There are some girls who could, perhaps, pass easily as a boy of about the same age. And "Julian" is... just barely one of them, but probably not for the right reasons. She's perhaps the shortest cadet in any of the Four Houses, let alone just her own, and is quite scrawny to boot, in some places having barely any meat on her bones. She stubbornly insists that she'll get taller and she's just a late bloomer, but actually fears that these claims may be true, since she's only recently started growing in ways that, given her current predicament, she'd really rather not. She doesn't need curves, she needs muscle!

But, for the time being at least, just binding her chest and adding some padding around her thin waist has at least managed to fit her into her new uniform without quite looking like a child wearing her father's clothes, so that's... better than nothing. And, given that her cover story of being a street urchin is pretty well known after a rather... memorable debut spar, most people for now write off her frail, petite build as the results of undernourishment. Which, technically speaking... isn't untrue? Yeah, let's just go with that. The best lies always have at least a grain of truth to them, after all.

Her face, thankfully, benefits from rather strongly defined cheekbones, which, with her hair cut short and messed up properly, makes her look at least passably masculine, though her long eyelashes are somewhat less than desirable in this regard. At any rate, she's got a few more years where her youthfulness will help her go unnoticed before her real gender becomes obvious, so she'll surely be able to figure something out in that time... right?

The oddest thing about her appearance, however, is that... well... lustrous golden-blonde hair and eyes as blue as a clear summer sky aren't exactly features one normally associates with commoners, let alone with homeless ruffian children from the frontier. She's scrawny, yes -- but she really doesn't look mangy enough to fit the part she's set out for herself. But then, if she's a disguised noble, why would she look like she got half-starved at some point? Is she secretly an unwanted child of some high aristocrat? Maybe an Alexandrian fugitive on the run from the Sages' Tower? It's just enough of an abnormality that it makes her the source of some... shall we say, unique rumors, but she usually just laughs such things off. After all, that'd be ridiculous, right? Almost as ridiculous as a girl pretending to be a boy as part of some childhood dream of being a hero.

Too unfortunate to be a proper noble, too refined to be some nameless pauper, too honest to sell her lies quite as convincingly as she'd like, and too... female to fulfill her dreams, Julian appears to be many things, while embodying none of them. She isn't what she seems, and is what she doesn't, and just when you might think you know the truth about her... Well, let's just say she's full of surprises.

Whenever the Knights open for recruitment, they always end up with a few odd ducks. Cadets with conveniently unverifiable pasts applying under obvious pseudonyms are more common than one might think, and the order -- despite its reputation for taking all comers -- does its due diligence in confirming that they're not a threat. Cadets are often treated in a very hands-off manner during their initial days in training, to encourage them to relax and let their guard down -- all while being shadowed and observed quite carefully for any signs of danger. Some end up being criminals trying to make a break from their old lives, others spies from foreign countries looking for information on the inner workings of the order -- these undesirables tend to swiftly find their way to a nice, dark cell, and, for the most part, none of their fellows notice that one out of the many has stopped showing up.

Of course, the girl now known by the name "Julian" didn't know any of that. All she knew was that her name, her past, her very self -- such things were more of a burden than they were a blessing. She needed shelter -- a place where nobody would ever find her. A place where she could truly be herself. A place where she could make her dreams come true. In this sense, her motives for joining the Knights were wholly selfish and contemptible... But on the other hand, she really did want to help people -- to make a difference. Her earnest devotion wasn't a lie -- and it was this dedication, perhaps, that stayed the hands of those who would otherwise be inclined to banish a suspicious, noble-looking youth with an obvious fake identity. That's not to say that she isn't still under some degree of scrutiny, or that she's favored by any means, but... well, she has a chance, and though she's blissfully unaware of the full extent of the risks she's already undertaken, she's determined not to waste it.

And so, it was quietly, discreetly passed along. "Julian" is a child from the border regions, and things tend to get lost there. Things... and people. So, it's fine if there's no record of a Julian Baker, or if he can't easily say what town he comes from, or if it turns out that he's fully literate despite only being a baker's second son. Whoever he might be, whatever name he might have borne -- he's Julian Baker now, so until he does something to deserve a second look, we'll humor him for now, and make the best use of him we can. He'll probably drop out anyway, so why worry about it?

If only they knew.

