[OOC] The Prophecy

[cthulu]

>.>;

[yoshua171]

:/

[Shienvien]

Still alive.

[Legion X51]

Two posts in as many weeks from me. Must be a record.

[Legion X51]

Forgive the double post, but here, have some themes:

The Berserker From Beyond - The Untamed Stranger

Chosen largely due to its violent and psychotic tone, this track seethes with anger and bloodthirsty intent, similar to Angora when she is in full 'rage mode'.

A Mind Restored - Angora Kelenwyn's Theme

Much calmer and soothing, Angora's main theme is one of healing and calm, as well as a certain degree of playfulness and optimism. Angora in her past life was a rebellious little brat, but she always tried to see the good in things and in people, despite her unsavoury line and manner of work.

[Dark Jack]

Went ahead and added those themes to the list accessible from the link in the OP.

[Ashgan]

Yo merry christmas, folks! Happy holidays!

[Dark Jack]

Yeah, (slightly late for those who celebrate Christmas on the 24th, as we do here) merry Christmas!

[Shienvien]

We tend to start on the 23th (the eve, where the present-exchanging happens, and it's a day off, too)... Whatever the case might be around where you are (or by whichever name the holidays of this season take - I suppose we technically celebrate Yule merged with all your current traditional western Crystmas traditions here?), hope you lot have had and are having a good time!

[Legion X51]

Merry Christmas and Boxing Day and everything! *Angora throws a party*

[Dark Jack]

And happy New Year.

[Mercinus3]

Happy New Year, guys!

M3

[Shienvien]

Another person to think Aemoten (who is rather obviously another ethnicity/race) might be a Catolohnian? Oh dear. That's culturally about as bad as insisting that an ethnic Jew is a Nazi, and the two are probably visually at least as distinct as Japanese individuals and Mongols to boot. Then again, the average Sekalyn (even more so the Northeasterners) would consider both Catolohnians and Rodorians equally to be barbaric, sexist, uncultured people of the far northeast. Aemoten was/is (both canonical and this one) actually very, hmm, understanding of other cultures as far as his people are concerned. Though, if he were to know about the little arranged marriage thing going on in the IC, he'd probably end up being incapable of not citing back the origin of Zerul and Relimon, and perhaps only technically fall short of openly calling the Duke of Pelgaid a rapist and doom of Zerul for agreeing to the arrangement... That would most likely be a disaster.

[Dark Jack]

To be fair most Rodorians would presume that pretty much any human of a distinctively different ethnicity native to the areas between Rodoria and the deep Balazth and Malith (both of which have very distinctively different human inhabitants similar to negroid races from Earth) is Catolohne. To almost anyone that has no particular interest in what lies beyond the borders of their own nation, "south" is pretty much synonymous with "Catolohne".
Also to be fair, most of the monarchs throughout the history of Rodoria would probably also have protested against the Zerulic-Pelgaidian arranged marriage, which is definitely not something one would ordinarily see there... at least not obviously so, and not among highborn nobles bound to make a spectacle out of the event.

[Ashgan]

Yeah, Jill's understanding of the world beyond Rodoria is quite rudimentary. She's familiar with a handful of names here and there, could place them roughly accurately on a map, but otherwise knows only some horror stories from the Catolohne, whose culture she finds revolting (unsurprisingly, given she's a relatively emancipated woman). Contrasting Jill and Aemoten this way is kind of funny though, given her prejudices of him while he is far more liberal and accepting than she is. Point in case, she's even tolerant towards arranged marriages to an extent, given that the practice isn't horribly uncommon in higher circles and even her own sister was pressured into a convenient, rather than a passionate marriage. She's been raised to see lineage as an important value, and arranged marriage is an efficient method of ensuring the strength, purity and simply survival of these. A necessary evil, so to speak.
Admittedly, though, I'm not 100% in the know of everything going on in the IC. Is there something particularly scandalous about this marriage between Zerul and Pelgaid that I'm not aware of? The description given by you two seems to paint the affair as something a little more extreme than what I'm imagining on a whim.

[Dark Jack]

There's nothing unusually scandalous about it compared to arranged marriages from medieval Earth, no, though as I mentioned earlier arranged marriages are not something that are usually practiced by people in the spotlight in Rodoria (which, despite having failed in many regards and having occasional relapses, has endeavored to promote gender equality). The reason for the marriage is simply to cement an alliance between Zerul and Pelgaid, (since Pelgaid recognizes that it is not only the easiest target out of the ten duchies, but also that they cannot risk standing alone if the Black Tribunal decided to seize the opportunity to make a concerted effort to break out of the Land of Eternal Darkness while the civil war ensures that Pelgaid has no reinforcements; Zerul, meanwhile, ensures that Etlon can't move through the otherwise passive Pelgaid to attack them) though this does raise a number of new political issues, most notably that with the Blue Duke's only heir being married to the White Duke and living in Pelgaid, succession is going to be a big unknown.
That aside, the main issue with it is that the couple to be wed have had very little interaction with one another and are being married despite not knowing each other very well. There's no unusual difference in age between the two of them (Duke Frederick Pelgaid being twenty-four years old and Selene Zerul being twenty-one), there are no money changing hands (aside from those spent to make a spectacle of the wedding) and neither party is technically being forced to agree to the marriage by anything other than the political conditions surrounding their separate duchies and the related duties and expectations.
The reason most monarchs would have protested would in part be the questions of succession being raised in Zerul, and in part simply that it's an arranged marriage between two people who hardly know each other (and are sufficiently high-profile for them to take notice).

