killed her attackers. She ventured out and joined the forces and pushed back the attackers. The marauders wounded them, but all was not lost. Fueled by vengeance, Caecilia took it upon herself to lead the charge against the marauders, detailing battle plans and coming up with tactics. In memory of Leywin, Caecilia used her dance background to gracefully dodge attacks and fight off her enemies, leading the clan to victory.
Caecilia soon led her own league of warrior women, all dancers and fighters. To this day, she is seen as the spirit of the dance and is valued for her bravery, determination, strong will, and loyalty to her cause.
Appearance
Caecilia appears as a young woman in her late twenties to early thirties. She has long, blonde hair that falls to her shoulders and stunning light blue eyes. Her legend would have you believe this as such, however Caecilia is true to legend at the age of 18. She still has her long, blonde hair and blue eyes. Her skin is pale. She stands at 5'7'' and weighs 120 lbs. She has a curvy frame to fit her dancing lifestyle. Normally, she will wear dancing garments like this. During battle, she will still wear dresses like this, daring any man to try and hit her.
Abilities & Equipmnet
Caecilia is known for her grace and beauty, using these to her advantage outside and inside of battle. Arete is her goddess of choice and is blessed with a jeweled necklace with her blessing on it for aid and protection for the dancing warrior. Caecillia's voice is said to be able to calm the angriest beast and charm the most corrupt man. Combined with her dancing, she is a force to be reckoned with when not in battle.
When the time to fight does come, Caecilia has a few tricks up her sleeve. Using her singing, she is able to grant boons and boosts to her allies and discourage and weaken her foes. For combat, she uses her dancing to gracefully move about the battlefield. She carries her chakrams in battle as throwable weapons as well as close combat. She also carries the sword she picked up in the marauder attack, but mainly only as a memorial to Leywin.
When the time to fight does come, Caecilia has a few tricks up her sleeve. Using her singing, she is able to grant boons and boosts to her allies and discourage and weaken her foes. For combat, she uses her dancing to gracefully move about the battlefield. She carries her chakrams in battle as throwable weapons as well as close combat. She also carries the sword she picked up in the marauder attack, but mainly only as a memorial to Leywin.
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N A M E / A L I A S
T H E E L D E R D R A G O N & F I R E H E A R T
Rthyin - The Elder Dragon
T H E E L D E R D R A G O N & F I R E H E A R T
A G E O F L E G E N D
50,000 Y E A R S A G O
M Y T H O L O G Y
Rthyin - The Elder Dragon. A legend that goes far beyond the living memory of man, a creature that has been both revered and hated more than any other in known history. The legend of The Elder Dragon is a throw back to a time before the heroes who are waking once again, back to a time when chaos stalked the lands and men hid for fear of the mighty beasts that might come upon their homes and lands. Many of the once mighty Wyrms have been hunted to extinction by glory seekers and heroes who sought to destroy them for the damage they wrought upon the realms of men. There is one however, a beast greater than all the others, whose legend eclipses all others.
The birth of Rthyin is reckoned to be be about the same time as the creation of the nine realms and the worlds within them. Legend has it that all other Drakes, Wyverns, and Dragons come from this one Elder Dragon, created from the very elements they thrived in, this is why all manner of armoured Wyrms could once be found in nearly every corner of the known world. Truth? That is impossible to tell for the Elder Dragon has not been seen in nearly 50,000 years. The last great story of the Elder Dragon is not a flattering one and tells of a great battle between this mighty creature and a hero named Ansur, or the Forefather, as humans call him. It is not known for certain what occurred but all can agree that the Elder Dragon has not been seen since the battle and the most recent story of the beast is now only a footnote in the victories of Ansur.
Despite such dour history, there is a small group of humans deep in the desert, the Burned Hammer Tribe, who worship the Elder Dragon and in return enjoy an almost neighbourly relationship with the scattered and ever dwindling Wyrm population. Their capital is built around the mouth of a defunct volcano, the site where legend says the Elder Dragon lay down and died following the battle. They have converted the inside to a great arena and they hold yearly feasts and games to honour the vanished creature in the hopes that one day it may yet rise again and reward their loyalty with wealth and power.
Much of legend speaks of the Elder Dragon as a great black beast, bigger than your average Wyrm by considerable size. The Burned Hammer Tribe believe that should the Elder Dragon return it will be larger and more powerful than before and wreck its vengeance upon the world. Interestingly, it is also believed that the Elder Dragon can assume the form of a beautiful female human and may already be walking the dunes of the Great Shifting Sea. This is why the Burned Hammer Tribe always welcomes lone female visitors with great courtesy and respect for it could be the Elder Dragon in mortal form.
There are many points in history where the Elder Dragon is featured before its battle with Ansur, but only a determined scholar with access to all the libraries of the world might be able to put together a comprehensive history of the creature.
A P P E A R A N C E
A B I L I T I E S / E Q U I P M E N T
The Elder Dragon is gifted with many abilities, some of which you probably know of, the ability to read human thoughts, conjure magic, and of course, breath fire and fly. These are the most commonly thought of traits when a human ponders the legends of the great Wyrms. Various different species of Wyrm have their own touches or variations but most can command some aspect of the surroundings in which they live, the Elder Dragon more so than most.
When in human form the Elder Dragon is thought to resemble a human fire mage dressed in humble desert gear and carrying two long daggers that bear no specific name. No one knows if the Dragons power is dulled when in human form and most suspect that anyone who might know is dead. The human form is thought to have been taken in a search for companionship at a time when Wyrms were becoming rare in the world and Dragons were forced to seek out other races for company.
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