[CHAR] A Tale of Owls and Wolves (Casual Version)

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[CHAR] A Tale of Owls and Wolves (Casual Version)

Large Group
Fantasy
Casual
18+
Medieval

GM Famotill

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Hidden 7 yrs ago → 7 yrs ago

Zeroth

A Tale of Wolves

Content Warning:This RP may contain uncomfortable or violent themes. While this won't make up the entirety of the RP it will be featured. Quests will feature a summary (and content warning) as well as links to the starting point. If a quest features a topic you are uncomfortable with feel free to skip over it.

Tale of Wolves RP (For Players):Here

Vazheera Shadowsun@Rithy

Name: Vazheera Shadowsun
Continent of Birth: Penault
Race: Dark Elf
Class: Warrior, with a touch of Rogue as she is quite sneaky!
Mage School of Foci: N/A
Starter Equipment: Two Swords, a Dagger and her Bow with arrows. A simple alchemy & poisoner kit. 
Age: 67
Personality: Straightforward & Hot Blooded.
Character Traits: Skilled, Confident, Perceptive, Superior, Narrow-Minded.
Strengths: Bladesmanship, especially in 1on1 fights, and Stealth. Proficient in most types of fighting, but a master with blades and unarmed fighting.
Weakness: Keep her away from any social encounters, especially cross-cultural ones on sensitive issues!
Fears: Rats.
Brief History: Shortly after her birth, Vazheera; like many of her peers; was gifted by her parents up to the Vaiz Ze Raan, also known as "the Temple of the Bloodied Path", which was a mix between a warrior academy and death cult tasked with raising future generations of warriors for her city. Raised to be a instrument of death for the priesthood, she was taught the art of war along with her sisters by the ancient masters of the temple, eventually becoming a fully-fledged soldier.
Since then, most of her existence has revolved around her city, living mostly separated from any other race and culture short of in the form of wars & slaves. It is only recently that she has begun the steps towards gaining a leadership role despite her relative young age, where one of the requirements is that she possess worldly experience, and so therefore she choose to seek sanction to leave her society behind in order to adventure out in the world so as to later return as an eligible candidate for further elevation.

Siella Faeren@Lionhearted




Name:
 Siella Faeren
Continent of Birth:
 Valenndale
Race:
 Wood Elf
Class:
 Mage
Mage School of Foci:
 Constitution Mage
Starter Equipment:
 Siella wears protective leather garments since she partakes in battle quite frequently while sporting her elven cloak. Although she generally is accompanied by a companion that is better fit for killing, she can utilize her elven short sword to kill or for added protection. Within her small backpack she carries: a spell book to read through to help perfect certain spells that she’s learning, a map of whichever lands she’s treading. some potions, food, water, and herbs for whenever the items deem necessary.
Age:
 28
Personality:
 Siella is very calm, collected, and determined. She despises those that underestimate her and she’ll go to great lengths to try and prove people wrong when they doubt her. Being a constitution mage, it is obvious that she is protective over her allies, and even more so when it comes to trusted companions and family. Siella is very good at subduing her anger and her emotions, commonly meditating when she’s faced with an overflow of emotions. It takes a lot to bring Siella to an uncontrollable anger.

With a history of battle under her belt, Siella has a minor case of PTSD when it comes to loud noises, generally resurfacing when she’s within an environment that is very public or eerie. Siella does have a good intuition when it comes to hostilities or threats, which is thanks to her training since she’ll need to cast a quick barrier or three when faced with sudden attacks. Although, this type of training has made her to become constantly on edge. 

While Siella does have many deemed good traits, she is very hard to become close to since she’s more of an independent elf. It wouldn’t be expected, judging from her field of magic that she pursued, but she only trusts those that she finds worthy.
Character Traits:
 Determined • Brave • Calm • Defensive • Initiator • Focused 

Strengths:

√ Barriers and shields
√ Protective auras
√ Curing certain ailments
√ Healing minor wounds
√ Awareness
√ Mobility
Weaknesses:

Melee combat
Killing
Mobility while casting
Hostile magic
Battling by herself
Fears:
 As any constitutional mage would fear, Siella would continuously blame herself if an ally would die by her side on the battlefield. While practicing this form of magic, Siella swore an oath to protect her companions and ensure survival of those around her. Having an ally slip through her fingers and meet their fate is what Siella fears before any battle, but perhaps this is what drives her to become better. Siella also strongly fears decisions of life and death, and decisions of sacrifice — one can’t protect them all. 
Brief History:
 Born to a mighty, revered tribe leader, Siella was expected to follow within his footsteps to become the revered warrior that all of it’s tribesmen aim to be. Playful and energetic as she was, it was difficult to teach Siella the ways of their tribe, and the many responsibilities that she would grow up to acquire. The jungle was like her home away from home: meddling with fierce beasts, climbing to acquire the fruit of the tallest tree, and bushwhacking her way up a steep mountain were all daily tasks that she ignored the dangers of. Since her birth, she generated a fearless attitude towards the land, and accepted any challenge that was presented of her. While she was disciplined to stay away from these deadly provocations, she would always find herself to be in a situation that she would barely make it out of. 

It didn’t take long before Siella’s magical affinity was apparent, taking on a powerful blood flow of magic that was past down from her high-elven ancestors. Praised for her gift, they bestowed the decision upon her to decide on which branch of magic she would like to pursue. For many, this would be like taking a child to a candy store, but for Siella, it was a hard decision that had no correct answer. It was a gift, yes, but a responsibility to learn the branch of magic that would suit the tribe the best. For weeks, Siella neglected traveling to the high-elves from being stumped on which magic to take up. Book after book, she would research the many different possibilities, but each one offered it’s own set of demons. 

At age 15, during a time of battle and invasions, the overflow of wounded tribesmen that faced unheard of attacks is what really struck Siella to make the decision fast. A small chapter within her book suggested constitutional magic that explained the protection of allies, and healing if the protection was not enough. A clever form of magic this was, while it wasn’t destructive, it was tactical. So, Siella finally made the decision, and her free-spirit was tasked to pursue her first journey out of the tribe. Before setting off on her travels, they held a ceremony for the young girl that bestowed upon her the blessing of the tribe, and the mark on her face. This ceremony was spiritual, heart-warming, and ensured that her home will be ready to have her back at the end of her training. The tribe, saddened to let go of this child, knew she would come back with a new-found goal, and a more realistic dream that only a true leader would devise. And so she set off with her travel party, only to look back continuously until the tribe was buried along the horizon of thick trees, but even atop the mountains, she would scout out the tribe to bring back the rush of memories of her childhood.

Journeying through the forests and tasting her first experiences of true battle, she was becoming more and more ready to put her magical affinity to the test and become a new kind of warrior within her tribe. It was a long haul to reach the gates of Ellvenaan, mostly due to the hostile beasts that the travel party encountered before reaching the road. The more she travelled, the more it hit her that this quest to become a great mage was necessary, but bittersweet. She held the tears back, and only envisioned the day that she would return anew and ready to take on the role as chief of the tribe.

As she finally reached the gates, she was welcomed in and she was placed within a local inn that was owned by a former member of the tribe. Welcoming her in with open arms, and even giving her a respectful bow, she felt at home in a matter of weeks. The travel party left to return to their homelands to help battle against the invasions, while Siella began on her training to become the mage that she wished to be. Roaming the busy streets within the heart of Ellvenaan, it was difficult for her to find the mentor that she did. Within her tribe, she was respected and treated highly, but within the heavy gates of Ellvenaan, she was treated as dirt off the sidewalk. It took a few weeks of running around to finally get her head around the map she was given and she soon wound up within a sanctuary that housed incredible mages.