It's a dubious honor, to be sure, but a Null -- the opposite of an Absolute, being someone who doesn't have even a single elemental affinity -- is actually almost as rare! So, in a way, the fact that she can't use any of the four elements is actually pretty unique.

...Look, sometimes, you just have to look on the bright side.

What could be said other than how Rossweine Lupus Grayle, Second Son of the Third Wife of the King of Grayle, His Righteousness Albus II, is without question a youth who looks like a prince? Standing tall at 5'10, with perhaps room to grow even taller, he casts an elegant, slender silhouette, the very picture of a hero-knight. His eyes are possessed by a gentle, turquoise sheen, akin to a forest spring, while his hair, an ashy brown, comes down in soft, silky tufts that beg to be caressed. A perpetual state of peacefulness has kept his skin and mien unmarred, and his face strikes that balance of androgynous handsomeness achievable only by an adolescent.

A well-defined jawline and a slim nose. Soft cheeks and long eyelashes. Hands warm and firm, but slender and well-manicured. Even dressed in simple clothing that befits his disposition more than his station, he looks like a portrait, even what few, subjective flaws upon his person only serving to further accentuate such beauty. In his wake, there is no doubt that he's left a trail of broken hearts, even at his tender age.

But that's simply par for course if one was a royal prince, the object of fantasy and gossip.

They say that he was born on a blue moon, when the clock struck midnight.

They say that he was a stubborn birth, clawing and rioting to stay within his mother’s womb.

They say that he was born fragile, lighter than his brothers and sisters, lungs heaving with only a miserly whimper once exposed to the outside world.

And over the years, they’ve continued to say many things of the Moonkissed Princeling, birthed by the union of Lady Terrenza Welrimelle and King Albus II, yet possessing neither the Lady’s acumen nor the King’s power. He must have been a child birthed only when the bounty of the fair Lady’s womb had dried up, a child of middling intelligence and meager magical talent, an unfanged cub to the wolves who were his older siblings. The firstborn son, the valorous Manegold of the Eclipsing Strike, is the Knight-Commander of the Western House. The secondborn daughter, the honorable Sieglinde, stands as one of the few advisors of the Grand Duke. The thirdborn daughter, the perceptive Walpurga of the Deep Sea, will succeed in the role of Royal Librarian of the Arcane Path once the current one’s tenure is up. All this was obtained through talent and the expenditure of political capital and wealth.

All this is simply to be expected if the third wife of His Righteousness is to expect House Welrimelle, mere Earls, to be grafted into the Grayle family as rulers.

And all this left Rossweine as…what? A second son, a prince with no great talents in warfare or leadership. He was only as beautiful as what ought to be expected of royalty, there was not much left in the family coffers to expend upon a fourth child, especially one without great prospects. So what did that make of his childhood?

One full of love, one bereft of great expectations. One that he did not appear to mind.

Time passed. The child grew up in body, yet did not change in mind. His mother worried as mothers would. His father hardly registered his existence, as any king would. The blood of heroes did not give rise to anything spectacular, and still, his magic only aligned with a single, pitiful element. Perhaps this was what allowed his delinquency to go unpunished? Or perhaps the battle for the crown was simply so consuming that his elder siblings and his dearest mother wanted for him something different?

Or perhaps it was the fate ascribed to him by the Wise God, He Who Dwells Within the Lunar Sea?

If a Prince had no place in the world, let him be a Knight, so that he may at least stand guard in a solitary keep, overlooking a seldom-touched plains.

So Prince Rossweine Lupus Grayle joined the many prospective candidates who sought to earn the glory of becoming a Royal Knight. And for all his listless apathy, the results of his first duel had some…undesirable consequences.

“The Knight King’s blood must truly run in his veins! Look at how he forced his foe to kneel without once striking back!”

He fights in the equipment of a standard knight, with a shield in one hand and a longsword in the other.

He smells of spring and snowmelt, and does not sweat easy. Prefers quick, cold ablutions over warm baths.

He is soft-spoken and restrained, with a preference towards ambiguous, noncommittal phrasing.

He received a noble's education, which includes hunting, pensmanship, and the sixty-four standard ballroom dances that emerge in noble society. In the absence of servants to aid him in doing so, he cannot actually put on any of his clothes, so subsequently prefers buttonless, laceless attire.