[Shienvien]

The canonical Sekalyns vary from very pale fair-skinned (Northeasterners) to almost literally black-skinned (Highlanders), with Lower, Middle and Upper Sekalyns being somewhere between (from lightest to darkest). Lower/Upper/Middle are sometimes considered to be the "true" Sekalyns (by others but themselves), whereas the Northeasterners have been their own thing for a while and possibly have mingled somewhat with the other peoples living along the northeastern coast (in turn, there are multiple other countries between them and the rest of the Sekalynic lands ... they're also the only ones with one unified country as opposed to the several of any other branch), whereas the Highland Sekalyns are largely the result of the sourthernmost Upper Sekalyns integrating most of another race/ethnicity (the Tenihurants) into their ranks.
The main feature of Sekalyns-by-blood is body and facial structure - the same tall and narrow build Aemoten (pretty much a "pure" Lower Sekalyn) has, narrow face, thin lips, high cheekbones, pointed chin, deep-set, narrow eyes, typically green/brown/yellow/mixed, with impure green being perhaps the most common, straight, brown hair. Lower/Upper/Middle tend to go from lightest to darkest, largest to smallest, in this order. (The Northeasterners tend to be broader in build, slightly taller than Lower Sekalyns on average, and possess more varied in hair/eye color, whereas the Highland Sekalyns are conversely smaller than any branch of the "main" body of Sekalyns, with softer and more round facial features, and mostly have dark brown eyes and very dark brown or black hair.)
More than blood or appearance, Sekalyns themselves tend to classify people into Sekalyns and non-Sekalyns by culture ... so a random person who adopted the attire and exact mannerisms, philosophy, principles and morals could be treated as such (even if they were, say, a nightwalker or deigan), whereas a descendant of (former) Sekalyns who looks ethnic in all physical respects but did not behave the part would be considered a stranger, and tolerated with the Sekalyns' typical distant and calculated hospitality, any distinct deviation from the typical Sekalynic ways being pointed out (followed by reinforcement, if the hint goes unheeded). Northeasterners tend to be the least tolerant, and tend to have the lowest expectations of aliens being capable of maintaining civility and following the several layers of right path and way they have established (from the Warriors' Right to Ienaphyoraem to Common Order ... I couldn't find a halfway adequate translation for the middle one). But you're always allowed to leave if you do not feel like trying to learn and adhere to their ways, unless you go full criminal...
I think I've mentioned before that Sekalynic men and women are considered equal (and the amount of yourself you are expected to keep covered doesn't differ between them ... not that they had any rules about it, or were particularly conservative; you mostly just might get some odd looks if you wear more/less than expected in the scenario or go hide in a bush to change). Female warriors and leaders are common, though the specifically warriors tend to be somewhat less numerous than males - the criteria by which they are elevated to the status are the exact same regardless of sex, too. And most women will draw back for the latter half, should they get pregnant...
Arranged marriages don't exist. Traditional marriages don't really exist, either, though somewhat modified concepts of inter-people bonds of lasting power do exist (both relatively platonic and not really so), and especially during wartime it's very common to see arrangements which contain more than one woman and one man and their children ... the origin of forming these odd cluster-families had to do with the extremely high mortality during some eras, and so it was that people tried to sort their children and such out before both parents went to war or the settlement was attacked and potentially perished. Similar concept to godparents, but often with the people having closer relationships between one another.

Remind you though, Sekalyns in this iteration are halfway into Balazth/Malith as per our agreement. (And before that, they were not supposed to be southern until the IC (my own content excluded) unanimously decided Aemoten was. The canonical Sekalyns are pretty much "all over the center of the eastern half of the continent, and also quite far northeast, for some reason". Canonical Northeasteners are one of the three very northernmost peoples on the continent, and the other two don't have countries in the typical sense ... so they actually have the very northemost country of the continent, the northernmost parts of which never fully thaw during summers, and are bordered by a northern gulf.)

...Perhaps just showing you a map would be more reasonable, should you be interested in where what is on the planet I keep importing things from. Uhh. And do you lot by any chance feel like naming a few islands? That question goes for everyone. I just about may have a literal few thousand in excess on that map, still unnamed. I shall modify and place the names accordingly as I see fit.

[Dark Jack]

I'm aware, and the location of the Sekalyn area is why I specifically said that negroid humans are native to the deep Balazth and Malith. As a sidenote, Balazth and Malith are both significantly larger areas than they appear on the map, as they continue far beyond the borders of it. Just Malith alone probably has a combined area as large or larger than the entire northern Kirirak. The Desert of Desperation, for that matter, is many times bigger than both of those combined.

Now, I was thinking about The Prophecy the other day, and it occurred to me that there was a pretty important entry in the Deo'iel Guide to Survival that I had yet to write... so I wrote it.