She then met her mentor, Erenil, whom listened to her story, saw the determination within her heart, and the light in her eyes. Taking her under his wing, she attended a school of magic, but trained with him during her free time. They built a strong connection, and she rushed to finish her schooling to hopefully return home as fast as possible. Despite her wood elf nature, she learned the traditions of the high elves and soon blended in as one, but still went back to her true heritage from time to time. Combining the combat of wood elves with the magical teaching of high elves ensured a skilled battlemage on the field. Erenil was amazed by her strength and fortitude, wishing for her to join their own army, but her destiny lied elsewhere. 

After years of practice and training, just before graduating and finishing her training with Erenil, she received word that her tribe had undertook a heavy attack. Spared the details, she left without notice to journey on her own to go back to her tribe. Although the path was long, and she forgot the way, she eventually reached the mountaintops in which she scouted her home from. She remembered the location along the horizon that the tribe would lay, the spot within the valley that the tribe would mark, but it wasn’t until she reached the broken gates that her heart would sink. Leaving at age 15, and returning at age 25, her dream of returning to help the tribe thrive was shattered as she was now faced with a pile of ashes, broken buildings, and unidentifiable bodies. Journeying through the barren tribe that was once lively with parties and cheering, she tried to layout what it would be like had she returned. This tragic moment caused her eyes to form streams of tears along her face, with a heart that beat so fast it was as if it was going to stop. 

Atop the staircase laid the chief’s hut, full of arrows and still smoking from a dying fire. She entered, only to see a sword stabbed within the gut of her father. His body was marked with slashes and bruises from the fight, but his death was cleaner than the rest of the tribesman. Siella approached, heaving and in despair, only to cry at his side for nearly an hour. This moment of anguish sparked a new light within Siella, adding to her already fearless personality, and making an oath to do her best to protect those that would ever come close to her.  She removed the elven sword that was stabbed within him, the sword of a leader, but it was now the sword of Siella. Beautifully-crafted as it was, it was very fitting for her to use this sword until she would slay the killers of her tribe. 

And so Siella set off after paying her respects to her tribe and giving them each a burial. Long days consisted of gathering rocks, digging holes, and gathering the remains of every tribesman she could. She now roams the lands as a mercenary, performing challenges to get coin, and to make a name for herself. Siella awaits impatiently for the time in which she would cross paths with the killers of her tribe to properly avenge the ones she loved. 

Moulder@Life in Stasis
Moulder

Continent of Birth: The Dregs of Valenndale
Race: High elf (Undead)
Age: Hard to tell, but it’s at least eleven months.
Class: Mage
Mage School of Foci: Necromancy
Appearance: 
Tall and thin, as anyone would expect of an elf. He carries himself proudly and steps gracefully, although he often forgets to watch where he’s going as his pointed nose is usually in some dusty tome. Setting him apart from other elves is his, to put it generously, lowbrow sense of fashion. Moulder seems uninterested in the sleek gowns and jewel tones favored by his elven brethren. Instead he wraps himself tightly in cheap, stained linens in whatever way they fit him. His wardrobe appears to consist of whatever articles he could pluck from the line outside a peasant's hovel.

Owing to his undead state, more of his body sloughs away as time passes. He dresses more with the object of keeping himself together rather than to strike a particular look.

The only splash of color comes from a heavy red scarf, which nests loosely around the lower half of his face. His mid-length white hair, bearing some memory of once being blond, has grown dry and strawlike. It's gathered into an unceremonious tail which gets lost in the crimson of his lumpy scarf.

Personality:
Moulder is too preoccupied with his own problems to truly notice anyone else's. However he does possess an elflike sense of honor, and he's usually amicable to an exchange of favors. He's always true to his word, and almost always honest, unless it's about his being a zombie—in which case he'll try to say whatever won't get him summarily burned or decapitated or the like.

Also elflike is his apathy for the world around him. He's uninterested in human politics or gnomish inventions or the ongoing plight of the Foreas. Moulder has enough to worry about, like keeping all of his limbs from suddenly falling off. Everything else just seems tedious and rather messy.

Brief History:
Moulder came into sudden and painful awareness while standing knee deep in the swampwaters of the Dregs in Valenndale, with no memory of how he'd gotten there or what had happened. His immediate surroundings offered nothing helpful, no clues or nearby roads, only depressing scenery. He could remember nothing of import, not even his own name. Upon leaving the water and examining his legs for leeches, he was relieved to discover that the parasites had no interest in him.

However, there was the matter of the broken arrow through his gullet.

All manner of relief left him as he realized his plight: he was an undead. An elf, that was nice, but a zombie one. Whatever glorious elven city he must have hailed from, they probably wouldn't be very eager to welcome a rotting cadaver.

His only possession, at the time, was a pewter ankh pendant hanging on a cord around his neck.

He wandered then, though he wasn't particularly certain to where. He needed answers: where he came from, why he wasn't properly dead, whether he had some connections somewhere, or even if his condition was somehow reversible. Perhaps he had some fat estate somewhere full of books and magic relics and all the fanciful things elves usually owned.

It wasn't long until he stumbled upon a burnt field, where a recent battle had taken place. The air was still tinged with arcane energy, but a thick smell of decay rising from the bloated corpses of horses and men indicated that the victors had long since rode away. His thoughts were interrupted as he felt his foot kick into the severed arm of a recently slain human.

Moulder, as he decided to call himself between the swamps and here, stared inquisitively at the arm for a long minute. Then, after some consideration, picked it up and began to eat.

In the eleven months since his awakening, Moulder has traveled from settlement to settlement seeking out libraries to find out more about his condition and the necromantic master that must have raised him into undeath. He has discovered that he too has some affinity for the necromantic arts, and has rigorously honed this skill in order to defend himself against wolves, the onslaught of further decay, and would-be slayers of the undead.

Starter Equipment:
- Tawny cape, magicked with a weak enchantment that wards against fire. 
- Necromantic grimoire, kept on a bronze chain around his thin waist.
- Monocle, for reading.
- Deadwood scepter, forged from the branch of a yew tree and imbued with necromantic power.
- Ankh necklace

Character Traits:
- Wry
- Detached
- Affable
- Measured
- Honest
- Eloquent

Strengths
- Sharp elven senses
- Clever speaker
- Resistant to death

Weaknesses:
- Physically weak
- Must consume flesh of corpses (preferably humanoid)
- Fire

Fears
- Fire
- Villagers with sharp farming tools
- Other necromancers

Mor'Dor Guldur @Bishop

Name: Mor'Dor Guldur 
Continent of Birth: High Mist
Race: Tiefling
Sexuality: |

Class: Elemental Monk
Starter Equipment: 
Robes
Hidden Weapon
Traveling Supplies

Age: 32
Character Traits

Vigilant
Manipulative
Patient
Deceitful
Diligent

Strengths
Coercing
Killing
Taming
Training
Knowledge of weaponry and martial arts

Weaknesses
Honorless
Emotional
Curious

Fears
Meeting a premature end

Isobel@Frettzo
Name:
Isobel

Sex:
Female

Appearance:


Continent of Birth:
Carthian, in one of the forests of Vicelles

Race:
Foreas

Race Summary:
The Foreas, called Gwerin as an insult by the Elves, are a race of humanoid plants that live in ancient forests, isolated from all races. They get most of their nourishment from the sun and water and are not usually troubled by the desire for wealth or power, instead seeking to experience life to the fullest. 