Of average height, slight but leanly muscled, toss a little dirt on her cheeks and Dot looks the part of a rugged youth, despite having grown up in a literal castle. Her dark hair is chopped short, and she possesses a stony yet serene countenance, cracked only under pressure, or when given something sweet. Like her siblings, she carries almost none of her father’s hard features, and knows that before long she will look very much like her mother—a thought that thrilled her once, but no longer.

Her clothes are not quite rags, but are still simple and offer ease of movement. She wears cloaks often, having always favored the flowing nature they granted to her dancing, and now preferring how they obscure her movements. Hoods, gloves, and boots are also not uncommon, mainly because she owns little else, and she’s been instructed that more coverage is better.

It would be hard to see nobility in Dot at a glance, but in motion she displays a sort of grace unbefitting of street urchins. She doesn’t move like a knight, nor entirely like a dancer either, but rather in some awkward amalgamation of the two. Time and training may yet refine it into something effective and beautiful.

Lord Heron Auferrum was a proud man, with a proud lineage and a proud legacy. He wore his family’s colors with pride, he ruled his subjects with pride, he combed his moustache with pride. The people of the Ferrous Shore were proud to call him lord, his sons were proud to call him father. At night he would stand in front of a mirror and tell himself just how proud he was to be Lord Heron Auferrum, and then he would climb into bed and dream that penitent Maria herself would descend to pat him on the head and say that she was proud of him too.

At least that’s how Dot imagined it from her hole in the castle.

Often times the lastborn child of nobility is doted upon, shirking all responsibility, but still managing to bask in the glory of their name and reap all its benefits. In a way that was true, Dot’s third brother was lazy and witless and did next to nothing and yet he would be recorded in the Auferrum records with beautiful marks.

Unlike him, though, Dot was a bastard.

Not Lord Heron’s bastard, no. His wife, the venerable Lady Lesca, had been exchanging love letters with an anonymous member of the Grayle family, and on a certain diplomatic visit to their neighbors, sealed them with a kiss.

At first this was not a problem. Despite Heron’s strong bloodline, all of his children most strongly resembled their mother, and Dot was no exception. It wasn’t until the discovery of her magical affinity that things took a turn for the worse. Her father was crestfallen, her mother was mortified, and two of her brothers were quick to write her out of the family. Adean, the middle brother, felt sorry for her and still called her sister, but as second in line his say was ignored.

Blessedly, no one outside of the immediate family knew, and Heron was desperate to keep it that way. He had his daughter confined. At the age of five, Dot’s world shrank to the size of her room, expanding only occasionally to other cramped areas of the castle. Her only visitors were the guards that brought her food, the tutors who disappeared if she told them her secret, her mother—though that became less and less frequent over the years—and daily visits from Adean. With few feasible hobbies, Dot spent a lot of time daydreaming about being free, seeing the world, living out the adventures in the books she hoarded. But eventually those dreams soured. Childlike wonder withered early for her, and she became moody and resentful of everyone, even Adean—though she always felt guilty when she snapped at him, and he always came back the next day anyway. Adean tried to ease the gloom. He taught her swordplay, and brought her to dance while the musicians practiced, when he could sneak her out, but for every bright moment he gave her, there were always hours of silence to follow.

Eventually he decided enough was enough. Dot wasn’t sure how exactly it happened, but her brother managed to leak her secret to the court, and from there it spread like wildfire. Lord Heron Auferrum, proud descendent of the penitent witch, renowned knight of Alexandria, had been cuckolded by the fucking Grayles. Mockery and contempt rained down upon their house, and in a matter of weeks their standing had begun to crumble. Heron raged, demanding duels from all those who darted impugn his honor, and though he managed to lay a few hecklers low on the field, the rest simply ignored him.

It was too much. Heron had his wife exiled, and in a fever of newfound hatred for his countrymen, sent Dot “back where she belonged.” Adean and the rest of her brothers were now the ones confined to the castle, until he could manage to find them suitable prospects for marriage so that he might, slowly, begin to rebuild the Auferrum name.