Archangels

Archangels
Occurrence: Rarely venture into Reniam for other reasons than being summoned, or to act as a representative of the god they serve. Conversing with archangels has revealed a surprising amount of information regarding the process of how immortals come to be, and which specific circumstances result in the creation of a new archangel. Supposedly, when a spirit of the dead desires to be reincarnated as an immortal with no memory of its former self it must address a deity and receive the aid of one such in the ascendance. The transformation is then achieved through the deity forcing the spirit’s seeds of good and evil together and combining them, causing the two opposing karmic energies to intermingle and unleash an immense amount of immortal energy, the exact nature of which depends on which seed has been nourished the most, with surviving seeds of evil resulting in infernal energy and superior seeds of good causing the energy to attune to the divine. The size of the surviving seed – with its capacity having been decreased through the process by an amount equal to the capacity of the annihilated seed – is what determines how much of this energy the newly formed immortal retains, whereas the rest of the energy is obtained by the deity. Gods in particular then have a tradition of equalizing the power of their angels by bestowing new angels with the power they lack to be equal to their peers, explaining the much smaller difference in power between angels compared to among demons.
Archangels are a special case among angels in that they have so much of their seeds of good left after the fusing of the seeds that their innate power after ascendance is even greater than that of other angels, making them the only divine beings fitting in the category of “greater immortals”, second only to the gods themselves.
Appearance: Unlike other “breeds” of angels that all appear to assume a form befitting of the way they lived their lives, archangels are unique in that they largely retain their appearance from when they were mortal, causing their forms to range across all mortal species capable of extreme goodness by some standard or another, and while they typically appear as sapient humanoid beings – most frequently as human, given that humans are the most numerous among these – there are records of archangels with the appearance of “inferior” species, like beasts and animals. The one deviance that occurs from their appearance as mortals and which is a common feature across all specimens of archangels is the growth of three pairs of birdlike wings, typically attached to the upper back below the shoulders, with feathers of a color that matches that of the archangels hair, feathers or scales, as applicable. The size of these wings are somewhat dependent on the size of the archangel, but studies have shown that each wing is generally about one and a half times the combined length of its torso and head. Archangels are capable of manifesting these wings at will, however, and can choose to appear entirely as mortals if they so desire.
Danger: Whereas lesser angels are bound by rules and driven by desires based on their breed, archangels appear to retain almost complete freedom and personalities as unique as those of mortals; indeed, extremely rare cases of archangels being recognized by people they knew as mortals suggest that archangels actually remain the person they were when alive, only with no memory of their mortal lives. This means that an archangel not controlled by a summoner can be just as unpredictable as any mortal and should be treated with caution until their exact nature is known, though they will typically choose to either abstain from getting involved in mortal affairs or fight on the side of those they appraise as the ones on the side of good. Of particular note is that archangels rank among the most difficult of all non-deities to control and typically require the concerted effort of at least several summoners to render obedient and that they, upon being released from the control of those who enslaved them, will often turn against their summoners and seek vengeance for themselves.
Their atypical behavior aside, archangels are potentially extremely dangerous opponents and incredibly valuable allies, not only being among the best fliers in the planes with surprisingly dexterous wings, regenerative abilities on par with those of any other immortal and in possession of physical abilities often many times that of their mortal selves, but possessing a variety of great powers. While some of their abilities appear to differ from one specimen to another with a possible reliance on the aspect of the god that facilitated their ascendance, three powers in particular seem to occur in all archangels: powers of healing on par with those of an Angel of Mercy, powers of remote manipulation and the power to, as they describe it, “seize a second soul”. Their ability to move things without physically touching them is one that varies in potency and proficiency from one archangel to the next, with the most dexterous being able to pick out the needle from a haystack and the most powerful possessing the brute force to reduce entire structures to rubble, but which appears to have certain limits that confirm the archangels’ own explanation of the power: that it is an “extra” invisible hand of theirs, capable of growing or shrinking at will and moving practically anywhere within an indeterminate distance of them. This “divine hand”, as they call it, is extremely durable and quick and can be used as a steadfast shield just as easily as a tool of destruction. It can be dismissed and and conjured forth as they desire, and is thus far most easily detected through the displacement of the air occupying the space it exists in.
Most interesting in the archangels’ arsenal is the ability to “seize a second soul”, however, as this may very well be the single most fearsome power possessed by any immortal short of the raw power of a deity. While the full details and potential utility of the ability is still uncertain, it has been confirmed that archangels are able to grab any unbound magical energy – including energy molded into spells or otherwise invoked near them – and store it temporarily in a “second soul” contained within their wings, only for them to be able to use it for their own purposes. This means that any magical attack directed towards an archangel – even if carried out by a demon – can technically be completely absorbed and sent back where it came from. Absorbing extreme quantities of magical energy has been observed to put significant strain on archangels, but thus far no true limit to this ability has been confirmed.
Conclusion: It is naturally best to not face angels entirely but instead aim to end their summoners, but in case a confrontation cannot be avoided, one should exercise the highest caution possible against an archangel and ideally never fight one alone. One should never use magical attacks against an archangel as they can potentially fuel the angel’s retaliation, and trying to land a blow with a physical weapon against an archangel can be incredibly dangerous due to the numerous dangers they are capable of manifesting, from their own physical prowess and divine hand to their surprisingly strong, quick and flexible wings and whatever powers particular to their divine benefactor they may possess; and even if one manages to inflict a wound, it will likely regenerate in seconds. The sheer diversity of their abilities make them one of the most formidable opponents one can face, and it is recommended that none below the fifth circle even attempt to face an archangel, lest lives be lost needlessly.

[Ashgan]

Yo folks, wanna hear something funny? The guy who struggles with getting frequent posts out for a single character is now putting a second character into the ring! Hah! Now that we've all had a laugh, though, it's time to get the serious face on because this character's story is anything but funny. Hopefully I hit the mark by keeping it this side of, if not tasteful, then at least engaging. I've spent the past few weeks discussing the concept and refining this or that lore point with Jack, and now that it's finally done I'm finally ready to post it in the thread in general.

My desire is to have this character become an ally of sorts, or at least stay in contact with the main group because it would be nice to pass around posts between others than just Jack, as is the case with Jill for the forseeable future. I'm admittedly not up to date on the IC posts that do not directly concern my character, but I've been told that at least Aemoten and Thaler (and Etakar, I suppose) would be arriving in Zerul shortly, as in, 4-5 posts. I'll have to read up a bit on what they've been up to so I can get a better idea of what is up. If that's true, we can probably organize a first-contact run-in by the city gates. Ciara, being underway with a few other clerics, is on a quest to convert some poor refugee suckers to Ismyel, meaning they'd be by the gates anyway. Wanted to make sure this encounter is okay with you folks. In any event, Ciara should be far more agreeable than Jillian was.

As for the sheet below, I strongly recommend reading the story first and then the rest. You don't have to, but the story was written as a self-contained introduction that practically makes the rest of the sheet optional.

Hider

Introduction Story:

Hider

Sleek fingers wrapped in blackened leather tightened their grip around the sword handle. Two hands clutching a downwards pointing blade, its tip securely balanced on the polished stone floor. Her vision was downcast, dreamy silver eyes following the fuller of her weapon.

“Yes, they are right,” she said, her voice firm and unhesitating but sweet all the same. Her left knee, placed on the cold, hard floor, shifted ever so slightly, grating the steel kneepad against the ground. “I was a slave. For a long time. I understand you want to know everything?”

A cold void enveloped her stomach. She had no desire to open these wounds, but if this was the will of her goddess, she would gladly apply the knife.

“I know who you are, Ciara. But I need to know who you were, as well. There can be no secrets if you desire more than your current lot in life.”

His voice was raspy and merciless, like the ocean breeze in winter. She could see his gnarly, sandaled feet before her, just behind the gleaming iron blade of her sword inside which the nearby torchlight flickered.

“Then I will spare no details. Unless my memory should fail me,” she answered with a heavy heart.

“I was born in Relimon, in a fishing hamlet they call Vickerstine. A small and dreadful place for small and dreadful people,” she began, pausing only to snicker at her own description, “Nobody knows it. Nobody should, by rights, know it. Father was a carpenter, or what passed for one back there. He made crooked little chairs, gnarly little tables, and fixed moldy old shacks that some would call home. It was a big household but a small house. We were fourteen all in all: Father. Mother. Mother’s parents. Seven brothers. Two sisters. Me. I was the third youngest. I believe I was… eight? Nine? Still a girl. There wasn’t enough space. I shared a bed with three of my siblings. There wasn’t enough money, or clothing, or food.”