They are thought of as a myth by the more close-minded individuals due to their isolationism and are sometimes hunted and sold in human black markets due to the extraordinarily strong wood that makes up their bones. They can live up to thousands of years when cared for properly, but most die young due to their curious, excitable nature.





Class:
Ranger, Beast Master

Starter Equipment: 
Leafy attire, short bow and arrows, stone shiv, small pack containing patches of fur, bandages and some powders for healing.

Age:
27

Personality: 
Athletic, Curious & Energetic

Character Traits:
Daring, Friendly, Cheerful, Precise, Touchy, Impulsive

Strengths:
Proficient with a bow, animals love her, smells really nice (like a mix of chocolate and coffee), knows a little bit about a lot of things, agile.

Weaknesses:
Melee combat, formal situations, anything related to hurting or killing innocent plants.

Fears:
Fire, caterpillars (especially fuzzy green ones with orange stripes)

Brief History:
Isobel was planted 29 years ago in a beautiful clearing in one of the many forests of Vicelles. Two years later,
 she finally left her cocoon and was drawn by the scent of other Foreas to a nearby village. There, she spent most of her life, quickly learning how to hunt for the benefit of the chief and along the way, learning how to deal with animals and become their friend. 

She was always a friendly one, even when the Chief treated her badly, or the others insulted her for being too trustful of strangers. It was her thing treating others like family, so it came to the point that she'd become the village's face whenever a stranger came by, making sure their stay was comfortable and that they didn't intrude too much into their culture. That is, until she accidentally let a scientist learn too much about them,
 and she was cast out until she found that scientist and made sure he never spoke to anyone about their secrets.

Now, alone out in the world, she faces discrimination on a daily basis but tries her best to remain the cheerful, friendly little plant she's always been. And when humans, elves, dwarves or whatever else don't want to be her friend, she's always got a potential friend in the furry little meatbags called animals.


 A man claiming legitimacy to the throne of Caracas has challenged Dantel and seized control of the city through his army's might. I must avoid capture from the guards, and find out what is happening.
⍚ Discover what is happening between Dantel and the invaders. 
⍚ Escape the Caracan Pits, and evade capture. 
⍚ Find Dantel, and follow him should he leave. 
⍚ Enjoy the event.
⍚ Discover the source of your anxiety.

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The Chains That Bind

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The Essential Ithean Atlas has been updated!

(A joint post by @Famotill and @Frettzo)

The fogs of the foreign city of Caracas were enough to choke even the hardiest of Vicelles smokers. The fumes paraded the city streets. The crowds of curious onlookers was almost enough to smother Isobel. The Foreas was foreign to this land, its people, and those who had beckoned her here.  The ‘Caracas League of Magi’ was a guild that Isobel had not yet heard of in her travels. Perhaps the allure of Valenndale called to her, or perhaps it was her own curiosity. Unfortunately she did not suspect that such curiosity would lead her here. Legends of the Caracas Pits were nearly as gruesome as the whispers shared about the city itself. Overlooking the arena she saw it’s bloodied circular canvas surrounded by water. Gates on either side of the Colosseum served as an entrance for each combatant. 

A lone dark elven warrior, metallic whip in hand, stood against a mighty Dalic Bull. The beast and the elf stood opposite one another; the former quite easily more menacing. It huffed threateningly before charging forward. The elf narily dodged it’s offensive burst. They continued circling each other. It was if nature was still trying to determine which animal was the prey and which the predator. 

Thunderous cries from anxious spectators filled the air just as the fog and the summer heat did. Large braziers dotted the outer rim of the stadium, and orange banners emblazoned with a golden scale hung from multiple sections of the structure.  There was a thick tension looming over the spectacle. Isobel found herself next to Dantel Ernesto Amarillo de Caracas. He carried an air of sophistication and esotericism about him that was both off-putting and intimidating. 

“Enjoying the show, tesoro?” The man’s dark eyes glimmered under the fire of the brazier above them. Dangling from his earlobe was a rather eccentric golden chain. It extended past his jaw and ended at a shimmering topaz jewel. His quick and fluid manner of speaking was common among the Dalic, particularly those in the human city-states. Their exaggerated dialect was what made them ruthless in the art of commerce. His face shifted from one of content to a half-smile as he looked back down at the spectacle before she could answer. Despite the apathy in the gesture it still somehow felt arrogant. Not a hostile arrogance, but a confidence uncommon in most humans that Isobel had observed.

“I suppose not; this is all quite dreary. I trust your journey wasn’t too strenuous Signora?” 

Isobel cocked her head to one side as she tried to read the man's intentions, before shrugging, "It's very interesting," she said, turning back toward the spectacle as if mimicking the human. She turned her gaze right in time to see the Dark Elven warrior barely dodge a charge. And though it was difficult to see from so far away with all the smoke and commotion, she noticed it, "Oh! Is the warrior hurt? He's holding his side."

The young mage chuckled softly, the jewelry that decorate his lithe frame rang out in harmony. "My scouts said you were well versed in the healing magic. That's good." Dantel lazily took a sip from the chalice beside him. He swirled the lilac wine in his mouth before spitting it into a bucket that sit at his feet. It was common Caracan tradition to taste expensive wine rather than drink it. 

"I won't mince words with you. I've had..friends in Carthus studying your people." Dantel seemed almost coyly oblivious to how intrusive this sounded. 

"Huh," Isobel muttered.

"I believe you may be able to help me with a problem," he reached behind grabbing a chalice and a half-empty bottle of wine.He offered it to Isobel, who hesitated for a split moment before grabbing them.

Slowly and carefully, she poured herself a small quantity of the wine. A tentative sniff of the liquid had Isobel wincing and pulling away almost instinctively. Foreas usually only drank water or their own cultural beverages, so Isobel had had a very tough time getting used to wine and mead.

Dantel hadn't spent much time thinking on how the women sustained herself. He reclined a bit giving one more smile.

 "I've been working as the representative of the League of Magi here in Caracas. That title comes with certain...responsibilities." It was as if Dantel could hardly keep himself from bragging, which made the Foreas chuckle quietly.
 
 "Unfortunately, a rather virulent sickness has made its way throughout Caracas. It seems to only infect those of elven decent, particularly wood elves." Dantel sighed keeping his gaze towards the fighting pit. "Such a pity," his finger circled the rim of his chalice as the rings chimed against the glass. 
 
 "I believe that I've narrowed down essential components in engineering a cure. I had sent an emissary to your people on our behalf...it...did not end as intended."

"Yes, we Foreas generally like to be left alone. At least, that's what the Chief used to say, heh." Isobel sat back, taking another sniff of the wine before finally setting the chalice down.

 "I considered myself quite lucky when I had heard reports that a Foreas had been living away from her clan," Dantel thought to himself for a minute. His right hand now rubbing his beard. "Is it...clan? Village? Commonweath, perhaps?"