Armed with a humble pouch of coin, Dot was sent to Grayle as a “Grudge-Born-Gift,” which seemed in all practicality to be synonymous with “soon-to-be-prisoner” or, perhaps like her mother, “exile.” Alexandria despised her, and Grayle, she was sure, would carry no love for a bastard whose mere existence called the royal family’s honor into question. The only thing saving her from the gutters, or worse, living in another small room as a political hostage no one wanted, was her affinity for Light magic. Regardless of her dubious birth, turning away a rare gift, even one given out of spite, was surely unwise.

Dot found little resistance in her decision to try for knighthood. It seemed girls joining was something of an open secret, discouraged but not rigorously policed. “Cut your hair, wear baggy clothes,” they said, “and don’t piss around anyone.” It didn’t sound so tough, and for a brief moment Dot felt the world open up just a bit more.

But the feeling didn’t last. Dread was more familiar. She was used to closed doors, and it was only a matter of time before this one shut, too.

Questions of Dot's parentage travel briefly up the chain of command before being stonewalled. Though her roots in the Grayle bloodline are undeniable, it would seem someone is protecting the identity of her father—or perhaps, protecting themselves.

Nathaniel Lothwren isn’t much to look at from a first glance. He is a bit tall for his age, and has a lean-muscular build. He keeps his hair short, to avoid it from becoming a nuisance in battle or a potential weakness. His features are a bit sharp in the right light, though a nearly ever-present soft smile helps to smooth away the edges. The most notable feature is noticed when Nathaniel looks in someone’s direction: his irises have a purple hue. It’s subtle enough to be mistaken as blue, but is markedly distinct when viewed in better lighting. Beyond just the color of his eyes, there is an intense focus placed on anything Nate looks at that is remarkably clear on closer examination.

As for his clothes, all of Nathaniel’s limited wardrobe is remarkably well crafted. He is almost always seen wearing fair riding clothes, fine pants, and a blue tunic of fine quality. He sinches his outfit together with belts and straps to ensure everything stays firm, especially before going into combat. His ensemble, once viewed when he is in the height of combat, is also purely utilitarian. His gloves reduce wear on his hands, with bracers designed to hold the gloves in place. Belts and straps keep the tunic loose around joints and his hips without any fear of the clothing sliding or restricting in such a way as to limit mobility. And, of course, Nathaniel is often not seen without his trusty “Sword and a half” Bastard Sword either strapped to his back or held in hand whenever training or duels are at hand. The scabbard for the blade is old and worn leather, whereas the sword itself seems to be in remarkably pristine condition.

Nathaniel Lothwren's birth was deemed important by the falling of three stars in the Southwestern sky, piercing through the sword of Chironis... at least, that's what some sage told his mother. The last time stars fell in this pattern was years and years ago, when one of his forefathers was born: a forefather who was a founding knight serving alongside Arbert Grayle. Back when heroes walked the realm. The meaning of this sign was clear: Nathaniel was born with the rare gift of being able to project a magical aura. Nathaniel's father, whom the boy refuses to name, took this as a sign that his son was meant to surpass him. And thus, the boy's future was set.

As soon as Nathaniel could walk, he was taught to run. As soon as he was able to comprehend language, he was told his destiny by his father: to become a knight to rival the heroes of old. As soon as the boy could stand on his own two feet and hold a sword, he underwent formal drills. He was given access to some of the greatest sword instructors in all of Grandor, and some from outside Grayle proper. Mages also did their best to instruct the boy, and teach him to control his aura. Beyond even just that, they taught him the nature of combative magic. While not versed in incantations for his personal use, Nathaniel has been taught on instinct what spells to expect to be used against him. When time allowed, Nathaniel's father would draw up mock battles in the study and teach the boy military history. The boy would absorb his father's musings on tactical failures of the past, and over time the boy began to be able to notice strategic flaws all his own. His two younger brothers were not given the same focus, the same singular attention that Nathaniel was. They were only a year and a half and three years younger than himself. They were not neglected, not by any means. They were instead taught alternative lessons: instructed on how to be proper young men, educated and able to command principles of academics and business. They were molded for court, and to be proper nobles. Nathaniel was made for the battlefield.