She paused to clear swallow and clear her throat. Her fingers relented their grasp, then clenched again, finger by finger.

“The only thing we had in abundance were children. And father had no purpose for girls. We were too fragile to make fragile little furniture. Or to go out fishing. Girls were good for cooking, making more little boys and maybe keeping a bed warm at night. That’s what we believed.”

“Truth is,” she added after taking a deep breath, “I don’t know for how much time they’ve been setting up their little deal. Maybe it was planned months ago. Maybe it was a spur of the moment decision. They never deigned to tell me. Only one day, it was a late, autumn evening, father called me to come outside. I hadn’t seen mother that day, but I heard her swallowing tears in the kitchen. I didn’t think much of it back then. This happened all the time.”

“As if crying would have changed a thing,” she added bitterly, her knuckles becoming white underneath the leather gloves.

“He called me outside,” she continued, doing her best to stay the course and not lose herself in emotion, “Father was talking to a group of men with toned skin and strong bodies. Not locals, I would have recognized them. Looked like seasoned seamen perhaps from the city. They had a large carriage with four horses. Other fathers were also speaking with the foreigners, each with one or more of their misbegotten offspring in tow. Girls, boys, it did not matter. Clinking bags exchanged filthy hands. Then they told the children to get on the cart. Some refused, tried to cling to their fathers, or run to their homes. That’s when they began to bind their feet and their hands. That’s when they beat them. I almost got away, but Eirik, one of my older brothers, caught me in the backyard. Dragged me back out.”

She swallowed again, pausing for longer. Her eyes closed.

“I hate him.”

A late evening sun painted Vickerstine in rusted golden hues. Poorly constructed wooden huts with straw rooftops pressed against the muddy shoreline. Beached boats lined the oily coast from which deeply dredged trails led back to the inner village where sturdy wooden crates and bundles of nets were propped up against the ramshackle huts. The stench of rotten fish prevailed over everything, enveloping the hamlet like a poisonous miasma. To the inhabitants, it was the smell of home, but to the slave traders from the city, who themselves were used to the stink of the city harbor, it was revolting, fouling their moods and tempers. One boy struggled so much while they bound him that they beat him until his nose bled and lips split open, then they threw him on the cart where his body almost crushed a frightened young girl that squealed in pain. Next they wanted to bind a little blonde, but she tore at her captors and bit one of them in the arm, drawing blood. Her head slammed against the side of the cart, dizzying her and causing her vision to blur. When she lay on the cart afterwards, like a piece of meat, her little silver eyes glared hatefully at her house until she could no longer see it.

The seed had been planted.

“We didn’t stay with the slavers,” she specified, her face now a mask of stone gazing at the ground so intensely that she had come to commit every speck of dust, every piece of rubble and every fold in the rock to memory. “They were just the hired muscle. The collectors. I don’t think they’re working under Relimonian law. But they’re cheap and efficient. Nobody asks too many questions in this business. Money exchanged hands again and we were given to a reputable slave trader operating from the capital. We weren’t beaten anymore from now on, but most were broken by now anyway. They saw to it that our bruises were healed or covered up, washed us. We were quite young so we were told how to behave and even given a bit of education while we waited for a buyer. Sometimes there would be inspections where they lined us up and had a client eye us up and down like a farmer would look at a sow he was thinking of buying. We were told we were lucky to be in Relimon. Overseas they treat slaves worse. I didn’t feel lucky.”

“It’s a shame we haven’t returned the isles to the oceans yet,” she commented with an absentminded smile. “And speaking of oceans. I would soon spend a lot of time being rocked by her sometimes gentle, sometimes violent waves. One day, an enterprising tradeswoman picked me up, I don’t know for how much. She commandeered a trade vessel that ran a route between Arkanoz and the mainland. The Gallant. The ship brought in shipments of medicine and brought back exotic foods and sometimes cheap slaves to be sold at a profit. Wouldn’t surprise me if we smuggled a box if Piaan every now and again but I know little of the business, it’s not what I was bought for. The captain wanted a handmaid, likely because her newfound wealth got to her head.”

Ciara paused for a moment, cocking her neck to the left and the right, each time provoking a subtle cracking noise. Having knelt for a while, the stiff positioning was becoming stifling. But she could not bring herself to feel bothered by the discomfort; she had endured far more painful and far more humiliating things in her life. This was nothing, and she would gladly kneel for the rest of the day if it brought Ismyel joy.

“All things considered, this was a turn for the better. The Gallant’s captain, Eva Levant by name, was as good a mistress as a slave could expect. I – I should mention I was about twelve, thirteen maybe by this time. Sorry. As I was saying, she was fair to me. Mostly. How she expected a smelly little runt from a forgotten fishing hamlet to know how to powder her face or neatly fold clothing is beyond me, but I learned. You might be surprised that the vessel’s captain was a woman. I know I was.”

She subtly wriggled a bit to try and move her body. Her tight leather harness was chafing and she could feel herself sweating underneath.

“I learned that the Melanians, degenerates that they may be, have far more respect for women than for men. In turn, this made trade deals much easier for Eva, who had learned how to engage the catfolk in such a way as to respect their customs and appeal to their sensibilities. I’m almost tempted to call her a smart woman, but she got greedy. Sailed further into the isles, began dealing with the Unseen. Travelled unsafe waters to reach untapped markets. It was a mistake that would ruin her.”

“Oh, how it ruined her,” she chuckled awkwardly. In the polished reflection of her sword, she could see her strange grin, framed by chin-length blonde hair. But then the expression vanished from her pale lips and her mien became grim once more. After a pause, she glumly added: “Ruined all of us.”

The entire vessel shook and leaned sideways when the great ballistae unloaded their broadside. The noise of dozens of arm-thick strings being released rumbled through every beam and plank of the ship. Frightened silver eyes stared upwards at the lantern dangling from the ceiling, which danced wildly from side to side, casting ever warping shadows across the lavishly decorated wooden bedchamber. The servant girl sat on a stool placed before a low desk, complete with drawers and with a large mirror situated on it. Her sleek arms were wrapped around her stomach, entire body shivering as if winter had invaded the cozy cabin.

“You really are a frightened little kitten, aren’t you, Lilian?” the other woman in the room, a tall brunette clad in fine silks, soft leather and wearing a rather large, feathered hat teased her servant. “This is one of the finest vessels in Relimon. We have about sixty ballistae and two mages aboard. This’ll be over in no time and we can all sleep soundly tonight.”