She shrugged, "I guess you could call it a Village, but they're more like my Family, you know? We're not born like humans or elves. I was once told Dwarves grow in the ground like potatoes though, so they may have more in common with Foreas than I originally thought..."  Upon noticing the mage looking at her in humored bemusement Isobel held a hand over her mouth and shook her head apologetically. "Sorry, I trailed off. About this illness... won't it spread to me as well? And why is the League of Magi dealing with illnesses? Don't Magi spend all their days making sparkly spells?" Isobel grinned to herself. 

"The smart ones do, yes." Dantel returned Isobel's grin with a warm one of his one. She was quite inquisitive; a trait he admired. Despite the airs he put on it was clear he wasn't entirely the best in dealing with others. Not for lack of eloquence. "For the rest of us curing plagues, settling disputes, and filling the city coffers make up the majority of our day. Much to my brother's dismay." 

"As for the illness, no, it's caused by a foreign fungai. No doubt brought by some Wood Elf refugees. It has only shown potency when in contact with..." Dantel was hesitant; he was unsure of the appropriate contemporary terminology when compared to Foreas. 

"Meaties? Meatbags? Flesh-plants? I think I get you," Isobel laughed setting her untouched wine down beside her. 

"Meatbags," Dantel offered with a chuckle. "I quite like that." 

 "Okay okay, fungi are tame! What are the ingredients for the cure, Representative of the League of Magi?"

"We've found that deeproot allows for a better balance of the humors, it effectively stops the spreading of the fungus. At least temporarily- it's likely that once the blood begins to clot the body in turn resists the deeproot nectar. We need a blood type that is much less easy to clot. I'm not entirely sure how your physiology works, but my peers have theorized that we could use magics to manipulate your blood in a way that allows us enough time to cut the fungus out without it spreading." 

"Oh-" Isobel pursed her lips, "That may be difficult, I don't have enough sap to heal dozens of elves, you know. Even if I had enough, isn't blood magic, uh... forbidden in human cultures?"
"Of course not, darling. We don't want to drain you dry," Dantel shifted upward slowly in his seat. All the while his eyes shifted between watching the scene below and Isobel. “As for the legality of our magic...you just leave that to me.”

"My alchemists will create a serum using a transmutation spell. Once they've studied the properties of your blood the process should be relatively simple. Or...at least that's the hope." 

Isobel took a moment to look at the scene below, rolling her eyes when she saw the warrior on the ground, "Ugh, will the bull eat him already? This was interesting in the beginning, but it's dragged on a bit too long. Maybe if the fight was against one of those tall, muscular green humans!" Isobel sighed. 

"I believe they're herbivores, dear." Dantel genuinely liked the Foreas. She was relatable on some base level that the Caracan couldn't quite understand.

"Herbivores!" Isobel shuddered at the thought of it. 

 "I know this all seems like an extravagant expense..." The man sighed.  There was no doubt he’d paid a pretty penny to gain audience with Isobel, something he was unaccustomed to doing for woman. He not only paid for Isobel's boarding, but for her- rather expensive-  stay while in Caracas as well.  "I need to bring faith to the people of Caracas. It's something they're sorely lacking." 

"Maybe you should build an altar to their preferred God of choice. They need something to worship around here if you want to give them faith..." The Foreas then fell into an uncomfortable silence, letting Dantel's wording bake in her mind. She continued before Dantel could respond. No doubt another one of her humorous tangents. “Are the Magi the chiefs of Caracas? Because I'd think only a chief worries about those things for his village."

"In...in a rudimentary sense. It's a complicated mess if I'm being honest. The Union of City-States are a conglomerate of...let's say very big tribes. These big tribes are governed loosely, and are often times about keeping the wealthy chiefs in power. Sometimes this does insurmountable damage to the people. It's not so much that they've lost faith in the Gods, but in humanity. In our ability to protect them." For the first time in their conversation Isobel could feel a shift, a stammer, in Dantel's confidence. Though he tried not to show it; his mannerisms spelled it out quite clearly. 

"I have to admit that either you people complicate yourselves too much or we Foreas are too simple," Isobel looked down at the battle shaking her head in mild confusion. She watched as handlers load the now caged bull onto a boat as the gates to the colosseum eased open.On the other end of the arena the Elven warrior lay on another row boat either unconscious or dead; Isobel wasn’t sure., "Okay, forbidden or not, I'll give you some of my sap, but I want something in exchange..."

Isobel grinned slowly and Dantel could see her bounce a little on her seat, "I want a pet parrot and a bunch of bone tipped arrows, the strongest bone you have."

Dantel looked at her curiously for a moment. "What I can realistically do for you is supply you with gold, and point you in the right direction. Give someone gold, no one bats an eye; give someone a present and all of Caracas is chattering, you understand." 

"I understand, but what's so bad about giving a present to a little plant?" She leaned back in her seat puzzling over her rhetorical question. After a few moments, she sprung up with excitement. "But yes, I can accept the gold."

"Lovely, a pleasure doing business with you, teroso." Dantel extended his chalice motioning for Isobel to do the same. Of course, the poor girl had no idea what that signified. Allowing silence to loom between them for a few pauses, he softly crashed his chalice into hers. It wasn't every day that he made the acquaintance of such a fascinating person as she. That was about to change.

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The Quest Log has been updated!

You've found yourself on a manhunt in Caracas, "Canal City". The lingering summer smoke a vial concoction of cigars, sewage, and ineffective perfumes. Even the streets of Caracas seem a dramatic affair as every back alley and road has a constant stream of rose water tickling the bottoms of your boot. Continuing towards your target you notice various banners adorning city walls, and what must be state buildings given the protests that echo around them. The banners are orange in color, and outlined by a gold trim. In the center of the banner is a golden scale; even as a foreigner you'd recognize this as the city-states symbol.

Handmaidens and bards alike spun tales of the romanticism of Caracan city days, but none of that mattered now. You now neared the Caracan Bull Pits, a fanciful and stunningly massive Colosseum rumored to have housed the fearsome Elven dragon 'Deis the Conqueror' during the War of the Splitting Branches. You find your hand tracing the bricks of the structure, it's mystery and grandiosity somehow enticing. Less enticing were the numerous stairwells you were now forced to climb to find yourself a suitable vantage point to find your man. 

His name is Dantel Ernesto Amarillo de Caracas; the leader of the Caracas League of Magi. Rumors of his unparalleled knowledge in the arcane was no doubt brought many a hopeful benefactor from a myriad of lands. Given his status a man such as he would be sitting somewhere important. You just had to find where that is. 
--

You take your seat as you, but as your eyes scan the stadium you hear the sounds of loud grunts and the clanging of swords. It seemed two new combatants, an Orc and a human had already begun their war dance. You found yourself looking onward. 

You find yourself entranced by the fluid movement of the two fighters. They were no doubt well-versed in swordplay. One of them, the human,  had a bladed whip on his hip. Your experience in battle alerts you to the reality that this man has most certainly claimed many an unfair victory. You extend your body excitedly as you nearly off of the edge of stone beneath you. Now seeing the fight more clearly you realize just how much faster the human is compared to the lumbering Orc. He makes quick strides around his oafish and lethargic opponent. His sword movements are swift and deliberate, but infrequent. You notice his preference for defensive posturing. Less glorious, but effective in a duel to the death. Your interest with this increasingly slow paced fight seems to be waning.