By the time the boy was 10, even Nathaniel's father recognized a need for socialization. He had drilled the boy in principles of honor, of always fighting fair even in the face of cunning and ruthlessness. But the boy needed to put it into practice. So, the boy was sent off to various sword schools, for a few months at a time. He displayed a great prowess for wielding a blade, and had grown to favor wielding a specific type of broadsword: a bastard sword. Nathaniel had learned proficiency in switching the hand he wielded the sword with. He would quickly work his way to the top of the class, and was met with jealousy by the other students. He was bullied and harrassed, and yet Nathaniel's resolve was strong. He would accept whatever scorn was cast his way, and never rose to true anger. That was reserved for those who fought dishonorably and outside of the rules. Those who lacked skill and prowess, and resorted to cheap shots and dirty tricks. They were nothing but cowards, mere rats clawing desperately for survival. Nathaniel reserved his ire for these students, and would systematically tarnish their spirits in sparring matches.

That is not to say Nathaniel did not make friends at these schools. The boy with purple eyes earned respect by those who were less skilled and in desperate desire to learn. While it was breaking the rules, Nathaniel would sneak out of the rooms at night many a time with those who desired to squeeze in extra practice by moonlight. Nathaniel would give pointers and suggestions, even in the midst of sparring, with those who were not as skilled as Nathaniel. And by the time Nathaniel left each sword school, his genuine care for those around him was the most notable absence.

Of course, it seems that Nathaniel would be a shoe in for placing as a respectable knight. He passed the preliminary trials offered to noble families, and was slated to duel a mere Baker's boy. Nathaniel took it as a chance to show off his skills against an unknown opponent. Despite all of the training he had, Nathaniel was not expecting one thing: pocket sand. A cheap trick blinded him, and Nathaniel was on his back pinned down and disarmed as he was coughing and furiously trying to blink out the rough sand. In his first truly public duel and display, Nathaniel Lothwren was dishonored and made a laughing stock. While he tries to be all smiles, there is a deep well of ambition and desire to challenge that opponent to a proper duel.

One of these days, Nathaniel will get his rematch with Julian Baker. And when that time comes, he is not going to hold back.

Eolnana is short even for a girl, so posing as a boy must make her seem particularly height disadvantaged. She stands at five-foot-three, with boys of her age often being five-to-six inches above her and trying to lord over her with the size difference. It doesn’t matter much to Eolnana–the taller they are, the harder and more violently they fall.

Her gray-blue eyes seem devoid of life and her brown hair is messy and uncouth. Her tan, desert-burned skin is probably her most distinct feature away from home. Her mother has told her that men see her as exotic and should be wary around them. Her physique is more athletic than it may appear for a young woman who may as well cite her residence as a library. She’s been doing drills alongside her brother for years and enjoys the art of the sword and spear as much as her twin does. She just likes books more.

Fifteen years ago, Shende Anteskelia bore twins for her husband, the leader of a prominent mercantile dynasty in northern Valefor. They would name them Elon and Eolnana.

The Anteskelia Dynasty was old and “pure” by all accords. They were one of the closest things to nobility you could get in the region and several stories speculated their heritage dated back to the King of Thieves himself. Such a claim has been in contention since pretty much the first time it was uttered by an Anteskelia. It is something Eolnana has heard her entire life, though try as she can she has never seen the proof in the pudding despite inhabiting the great library every time she has found chance to.

The two siblings would grow close together, one heir to the patronage of the many guilds under Anteskelian control and the other a girl who was best suited in trying to sire an influential romance. Envy grew in Eolnana’s heart. She wanted to have the same agency as her brother, to live free and do what she wanted. She wanted to study magic with the best and brightest. She wanted to be seen as independent and recognized as the genius she saw herself as. Her brother barely could read, let alone lead the family! The more time she spent beside him training in the sword the more she resented the idea that she couldn’t be free. One day she began thinking on how to break her chains, how to escape her guardians or convince her parents.

When Elon fell ill the resentment moved inward, questioning how she could hope for such a thing. He had regalled her with all of his ambitions, his plans, his wants, and desires; how he was going to become a knight and how the ink was already dry.

Despite her regret in how she felt about everything, she found herself thinking. Plotting. Was this the way out? It was a serious sickness and his recovery could’ve been long. Craving an out she did the one thing she could. She sought out in a game of fantasy and decided that she would pose as her brother in his ambitions and take them for herself. If he recovered everyone wouldn’t care, the damage would already be done, and ultimately she would’ve proven what exactly she thought of her place in the world.

The Genius of Valefor would spread her wings and everyone would recognize her as one of the greatest knights to exist in the current age!