She sounded so confident in her crew and her vessel. Not for a moment did she believe that things could go sour. Whether her words belied her thoughts or not, the servant girl could not say. All she knew was that they were a far way from home, and they did not belong here in these savage waters.

Another barrage of heavy bolts left the ship’s starboard side, seeking vulnerable hulls to dig into. Again the entire vessel vibrated and rumbled in protest. Then the vessel was shaken a second time, more violently than before even, but without the accompanying sound of whizzing strings. Instead, there was the worrisome creaking of broken wood and bending iron. The frightened handmaid toppled from her stool and even the captain had to grab onto the front side of her bed to avoid falling. Dozens of men shouted above deck. Orders were shouted. Warcries were shouted. Dying screams were shouted. If one listened closely, one could hear the sound of clashing steel as men hacked at each other with saber and axe.

Worry crept up the captain’s face. This wasn’t part of the plan. The helmsman had been given the order to treat suspicious vessels with extreme prejudice. He should have engaged them at a sufficient range. There was no way anyone could have gotten into boarding range without sinking. Her orderly trade run had turned into a disaster. Thousands of Rodlins in losses. She would have to repair the vessel, hire new men. Not to mention the potential for damaged goods below deck. And if all of these concerns weren’t enough to give her a headache, her handmaid began weeping loudly on the floor.

Minutes went by, minutes of nail biting uncertainty. The captain sat on her bed, facing the door with a cocked crossbow in hand. A jeweled saber lay next to her. It had never seen combat, nor would it ever. The sounds of fighting had quieted down, but neither the captain nor her servant eased up – rather, they became even more tense.

Then they heard it. Thud. Thud. Thud. Somebody – no, multiples – were descending below deck towards the crew and the captain’s quarters. If they were coming to report of their victory, they would have been faster, and not so numerous. These steps were calculated, careful. They weren’t familiar with the ship. They were invading.

“Whatever happens now, don’t make a noise,” the captain whispered to her maidservant. Then she swallowed and spoke no more. She was trembling; her fine merchant fingers, more accustomed to counting Rodlins than to grasp a crossbow, were sweaty and uneasy. Unlikely she would even hit the mark if somebody were in the doorway, and she had only one shot.

Clink. Somebody tried to open the door; it was locked. They tried another time or two before realizing that gently pushing would not be sufficient. The captain nervously aimed her weapon at the door, aim swaying wildly. All she could think of was the Grand Relimon Harbor with its myriad vessels, a forest of masts adorned with colorful flags flapping in the wind while seagulls screamed in the fair skies above. And her mother who never ceased protesting against her daughter’s aspirations. In this moment she realized she would see neither ever again. And then the door was kicked in.

The seed took roots.

“The Gallant was seized by pirates,” Ciara explained factually and slowly, carefully measuring each word. She felt nothing but disdain for her former self as she recalled these events. All she could do was weep and beg and weep some more. A worthless wench. How did Ismyel ever find it in herself to uplift her from this sorry state? Perhaps she had seen potential that Ciara would have been blind to back then. They called her the spirit of evil, but to Ciara, she was the most magnanimous of all.

“Most of the crew was killed in the ensuing combat. The deck looked like a battlefield. Thick smoke and fog hang over everything, the floor littered with bodies, body parts and blood. Parts of the deck were burning. There had been four ships attacking us from all sides. They took massive losses, we sunk two of their ships, but we were overwhelmed. Those that survived – meaning those who surrendered and those who hid below deck – were taken as captives along with sackfuls of other spoils. I remember the remaining pirate captains, as well as their henchmen, arguing over who gets what. I couldn’t tell you how their feud went. I… was in no state to pay attention. Those were different days. I was worthless and they treated me as such.”

Ciara’s head sunk lower than before and her lips pressed together in a disapproving pucker. Eyes frowned angrily at the stone tile before her whose features she had become so very familiar with.

“I ended up on the ship belonging to a human – a tall, massive, sweaty, stinking, bearded brute of a man,” she continued, expressing every descriptive word associated with the pirate captain in such a seething tone, such disdain that it was hard not to feel intimidated by the undiluted hatred in her voice. “Captain Levant, as well as a few of her crewmen were also there. I knew none of them. They- They had… cages. Easier to fit below deck. Easier to stack. About… five by five feet I guess. Ahem.”

She cleared her throat as her voice began quivering towards the end. She had to rectify the angle at which she held her sword down numerous times now. Part of it was because of her arms becoming fatigued, part of it was the ice cold void that had slowly ascended from her stomach to her chest, gripping her heart and making her insides feel as though they had been left to freeze at the bottom of the ocean.

“I spent... I spent – about, I think, five years. Six years. I don’t remember. I lost count. I was there for a long time. You remember when I said they treated slaves badly in Melanaoth? Well… that was referring to the official ones. Those in the cities. I wasn’t one of those.”

Ciara gasped for breath. Her cheeks felt wet and hot. Her body quivered. She hated herself. She was a different person now, there was no room for weakness. This shameful display alone deserved punishment, and she would do so by telling this man everything she had gone through that her mind could recall. Perhaps this was the only way to expunge the last vestiges of frailty from her ailing mind. Thus, her tale continued as she slumped down on her sword, breaking form.

“Picture a rickety wooden vessel, barely sea-worthy. It’s not very big. It’s very crowded. Everyone is a man. Able bodied men, mostly young or middle aged at least. These aren’t men like those in the countryside or in the cities. These are the rejects of society. These are the filth at the bottom of civilization. They know not decency, they know not mercy. The only reason they cooperate at all is because they both fear and adore their captain, who keeps them docile with generous supplies of gold, alcohol, piaan and ‘wenches’. Half a decade or more is a long time to become intimately familiar with the customs of lawless seamen. Where do you want me to begin? The part where they have me scrub the deck in the nude? While they piss on it? Or the part where they wake me up in the dead of night, drunk as lords, tearing me between them because they can’t decide who gets to go first? How about the part where they feed me leftovers, if you can call it that? Or the part where I can’t fall asleep because the girl in the cage next to me can’t stop crying? Oh I know, how about that one time when the Melanian-“

“Enough,” the old man commanded sternly from his chair. “You did not come before me to receive my sympathy, nor have I any to give. Continue the narration.”