To your horror it seems the Orc and the Human were battling to the death, but what did you expect in the Caracan Bull Pits? Legends told of brutal deaths in the arena, and you wanted little part in it. You found it hard to pull yourself away from the escalating scene below as your sense of empathy for the fighters betrayed you. You take a sigh of relief as it seems that the human's strategy is to tire out the Orc. You wished that they'd just cease this cruelty, but at least there hadn't been much dismemberment yet. Sinking farther into your seat you find yourself growing used to the rancid smells and even worse sounds that permeate the Pits.

To your annoyance, the dueling Orc and Human seemed intent on distracting you from your objective. The clashing of sword against sword was enough to draw your gaze, but you cared little for the mundane barbarity of Caracan brutes. No, you needed to find Dantel before the Pits event ended. You had not come to here for the trivial romp, and you had no desire to slosh through any more of that damned rose water. It seemed that the fighting had settled into a waiting game. Regardless, you found yourself slouching rather lazily in your seat. This stone had to be the most uncomfortable seating you'd ever experienced.

You hear the distant sound of Human tears, and the valiant war cries of a victorious Orc. The poor sod had been hoisted up into the air, impaled by a mighty great sword. Blood showered the Orc who seemed to revel in his glory. The crowds erupted into blissful chaos and from the swell of voices all that you could gather was the name Baenash the Impaler. 

Sensing yourself losing focus you re-adjust. You begin to inspect the area looking for any significant differences in seating or vantage point that might identify its occupant as Dantel. He was a apparently a noble; surely that meant something. The crowds of noisy spectators certainly didn't help matters, and you couldn't help but feel an ever-increasing tension looming in the Caracan skies. Was something amiss? Regardless, you needed to find Dantel and the League of Magi. 

This is where your story begins. Whatever you may choose, you must find your answers, in the way you see fit.

Hidden 7 yrs ago → 7 yrs ago Post by Bishop

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Caracas. A familiar city which he has visited multiple times during his travels. Always on business so he could never stop and admire it for what it was, if you managed to look past the dust that is. A pile of fake legends and rotting stone. A pale shadow compared to the fighting arenas back in his home country. The fights were dull and drawn out, most likely decided from the beginning. You only had one capable fighter and the others were meat fodder to raise their fame even more. It made for a great distraction though. All the big crowds swarming the arena stand witness to that fact, the thieves come right second. All those people, the gambling taking place, there was sure to be someone carrying coins with them. The most rewarding place to look would be the big private tents which house the most important people who come to honor everyone with their presence. But a high reward comes with high risks. Few would be willing to risk their lives trying to walk past the guards for a few coins. The general public on the other hand? Easy picking. And as fate would have it, he was deemed an easy picking.

The little thief, no more that 11 years old extended his hand trying to reach for the Tieflings coin purse only to have a big muscly hand catch the kid by his wrist. The kid was scared beyond belief. The least he could hope to get out with was the rest of his body minus the hand. No one really cared for street beggars and thugs, the monk could kill him for all anyone cared. With a finger over the lips, he motioned the kid to remain silent. Taking a few silver coins out of his purse he threw them to the fat guy in front of him, a row lower. Feeling the metal ht his feet he looked down only to spot 3 coins on the ground. With a smile he bent down to grab them, only for the monk to swiftly snatch his coin purse, open it, take out replacement for the coins he tossed and place the pouch on the kid's open hand that he was still holding. The kid, surprised at first, grinned then left running. The fat man now holding 3 extra silver coins, reached to place them in his purse only to notice it was missing. Looking around he spotted the kid running away amidst the seated crowd, yelled at him to stop and started chasing him in a slow run. An empty seat presented itself right where the fat man had gotten up. Stretching his legs, he put them on the open spot and took a comfortable position to watch the fight.

"Finally."- he muttered as he adjusted to find a more comfortable spot. With great height comes great discomfort in tight places.

And the winner is the orc. There was no contest really. The orc was bigger and physically stronger. No matter how capable the human was, the difference in the anatomy of the 2 races places him at a great disadvantage to begin with. A big cloud hovered over the fighting pit, pulling a shadow curtain with it as it blocked the sun, setting a grey atmosphere on the arena. Coupled with the roaring of the orc covered in blood and the corpse dangling above him, the setting took a very grim overhaul. Funny how draining the color of a picture drastically affects the ambient and mood. That didn't stop the crowd from cheering though.

Time to move. He had wasted enough daylight as it were already. By the time the cloud passed and light illuminated everything again, Mor'Dor was nowhere to be seen.

Hidden 7 yrs ago → 7 yrs ago Post by Life in Stasis

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Of all the races, Moulder favored humans the most. His own kin, the elves, were too self-obsessed to be of any great help to anything. The small races, dwarves and gnomes, were usually gratingly entrepreneurial and hardly ever straight forward. Tieflings and orcs and other beast races... well, where even to start with them? Humans however ran the gamut, philosophically curious by nature and adaptable to many modes of thought. So when Moulder's ongoing quest to understand and control the arcane brought him to the heart of the Caracas League, he was pleased as punch.

Caracas itself was not without charm. It stank—all humans did, though certainly not worse than some others—but the way to the Colosseum offered fine views of old human architecture and breathed a sort of scholarly history. Sure his boots were soggy, his clothes now smelled like smoke (better than the faint sweetness of decay), and the sound of the human being slaughtered in front of a roaring audience was a little disquieting, but it lacked the nauseating pretension and ostentaciousness of a city full of righteous do-gooders who would probably be too happy to kill an undead necromancer.

Still, he wasn't about to sing any heroic tales about himself to anyone here anyway. Couldn't be too careful.

Pausing in his search for Mr. Amarillo de Caracas, Moulder looked down into the fighting ring to behold the great Baenash the Impaler, living true to his monicker. His colorless eyes rested academically on the quickly dying human, briefly wondering at the life he had led which had now brought him to this unfortunate moment. Moulder also wondered how the Colosseum administrators intended to discard the body. He was feeling peckish.

"If I were a League of Magi," Moulder mulled to himself, realigning himself to his task, "where would I be hiding?"

The best seating in the stadium seemed to be near the balconies, where special boxes had been erected for more comfortable viewing. Supposedly Dantel was here, so he'd probably be in one of those. And, if he were using his magic to influence the fight and win some bets (Moulder certainly would), he could do so more privately from there.

Ignoring the jostling and cheers of the crowd around him, Moulder set onward to dip his head into some of these boxes. And hopefully not lose it in the process.

Hidden 7 yrs ago → 7 yrs ago Post by Rithy

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"Apes... there's apes everywhere!"

Vazheera had to take a deep breath to steady herself as the smells and odors of the lesser races all around her washed over her from every direction!
Her only saving grace was that she was a few heads taller than the undiluted masses around her, standing at a height of 8ft. She wore a black silk cloak and hood, yet if it hadn't been for the fact that she had been standing in the shades at the back of the theater, she would have been a painfully obvious sight!

At that time, the only thing that might be more unbearable than the scents and braying of the audience was the fight that they had come to witness!

"Blood of the gods, it's as if they detest any semblance of finesse or performance!" 

The Dark Elf mentally groaned as her violet eyes watched the fight. The human and Orc were like two half-dead drunkards going at it! Every move and attack they made were painfully slow and obvious to the Dark Elf. To his credit, the human at least attempted a semblance of form, but he did in no way have the skills to pull it off. Vazheera's eyes rolled as she saw no less than five instances where the human could have crippled the overzealous Orc, and two where he could have ended the fight outright if he had simply reacted! Of course, it didn't happen, and in a showdown of mindless brawn, the human met a grizzly; albeit very predictable; fate.

"If only Rina, Mistress of the Soulless Blade, was here... " Vazheera toyed with the mental idea of one of her old masters entering the arena. It certainly would have made for a very entertaining match, although perhaps not as fair. No, correction; it would have been a slaughter.

"Focus, Vazzi! You are here for a reason!" Vazheera had to mutter to herself to stop her wandering mind, remembering why she had come to this cesspool. 

She was after some mage and his antics! And he had a lot of explaining to do once she found him!

Her eyes scanned the crowd from beneath her hood. Most of the crowd didn't catch her attention. It was the usual rabble of plebians and nobles, guards and vendors. She spotted a few individuals who's dress and manner could suggest they were magic users of some kind, but Vazheera doubted those were her targets.

"Now who's that I wonder?" 

Vazheera's eyes would eventually fall upon a tall, spindly figure snooping around the viewing boxes at the more prestigious end of the stadium. Staring at Moulder, Vazheera felt a familiar tingling in her gut that usually occurred when she had managed to find something. Was this figure Dantel? Or one of his associates? A secret lover?!

It was definitely worth investigating, as a sly smirk appeared on her lips, her expression causing her blood red facial tattoos to twist into a menacing visage!

"Hi! Do you know where I can find the Stellaris Row?" Vazheera became aware of someone tugging at the bottom of her cloak, only glare down at a tiny, female gnome standing before her.

The Gnome; who had originally been cheerful; became noticeably more pale the moment Vazheera's gaze fell on her, her colors rapidly drained of hues as her expression froze in a question as she saw a towering face of malice stare down at her little shape!

"I... uhh... actually, nevermind! I just remembered."

Before Vazheera could even say anything, the Gnome would have instinctively taken a few steps back; turned around with the same rigidity as if she had been some sort of automaton, and walked right off, never sparing or even daring as much as a single glance back.

At the whole abrupt scene, Vazheera would be frowning.

"Wha... ?" Vazheera muttered, before becoming suddenly alarmed and quickly glancing off to the right to see her reflection in some broken panes of glass, suddenly moving a hand across her face as if to make sure her features were still there!

"I still look as beautiful as ever! Bah... typical midgets, they have no respect for others!"

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The intense smoke within the atmosphere caused the young wood elf to reveal a faint cringe as she walked the busy streets that seemed to be full of people attracted to the colosseum. Siella, accustomed to the clean, pleasant air of her home, is trying to become more comfortable with adapting to whatever environment she encounters -- although this particular setting posed a more difficult challenge. She took in her surroundings as she was already put in a mode of alert, her eyes scrolling from the several banners, to the architecture, and to the different people that poured into the colosseum. Siella lifted her hood over her long blonde hair to hide her youthful complexion and to be less noticeable within the crowd. By no means did she have intentions of being incognito by rules of her task, but moreover, to not attract any irrelevant bystanders. 

Siella climbed the several stairs until she reached the booming crowd cheering to hype up the combatants. Being new to traveling and experiencing other cultures, this experience rivaled the calm nature of the elves, which sparked a bit of curiosity and a little disgust. She would find a seat on one of the highest tiers to have a good view of the audience, but close enough to still analyze the battle between the orc and the human. Rather amazed as she was, it served as a great distraction from her task, so she began to weigh out the worth between both: to indulge in the activity of colosseum duels, or to go on with her objective for the task she picked up nonchalantly. As the fight progressed, her interest plummeted, and she chose the latter. 

Siella felt a lingering breeze of discomfort from the Caracan atmosphere. Whether it be from the overwhelming event combined with the smog of the city, or the unease she felt while pursuing this quest, she would continue anyway. She scanned through the spectators in hopes to find any individual that fit the description she was explained -- a noble. Given the knowledge of him being the Representative for the League of Magi, she presumed he would be seated somewhere more 'luxurious' than the rest of the audience, and he would probably sport a robe or some other expensive, cloth attire. 

Siella spotted some balcony seating that was fenced off to purposefully camouflage the individuals that it housed, probably due to the important people that it would be designated for. Moving across the row of seats to get a better glimpse of the seating, she would find herself in a predicament that would force her to either go around the large dark elf, or to engage in a small conversation to politely excuse herself to go along with her path. Moving within this crowd was irritating, and Siella surrendered to the idea of speaking to another person, "Excuse me."

Siella's soft-spoken tone was quickly drowned from the noisy audience, so she looked up to the towering dark elf to reveal her resolute expression, her light blue eyes ready to meet whomever this was to ensure that she has caught her attention. "Excuse me," she would say in a much more stern voice that would travel far enough for the beefy woman to hear.

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Hidden 7 yrs ago → 7 yrs ago Post by Bishop

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He had already spotted Dante. So why was he heading the opposite direction from the arena? Well, he had some business to take care of first. His first step was to confirm the presence of Dante in the arena. Since he was there and the main attraction was yet to come there was high chance that he wouldn't leave before Mor'Dor saw to what he had to do. The time he spent in the arena, he focused on memorizing all the entrances, exits, the number of guards the leader of the Magi had. But something seemed off to him. He hadn't seen his brother anywhere, and him missing this event was odd to say the least. Now a few miles away from all the noise and commotion he entered that part of the city which everyone avoided. The part where all the sick and poor, the criminals and every unwanted person were pushed into. Rarely did the guards ever wander there lest they get stricken by sickness or worst, by a knife. The roads were more like alleyways, narrow and dark, even though it was the middle of the day. There were tents and wooden structures all around the falling and half demolished stone ones. The place was littered with trash, all kinds of trash. You could look and see a sack of garbage and shit only for it to get up and move somewhere else. But he had to be here, he had to visit her. She was the only one present who could pose a threat to him and reveal his secret.

Standing at 6'7" filled with muscle and clearly armed, none would even think to try and rob him. No one sentient that is. But the creatures here didn't all posses that luxury. Some were starved for days, others had lost their minds, especially those who stood before him holding sharp sticks and knifes. Without slowing his steps or even taking out a weapon, he continued walking. As soon as one made to approach him his hand shot out and slammed their head to the wall, adding another hole to the crumbling structure.

"Forbidden Technique : Curse of the Damned"- the Tiefling muttered as a cursed seal was implanted in the forrhead of the thug. Releasing him, the thug fell to the ground only to hold his head in his hands, screaming in pain. His blood and veins were set ablaze and only one thing could lessen the pain, blood. He launched for his friends, who were taken by surprise, sinking his teeth in another's arms. For a time he was content with blood but then the curse spread and the blood he was drinking also lit his innards afire. Now both of them felt the need, were enslaved by it, so they both launched for the others. In the end they had all succumbed to the curse and were about to disperse looking for more victims when the Tiefling released the curse, setting all of them aflame in a red fire. If he had let them loose, in short time they would've ventured outside of this shithole to the commoners and the market area. Being a low tier curse that could be easily negated by a strong will or someone with the most basic knowledge of dispelling curses it would only cause for an investigation which could lead to him. All the while that was transpiring, he hadn't slowed down his step.