Ciara clenched her teeth and straightened herself once more. She could feel her golden hair sticking to her temples, wet with sweat. She would not apologize. He was right, however. She wanted no sympathy. Only the old Ciara would have wanted sympathy. The new one only wants to persevere. Wants revenge. Wants her every word and every action to exalt the goddess that both saved her and transformed her. And she never wants to be who she was before.

“As you wish,” she said plainly, exhaling a long breath to calm the nerves. “As I’ve said, I wasn’t the only one in this predicament. There were others, mostly girls. There weren’t too many men and they were often quickly sold. I understand the girls would have fetched a fine price on the isles, but they were also an inexhaustible drug to keep the rowdy crew pacified. A few years after my capture I met strangely large man – also a prisoner – in the holding decks below. They must have nabbed him during one of their raids. He was big and strong, perfect for hard labor. A good catch. Who would have thought he was a gentle soul though? I imagine that’s how they caught him. He almost certainly hadn’t fought back. He took pity on us, seemingly less concerned with his own fate than ours. Rightfully so, I suppose, but I had grown to forget that selflessness was a human trait at this point. Of course, there was naught he could do but talk, but he did so to share with us the names of the spirits and the gods, and what those names stood for. That’s how I learned of the name that is now branded on my flesh: Ismyel.”

Ciara paused yet again, feeling parched and tired. Her tale was approaching its climax and ending and this knowledge kept her going, kept her frozen in this dreadful kneeling position and talking her gums dry.

“He taught me some prayers. Taught me her symbol. Taught me her creeds, her boons and her demands. I believe he was a priest from Fokon. Or maybe a scholar. Either way, he had spent many years in the Joint Temple, studying the ancient scriptures. It doesn’t matter, I guess. Through him I learned to revere her name, and so I did. Day after day. Night after night. In my despair, I called out to other gods and spirits too, I admit. I was weak. But no answer ever came and my misery continued. Until, one night, I had a dream. More than that, it was a vision. It was too vivid, too detailed, too specific, to have been a dream. I did not understand it at first, but this vision kept haunting me every so often. Eventually, I had it daily. I saw flashes of it before my eyes even while awake. The vision consumed me until, eventually, I understood.”

A brief fit of coughing interrupted her tale. She wiped her pale lips with her left hand, the cold steel of her gauntlet feeling like ice against her dry skin.

“I need it,” the silver-eyed girl insisted sternly. Her body was bare, covered in bruises, scabs, dirt and dried blood. Her hands and face were almost black from the caked in filth.

“But it’s all I have… I – my mother-“ another girl with messy brown hair weakly insisted, her voice bordering on whining. She was nervously looking around, trying to spot some kind of escape. She was cornered.

Then she screamed and collapsed against the damp, rough wooden wall of the lower cargo deck. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed miserably.

“I will take your hairpin now,” the blonde declared confidently, feeling a subtle sting in her palm. The other girl did not protest and let the fair haired girl remove her hairpin. They spoke no more; the brown haired one cried herself to sleep, the blonde left the cargo deck. She had plans. On her way out, she put her hair up with her newly gained ornament, feeling pretty as a princess. A princess in a pig pen.

When she emerged on deck she was welcomed by dozens of leering, lustful eyes of animals wearing the skin of men. They were too busy at the time rigging the sails and repairing damaged sections of the ship to harass her. Not busy enough to not make vulgar and suggestive remarks, calling out to her. She ignored them all. They weren’t important to her yet. They wanted her, and they would get her. But not yet.

There was the captain, slumped on a rickety chair in front of the steering wheel. His face was fat and greasy, covered in black, coarse hairs. His breath stunk of dead things and alcohol. His beard infested with lice. His clothes tattered and old, covered in stains. He was more than just a captain; he was a despot. Sat like a king on the only chair on deck, bellowing commands to his crew as droplets of spittle fell into his beard. Then his eyes caught sight of her. Fragile. Small. Coy. Her gaze downcast and ashamed, legs pressed together. There she was scrubbing the floor from where various alcoholic and organic substances were spilled on deck. He loved seeing that and she knew it.

He was not a smart man. Smart enough, perhaps, to commandeer a vessel of sea dogs, but not smart enough to notice her new hairpin. Not smart enough to realize that she hadn’t acted this embarrassed in years. All he could think of was a more ‘fun’ time, long ago when they captured a grandiose trade vessel. This nostalgia would be his doom and that of his crew.

“I want you scrubbing my personal quarters tonight,” he slurred, his filthy head filled with rum already. “I’ll see you there or I’m gonna hurt ya’.”

His threats were empty. In a world of pain and suffering, what import did the promise of more of the same hold? All the same, she heeded his command. Her plan was working. Later that evening, she found herself cleaning the moldy floorboards in the captain’s chambers. A far cry from the quarters of her former captain. This ship was the embodiment of decay, both material and spiritual. Here on this vessel, everything rotted away.

The girl played her part. She had known this man for over half a decade now. Knew what he liked. Knew what drove him crazy. Animals are simple creatures, after all, and he had always been an animal. Looked like one. Lived like one. Would die like one, too.

He forced his bloating, greasy body onto her on the floor. She faked him a smile. She faked him feelings. She gave him everything he desired. When later she sat on top of him, she gave him the best time of his life – until she stopped, knowing exactly when to cut short to frustrate him. He would get no chance to question or reprimand her. With an eerie smile on her face she removed the hairpin from her soiled golden locks. Clutching it with both hands, shaking with excitement, she plunged the spiked end into his throat.

Their faces were close now. Blood and gurgling noises escaped from his maw as he gasped for air like a fish out of water. “It’s my turn now,” the silver-eyed girl whispered with a youthful giggle. His fat fingers tried to reach for her body, to somehow throw her off, but she did not relent. Out went the needle. In it went. Out it went. In again. Then into his left eye. Then into his right eye. She tried penetrating his forehead, but his skull was too thick. Up the nostrils the hairpin went.

It was her turn now. She defiled him. Spent minutes transforming his face. When she heard footsteps outside she screamed wildly, ecstatically. The men would know not to intrude. When the hairpin was little more than a crumpled iron string and the captain’s face an unrecognizable soup, she stopped. It was the happiest day of her life.

And the seed burst from the blood-soaked soil…

“I stabbed him needlessly. I thought about stopping but couldn’t. I couldn’t stop, my hands. My hands they wouldn’t stop moving, wouldn’t stop stabbing. I only stopped when the hairpin was too deformed to carry on.”

Her eyes were wide, face torn in a manic grimace. Even the memory of this event was enough to intoxicate her. Her exposed shoulders began to quiver and then she laughed, could not hold it back. It took a minute before she regained her bearing under the judgmental gaze of the old man in black robes before her.

“The best part – the best part is I pissed on him too before I got up. I – ah. Yes, the narration,” she snorted with the occasional chuckle, still unable to wipe that grin off her face. “This next part should be good. In my vision, after the deed, I would find a strange, pristine cloak in the same room. Black as night. It did not belong to the captain, nor had it been on the ship before then. So I turned around and, well, there it was. Just lying over a chair. My sweet little embrace. The next part of the plan was madness. Only a fool could have believed in it. A fool, or a zealot. I don’t know which I was, but it did not make a difference. It was too late to go back. Somebody would find the body. They would see me walk out of the room. I had blood all over my body. All over my hands. All over my face. I was bathed in it and had never felt so clean. The only way forward was to continue with the plan. It would either work, or I would die. Both options were fine.”

“So, I donned the cloak and took the captain’s saber. The saber, actually, had belonged to Eva Levant. He’d taken it as a trophy. To this day it had never been drawn for combat. Levant was too inept to fight. The pirate too decadent. But that day, I would make up for every one of those lost opportunities to shed blood. I believe the saber was encrusted with sapphires at the grip, but they’re rubies now. But maybe I wasn’t sane of mind. The cloak I wore was magical, you see. It made me invincible. Nothing could touch me. I even tried it myself: clenched my fist around the blade and pulled. My palm was unscathed. More than that, the cloak erased any sense of self-preservation from the others. It was as if they were all even more drunk than usual. So when I approached them, sword in hand, my naked body covered in blood, they did not think to panic. They only asked me to come closer and maybe play with their noodle. So I came closer, but I was the one doing the penetrating. I cut every single man aboard that ship. Dozens, you understand. There were so many my arm felt like tiring out towards the end. The deck overflowed with blood. The bodies were clogging up the corridors inside. I had such fun.”

The robed man’s eyes widened as he listened to her story. He had his doubts of course. The woman before him appeared more insane by the minute and he could not consider her a reliable narrator. Even so, her description of the cloak was too accurate to be a mere coincidence, mere fabrication. If what she said was true then… the implications would be enormous. He had to take her serious, against his better judgment, because if she spoke true and he chose not to believe her – no, he could not afford such a blunder. Religion, after all, was a matter of faith, and right now his faith was being put to the test. He would not fail her.

“What happened next?” he pressed her, making sure to obscure as much of his vested emotions as he could.

“It’s a bit of a haze. I was so drunk on the carnage I had wrought, so drunk on the freedom I had gained, that the following days are all a blur to me. I freed the other captives. When I showed them my masterpiece, they went mad with fright. My old captain stared at me with eyes like a frightened little kitten, then cowered in a corner and buried her face in her knees. She stayed like that for days. The others – I don’t know. I paid no attention. Somehow, we managed to return to the mainland, arriving somewhere in Relimon. Not sure why no other ships tried to hail or seize us. Maybe the lookout spotted the deck, full of rotting bodies that were now decaying in the sun and the rain, and decided to steer clear. I don’t know. But we arrived on the mainland, for better or for worse. We parted ways there. No goodbyes were said. Not sure where they went.

As for me, I dragged my failing body all the way to Gilmah. Got no memory of the road. I was more akin to a dead body shambling onwards. Do you remember how I collapsed on your doorstep?”

Asking a question for the first time, Ciara raised her head and looked the high priest directly in the eyes. She was serious now, no cheeky smile on her lips, no madness in the eyes.

“I crawled into your home on all fours, half dead. I was almost cast out but I found my voice just in time. Do you remember what I said?”

“I give my life. I give my life for Ismyel. It belongs to her. I belong to her. Make use of me as you will. I am yours.”

And then she fell silent, staring at the high priest with piercing silver eyes. Now only the gentle growling of torches could be heard in the dark, hollow room.

Name: Ciara (Doesn't give a last name)
Race: Human, Relimonian
Occupation: Paladin of Ismyel, the Spirit of Evil

Appearance:
Often mistaken for a paladin of Liya or Deliph, Ciara stands tall and proud with an expression of openness and confidence on her face. Although her inviting demeanor defies expectations when it comes to those favored by the Spirit of Evil, her behavior belies her inner being the same as her clothing hides the large tattoo of Ismyel’s mark sprawled over her back. She is a woman of average height with pale blonde hair, cut straight at chin length, and an athletic build that speaks of a disciplined and hardworking lifestyle. The most striking feature of her face is no doubt the pair of unusually pale eyes, more silver than gray, which veer between attentive and dreamy depending on the circumstances. Aside from these, her face is rather plain, never having felt the touch of powders or rouges.

Ciara prefers form-fitting clothing, typically wearing some form of leather pants and a tight shirt that does not hide her somewhat ample bosom. Although she likes clothing made from more expensive materials such as silk, she has never once worn any kind of jewelry, nor does she intend to. Moreover, she strongly dislikes wearing skirts or dresses of any kind, they make her feel too feminine and vulnerable.

In combat she dons an armless jerkin and pants, both made of blackened and thick leather. Though offering less protection than plate or chain armor, these help her remain more mobile and quick on her feet and do not exhaust her as much over prolonged engagements or lengthy journeys. Her belt has a variety of bags attached to it, and on journeys outside of the city she also carries a knapsack on her back to contain supplies for the trek. While most of her body is protected only by leather – albeit of high quality – she covers some of her more important spots in something sturdier. In particular, she wears steel gauntlets over the elbow-length leather gloves as well as a sturdy pair of boots that come with metal shin plates and knee caps. Lastly, she puts on an open-faced helmet with a black and violet-colored plume prior to heading into battle.