Reaching the end of his journey, he kicked down the wooden door of the stone building and entered inside. Darkness engulfed him but his senses could see as clearly as day.
???:"You have come at last."
Mor'Dor:"I see no need to prolong this any further. I know of your powers, witch. You must already know why I'm here."
Witch:"Indeed, that I do."
Mor'Dor:"And you must also know that there is no going back now."- he said as he took 3 more steps forward.
Witch:"I also knew that this route would be the most painless."
*2 more steps forward*
Witch:"Things are set in motion."
*Mor'Dor stopped*
Witch:"I haven't...told anyone about you but this action marks the start of your ruin."
Mor'Dor:"Is that the best you could do?"
Witch:"Only a glimpse of the worst that is to com-"-a hand to her throat interrupted the witch's speech.
She was a young girl with fair skin, raven black hair and eyes wearing a black dress. He held her up by her throat with his right hand and placed his left hand on her forehead.
"May the Fire Cleanse your Soul as you pass on from this realm."
As he said those words, smoke started rising from the mouth and eyes of the witch. Smoke which turned into a raging flame erupting from whence the smoke came. A silent painful scream could be read on her face as her skin started aging, her hair falling, her body shriveling and the illusion came off. Everyone shows their true face before death. In the end her eyes had vaporized and her open mouth was charred black.

Looking at the corpse one final time before leaving the monk muttered:"Your Judgement on this world has passed."

Now he was atop the highest structure in the arena, the final match already having started. The winner of the previous match, the orc, versus a Brith, a tiger warrior as large as the orc but a lot more feral. He spotted Dante from his vantage point still where he had left him. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. For now he would wait until Dante made his departure to make his move.

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"Dantel Ernesto Amarillo de Caracas, leader of the Caracas League of Magi... if I was a giant book nerd, where would I be hiding?" 

She eyed the rest of the arena, keeping Moulder in the corner of her eye the whole time.

Vazheera was in no sense of the word an academian, which made the task of placing oneself in the boots of one not any easier! The closest thing she had been to the culture of mages was back when she had been harassing the adepts of the coven of the Eightfold Path together with her sisters, the eightfold path being the magical enclave of her old city. To an elven mage, human magic was not far beyond what humans themselves would have considered a primitive, deranged(and probably braindead) goblin's attempt at practicing magic!

Ridiculous! 

However, her train of guesswork was suddenly completely thrown off when she was once again approached by another local!

"Excuse me!"

"What?!" Vazheera spun around, looking down at the stranger, only for her look of annoyance to turn into one of surprise when she saw no one else but a Wood Elf, her elven features setting Siella apart from the rest of the crowd.

"You are a... tree-hugge,-" Vazheera was about to say, before peering closer, noticing Siella's unique attire as well.

What was a wood elf doing so far away from their forest?! Vazheera couldn't truly say. If it hadn't been for her smaller size, she would have looked even more out of place from the locals than Vazheera herself! 

Something was off...

What if this was in truth, no wood elf at all, but rather a clever magical disguise! Perhaps a magic trick, perhaps done by Dantel himself... !

Looming over Siella like a towering wraith with her black cloak and deep purple skin, Vazheera would slowly lean forward with a sheepish look on her face; her cloak falling slightly apart to reveal her burnished gold and black steel outfit and swords; before asking with a leading voice to Siella:

"Dantel Ernesto... ?"

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The Essential Ithean Atlas has been updated!

The Quest Log has been updated!

As the lethargic Brith and Orc circled each other the crowds again began to cheer for more blood shed. This was truly a main event, and the bloodlust of the Caracan people knew no end. Still the gnawing tension from before persisted. It was as if the world had come to a grinding halt; the people and the place just recycling animation. The two combatants inched closer to one another the Brith ready to pounce. 

Siella's response to Vazheera was masked by the sounds of loud trumpets that quickly filled the stadium. Their mournful lament played a rendition of "Nighfall Over Caracas"-- the Caracan national anthem. Any person that had actually paid attention during studies knew that this melody accompanied the merchant-king Arion the II in his sacking of Caracas centuries ago. As if in tandem, the left side gates to the Bull Pits creaked open slowly as a solitary boat crept through the arena's murky waters. Its passengers were three men; two of them stood stoically with their polearms at the ready. They wore leathers blacker than the soot of the Quatzalli volcanoes in High Mist. Their helms, the same color as their armor, was heavy and fear inducing. No doubt elite guard armor.  The third passenger was a man clad in royal armor adorned with the face of a lion at the belt; a crimson cape poured down his back like Caracan wine its tail ragged and cut. A shield with the same lion face decorating its center was fastened to his left arm and in his right hand was a spear. 

The small boat made contact with the edge of the arena floor. As if to meet the intruding forces, Dantel arose from his seat. His robes were a distilled blue, and his off-white cowl served as an additional layer. At this point both the Orc and Brith had ended their battle. The guards and the man stepped onto the area's surface. The crowd around the stadium had grown silent. The trumpets abruptly stopped. The soldier ordered his guards to seize the Orc and the Brith. Polearms pointed at the two warriors, they complied, and dropped their weapons. Meanwhile the man clad in royal armor looked up to the booth that Dantel had been sitting in. 

"Dantel Ernesto Amarillo de Caracas, third of his name," the man began. His voiced no doubt enhanced via the meticulous infrastructure of the Pits. His voice was one of Caracan origin. The thick accent might have been off-putting for foreigners. Luckily, the subject of his message was no foreigner. 

"I am releasing you and your mages of your duty to the city of Caracas. Beyond the walls of these Pits my men have taken back our streets, and along with it your allies in the League." The man's booming voice managed to remain stern, and it didn't seem he needed to exert much effort to be heard and felt by the swath of people that looked on in curiosity. The thick smog blanketing the arena seemed more suffocating now as the world was at a standstill. The mage and the spear-man- one from atop his perch and the other in the pits. "You will come to uncle's throne room, Dantel..." the man's voice betrayed him with a whimpering crack. He quickly shook this off before returning his gaze to the mage. "You will do as I command or they will die." The whispering of bemused spectators filled the air of the arena. 

The speaker quickly remedied this. 

"Return to your homes," the man commanded as he slowly turned his focus from Dantel. It was as if he wanted to make eye contact with every single member of the audience. "The guards will round up anyone seen loitering in the streets tonight. Be at peace, soon you will have your city back." With that a great number of men in the same elite guard as those in the pit swarmed the layered sections of the arena crowd. Absolutely chaos erupted as panicked citizens tried to flee from the guards. From each of your posts you see the guards try to assuage the denizens, but to no avail. When you began to see these people being forcibly detained and taken into custody you knew you couldn't remain. 

"Time to go!" Dantel, who had been eyeing his would be successor, turned his attention to the Foreas. He extended a hand before giving her a warm, but clearly put-on smile.

From your vantage point, Mor'Dor,  you see the mage and his new friend exiting from their lofty booth. Refusing to let them go, you follow narrowly dodging the attention of the guards below. The pair made their escape through the eastern hall of the stadium. Moving swiftly, you catch up to the pair. 

The mage turns to meet your gaze. He stands protectively in front of the Foreas. "I don't suspect your one of my brother's idiots, Tiefling,"he chided before taking a pause. "If its my assistance that you seek then perhaps we can help one another. Otherwise, I'd recommend you get out of my way!"Noticing that the Tiefling before him didn't immediately attack, the mage continued. "Come with us;  me putting a stop to my childish little brother's tantrum will prove lucrative for both of us."

Moulder, you feel the presence of some stalking you. To your surprise it isn't the guards just yet. Instead you see two elven woman, one a dark elf and the other an elf of the forests. Inching closer to them you see guards attempting to apprehend them. You clearly saw the exit that Dantel and the Foreas left through. You could easily track him down here. However, you also notice....

"Elves ser, are they mages?" A voice rang out behind you Siella. An elite guard armed with a silver pole-arm at the ready studied you and the other elf from meters away. Another guard stood next to him. This guard, much more cynical, raised his pole-arm in a fighting stance. 

"Better safe than sorry. His majesty will have our heads if the mages aren't rounded up." With that the elite guards move hastily upon you and the dark elf in front of you. 

Vazheera, the larger guard approaches you. He's shorter than you, there's no doubt about that, but he is quite muscular. "Don't move, mage." His voice bellowed out from behind his helm. You felt a confidence radiating from him. He was ready to strike you down. 

Siella, you in turn, notice the smaller guard approaching you. He seems far less confident. "Please miss, come with us." His voice was far less baritone as his cohort's. It rang out from behind his helm, but sounded far more meek. 

It was clear the two of you weren't simply walking away.

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Siella was, indeed, shocked to see a dark elf towering over her within a city such as this, but perhaps it was the circumstances at hand that would subdue this feeling. Determined to finish the task she was given, she felt no need to converse to arbitrary citizens or tourists, thus she felt an irritable feeling arise from the pit of her stomach as the dark elf still remained in her position. The statement that the, growingly arrogant, dark elf made was predictable, thus, it didn't phase Siella in the slightest. 

With a sigh, she would attempt again at trying to get by before finding another route, "Listen, I'm just trying to get by."

As the dark elf leaned closer, Siella assumed a defensive stance beneath her cloak, lifting her arm to rest it on the hilt of her blade while her other arm was positioned to cast a quick shield to save from an unexpected blow. As the name of her target was mentioned from the dark elf, Siella furrowed her brows and began to question the woman's reason for her presence here. A dark elf was far away from home, and she sported armor and weaponry beneath her cloak, so she didn't suggest any titles relating to 'tourist'. 

Many options presented themselves in this event, and Siella was careful with her next few words. Should she trust that this individual would be her ally in her given task, or should she see this woman as an enemy that's only placed to get in her way? She chose a different course of action and finally spoke up after a few moments, "Pardon? I'm not quite sure I know who that is." While it was more unbelievable to act dumb and not know of Dantel since he held a very high position, it could be plausible since Siella was clearly not within her homelands. 

The crowd's volume plummeted to quiet whispers and gasps as an intrusion became the center of attention. The event was interrupted by what seemed to be another individual high in ranking, and given his speech, it seemed as though he was trying to overthrow another leader. Siella knew very little of the situation at hand between these lands and another, not caring to look into the history of what task she was given. It was clear, now, that she should've researched further rather than nonchalantly getting herself into something that could become more tedious and difficult. The man bearing royal armor held a great sense of hostility that beamed bright enough for Siella to enter a mode of defense and combat. Taking back land? Releasing mages? It was clear that an event of a war was amidst, and Siella was now caught in the middle of it. 

"Elves ser, are they mages?"

Siella whipped around to eye the guards that were approaching, listening carefully to their comments, Siella was stumped upon another decision: reveal her magic in an attempt to get herself out of this mess and quickly finish the mission, or to act naive and do as they command for a more strategic approach on the situation. Siella began to question the dark elf, "What exactly are you here for and why do you seek Dantel Ernesto?". In a quick, spur of the moment, attempt to gain a formidable ally for a quicker exit, she would await a response to decide on her next course of action.

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Hidden 7 yrs ago → 7 yrs ago Post by Rithy

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"Ehhrrr.... "

For a moment, Vazheera felt incredibly stupid, having presumed the Wood Elf to be her target. Which did not even make sense! After all, if this Dantel mage had wanted to some fun with her, surely he would have disguised himself as a High Elf! 

... but in that case Vazheera might have risked 'accidentally' killing him... !

"Don't move, mage."

"Great, the natives are riled up... " 

Vazheera quietly murmured to Siella as she glanced sideways over at the approaching guards, and could not suppress a slightly bemused smirk at their attempt at looking intimidating!
She had no intention of letting herself be caught by the local guard. If someone tried to arrest her before she had even stolen(something) or trashed someone! That was usually a bad sign, and she severely doubted any attempts at sincerity from the guards!

She briefly considered correcting the guards that she was -not- a mage, though she doubted their primitive minds could even comprehend that obvious fact!

"What exactly are you here for and why do you seek Dantel Ernesto?"

"Mostly to kick his monkey-ass... and ask him some questions later... possibly." Vazheera answered in a hushed voice, her violet eyes switching between Siella, the incoming guards,the surrounding crowd, and Moulder.

"But I think I know where Dantel is." She whispered.

There was only a 50ft drop down to Moulder's level from where Vazheera was, and she had a mage by her...

"And I think I got a plan... "

Turning around to raise an accusing finger towards the first beefcake of a guard, Vazheera loudly proclaimed! 

"You are fools if you think I, a disciple Sworn to the Sixth Level of the Sword, are going to come with a bunch of apes such as you! 

Sliding her foot to the side, she placed it right behind the diminutive form of a gnome, the tiny creature trying to understand what was going on with all the taller people around her blocking her view. For what happened later, said Gnome barely had time to gasp before the realisation struck her, and the Dark Elf punted the gnome!!

"CATCH!"

As the lead guard was hit by a now flying, screaming gnome, Vazheera had already stepped back, placing an arm around the smaller Siella and pulling her towards her before suddenly leaping off the edge, 50ft above where Moulder was skulking around; all the while tugging Siella close to her body.

"Now! Do your mage thing!! Fly-something-float!!" Vazheera called out to the Wood Elf as the two leapt off the edge, and they began to fall... !

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Hidden 7 yrs ago Post by Lionhearted

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interacting with Vazheera Shadowsun @Rithy

Judging by the mannerisms of the dark elf, she seemed like a goofy, comical individual that really contrasted the stereotypical elf, whether it be wood elf, dark elf, or high elf. Even for Siella, it seemed as if her personality could, already, be taken as mildly overbearing, should she choose to continue as her ally. Siella liked to work with companions that offered much more compatible characteristics and fighting style, but perhaps this ally wasn't a choice that she would have to make. With her suggestion of knowing of Dantel's whereabouts, she figured she would broaden her horizons and trust in this, hoping that it would lead to success.

Siella quirked a brow at Vazheera's statement and quick action of punting the gnome in their direction. With a quick swoop, she was soon found falling from a fifty-foot drop, panicking to figure out a way to land properly. Siella's eyes narrowed as she focused on her spell, her blue eyes taking on a glimmering, golden glow as a strong shield developed around them. The fall felt longer for Siella since she was conjuring up a shield that would properly take the majority of the fall for them. The formation of the shield grew brighter and more opaque by the second, sending out an increasingly clamorous sound to ensure that the magic was increasing in power. As the two finally met the ground, the golden shield shattered like glass into thick shards that would quickly dissipate into thin air -- the two would still endure a rather rough fall.

Siella rolled across the ground, but quickly got back up to her feet and gathered herself. Panting, primarily from the anxiety of the sudden action than magical exhaustion, she would move to meet Vazheera where she landed, "If you know where Dantel is -- then take me to him." She spoke sternly.

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