Personality:
There is a prevailing sense of aloofness about Ciara, some lingering impression of wrongness in her words and actions that is hard to quantify. She is largely an open and engaging person who appears to enjoy the company of others, regardless of their religious beliefs. In conversation she is polite to the extent of trying not to insult anyone, but every now and again it becomes apparent that she has a less than perfect grasp on social etiquette when she says things more plainly and openly than Rodorian sensibilities are used to, or when her humor ends up being too crass for people that aren’t sailors or mercenaries. This only becomes worse the more highly ranked people she talks to are; a meeting with nobility would be an outright disaster for her. Even so, those who can tolerate her uncouth manner will find in her a pleasant person to speak to. Only when she is pressed for personal information, particularly that relating to her past, she tenses up and becomes unwilling to speak.

Her main motivations in life are twofold: First and foremost, she is driven by an unrelenting desire to serve and exalt Ismyel with whom she has a fanatic kind of infatuation. She loves her chosen goddess and will do whatever she can to help those who would serve her as well. That is why she sought out the temple of Ismyel in Gilmah, so that she could conscript herself into the service of the clergy and become their paladin. It is unfortunate, then, that those serving the Spirit of Evil are known to be schemers that like to further their own agendas as much as they like to act in their goddess’s best interests. Ciara’s zealotry makes her blind to all but the most egregious of attempts to take advantage of her.

Secondly, and definitely taking a backseat to the former, is a strong hedonistic drive. As someone who has discovered that life has many pleasant things to offer only very recently, she has difficulty controlling her desires for entertainment and enjoyment, particularly of the sexual kind. Given her life’s story, this might come as a surprise, as there are really only two ways her views on this could have formed: Either she would have rejected sexuality as a whole or at least developed a very complicated relation to it, as one may have expected, or sex would have been robbed of all magic to her and have become something completely pedestrian and normal. For Ciara, the latter has happened; she sees the act of sleeping with another as something utterly harmless, like having a drink together or playing some sort of game. She understands that her views are uncommon, but cannot bring herself to see it any other way, especially since she happens to have a voracious appetite in this regard. Combined with a poor grasp on finances, Ciara is likely to spend most of her earnings on empty pleasures, abusable substances, gambling and the like.

In spite of her rampant hedonism, she is very industrious when it comes to her work ethic. She takes tasks given to her very seriously and has an honest desire to do a good job without cutting any corners. She doesn’t take naps on guard duties, doesn’t relent on the pursuit of criminals until they’re all accounted for. She’s proactive when it comes to physical exercise and combat training. She visits sermons in the temple whenever she can. In more modern terms, she very much is the type of person to “work hard and play hard”.

Her outlook in life is positive and confident, at least concerning her own fate. She believes that, as long as she remains steadfast in her veneration of Ismyel, that her goddess will shield her and make her invulnerable. This belief, too, make her rather fearless in battle where the same principle holds true in her mind. So long as every sword stroke is as if from Ismyel’s own hand, striking down all those that she hates, then none would have the strength to overcome her. So far, at least, her faith has been rewarded.

Concerning other people, politics and the like, however, Ciara views the world with a healthy dose of skepticism and cynicism. The world is a rotten place for rotten people and she does not believe that much good can come from the works of man. There are exceptions to the rule, and she appreciates them, but for the most part she leans towards pessimism first and will assume the worst before assuming the best.

Ciara is an even-tempered person, not too quick to have mood swings but not incapable thereof either, who appears calm in most situations. However, her collected demeanor, which could come off as cold and distanced, is softened by a joyful and confident facial expression. As far as most people – including herself – would believe, these are indeed her true feelings. It would take someone who has themselves experienced great pain and loss in life to see past this shell and discern that this is merely one side of her being. She would like to believe that her old self, Lilian, is dead but it is really just dormant deep inside of her. A frightened young girl who mourns the innocence that was robbed from her and mourns for the person she has become. Sometimes, in the dead of night when no one is near and her thoughts are unshackled, she cries silent tears, sometimes not even understanding why they come out of her eyes.

**I’d like to mention that my descriptions of personality are never fully inclusive or final; they are to be understood as guidelines I set for myself, as the idea I had of my character at the time of conception. As such, it is not impossible for the character to reveal new facets not described above, or even contradict one or more of the above descriptions, within reason. Characters, after a while, become living things with a mind of their own, and sometimes they simply do things we have not accounted for.**

Equipment:
General:
• Straight Sword
A very common and unremarkable – if well-made and well maintained – weapon found throughout the duchies. Ciara’s sword has a double-edged, straight blade that is about 75 cm (29.5 inch) long. A basic, unembellished cross guard rests in between the blade and the leather-bound grip of the classic one-and-a-half-hand variety.

• Buckler
The buckler is a small, light, round shield primarily intended for man to man combat with bladed weapons. This one is made entirely of metal and is dominated by a convex boss in the center that aids in deflecting blows to the side. The entire shield measures some 30 cm (12 inch) in diameter. Due to its compact size it can easily be strapped to the sword’s scabbard to provide minimal hindrance in everyday life, unlike larger shields.

• Knife
A simple and practical, single-edged knife with a blade length of 14 cm (5.5 inch) and a total length of 23 cm (9 inch). Designed to be a tool and not weapon.

• Oil
Roughly half a liter of oil contained in an iron flask. Used to prevent rust on the blades and create torches.

• Whetstone
A worn whetstone to keep blades sharp.

• Money
Ciara’s initial wealth is a whole 16 Rodlins which she carries on her person.

Specifically when travelling:
• Rations
Travelling rations of long-lasting foods such as clean water, dried fruits and cured meats. Quantity depends on the length of the journey and number of companions.

• Blankets
A pair of comfortable wool blankets that can be used as a makeshift bed anywhere, providing relative warmth. Paired with a tent cloth to keep out the worst of the cold.

• Bandages
Two rolls of fine linen bandages, thoroughly cleaned with alcohol in advance and best kept isolated from other supplies.

• Hand Axe
Pragmatic axe with a total length of 40 cm (15.5 inch), made from a solid iron axe head and a wooden haft. Used to cut small to medium branches and chop them into pieces for campfires.

[Ashgan]

Phew, thank god for Dennis Remdal! Turns out I didn't intrpret Zerulic customs and law quite correctly, and forgot about prison wards, but here we have a corrupt nobleman to turn all of it into some kind of ploy and turn my blunder into a stroke of genius. Thanks Jack :D

(Sorry for doublepost; figured it was too easy to miss as an edit)