Asura

Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

Ynga

Location — The Grand City of Atutania

Interacting — @ Everyone & No One

---

The long-awaited Day of Heroes dawned upon Lacorron, and with the rising of the sun over the Grand City of Atutania, Ynga's long journey south came to an end.

It had been some weeks since she set off from the great hold, which had been her home for all her years, and sat at the helm of one of her grandfather's great longships. For days, the oarsmen brought them swiftly down the River Breein, the sails filled with young Ynga's wind when they grew weary from the hard labor. It was the least she could do for those proud Ienarich men who set forth to see her off on her journey, bringing her from the far-flung corners of their frigid homeland to the heartlands of Itenaire, where kinsmen of theirs had fought under this banner or that over the years. She parted ways from her escort at the docks, insistent that the first steps taken on her path towards greatness be taken with nothing more than the steel at her hip and the furs on her back.

And the generous care package that the women of the hold had put together for her, of course. But that much was expected: quarrelsome though the sons and daughters of Ienarich could but, all knew the value of community in the face of hardship. The people of Ienarhald would not allow the little princess of Nordavind to go unto the southern lands without the comforts of home to buoy her journey. And buoy her journey they did, as she made her way across the countryside, sleeping rough where she could and taking succor in the temperate fields and forests here and there. If the Wardens of the Glade were to accept her into their ranks, she reasoned, then the lands of Itenaire would become as common a sight as the dense woodlands of her wintery home. All the better to grow accustomed to them before the vigors of her training set in.

The fields and forests were swift to give way to rolling hills as she wandered the roads in search of her ultimate destination, however, and as morning cleared and the sprawling city that spread out beyond her rose to meet the day, Ynga descended upon it with an almost childish glee. How could she not? This was the city said to have spawned the Hero of all Lacorron, whose journey saw the order of the day rise from the chaos of old. It was the home to the realm's most stalwart defender, and—soon enough—it would serve as her new home away from home, once the Knights of the Order came to know her as the huskarls of her grandfather's own city did. But before she could claim her position of honor at their tables, she needed to find her way to the halls in which those tables were found.

And before she could do that, she needed to quell the rumbling in her tummy. Many days prior she had eaten through most all of her herring, and there was naught but crumbs of rye in the kerchiefs which held the loaves she set off with. For the better that she had done so, for it made indulging the sights and smells all about the city all the easier.

She must have looked the part of a doe-eyed foreigner, as she dodged about avenues so crowded she could scarce believe. Even on festival days, most holds could not boast so many souls wandering so freely about the streets, and the revelry was something to behold. Thrice she found herself enamored with one street performance or another, mummers dressed in flamboyant costumes depicting this hero or that, reenacting the great deeds of stories that Ynga both knew and did not. The young warrior couldn't help but applaud their displays, and she parted with more than one of her shiny copper coins before moving on from one show to the next. Another couple of coins she parted with when he stomach led her to a vendor settled upon a corner where one wide street intersected another. A more frugal young woman might have bartered, but the clinking of coins was far less appealing to her than the sizzling of sausage, and when she parted from the vendor, she held a particularly fat example of its kind between her fingers.

A murmur of delight followed close behind the satisfying snap of casing against Ynga's teeth, and huddled away from the foot traffic, with such a savory feast at her fingertips, she could not help but lose track of time. The southern sun hung high above in the warm skies, and there would be time yet to join the Knights at their stronghold. For now, enjoying the local flavors was of a more chief concern, however uncouth it might have appeared.

Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

Y N G A
Y N G A

^{“Oh! Uhm, hello! I'm Ynga. I've never really been this far south before, so... I hope we can get along!”}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Ynga Nordavind is a scion of House Nordavind and the granddaughter of Ienarich's current High Chieftain, Yngvar Nordavind. Despite her sweet, unassuming nature, she is the most promising sorcerer to rise from her lineage in the last century, something her grandsire hopes to exploit to carve greater in-roads with the nations of Lacorron by way of entry into the Order of the Glade. Age: 15 Race: Human Nationality: Ienarich Weapon of Choice: Sword Elemental Affinity: Wind Spiritual Affinity: Light

C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y ________________________________________________________________________________________ “I can still remember the first time I ever left the hold. I had just turned seven years old, and grandfather finally agreed to take me out to see our lands.” Ynga came into the world as many of her family did—amidst the crackling of logs and the howling of the winter winds. A daughter of the Nordavind family, who had served as the wardens of untamed Ienarich since the passing of Ienar himself. A sweet and bashful child from the outset, she was not as steely as the elder brother who came before her, neither as willful and wild as the younger to follow. Though hers were a harsh and proud people, born from the struggles of life in Ienarich's dense wilderness and across its rolling tundra, her earliest memories were ones of warmth and love. It was often that she would toddle behind her mother's skirts as she made her rounds around the hold and down into Ienarhald itself, wide-eyed and full of wonder at the sights and sounds, or sat at her grandfather's foot in his solar above the great hall, listening to the old, grizzled lord of all that was the north regale her with stories of their ancestors and their heroics, for Ienarich could not prosper without heroes, both great and small, such were the burdens of life upon its frontier. “We walked for what must have been an hour before we were far enough from home to be by our lonesome. Just us and the fir trees and the big, blue sky. I loved it. It was so... beautiful.” A life that her family, for all that they loved and doted upon her, saw her unfit for. She was a sweet girl, of that much all could agree, and kind, and earnest, always looking to help buoy the spirits of the other children whenever they'd fall into tantrums of doldrums. But she never had a stomach for the harsher things in life, wailing whenever it'd come time to cull the herds in preparation for the winters to come, or else wise dispatch those animals no longer fit for service. The time would eventually come that she would be a girl no longer, and she would need to face the world beyond the great palisades of their familial hold. Once her grandfather and father passed, Ienarich would fall into the good, sensible hands of her elder brother, and she would need to be sent to wed a man of good standing who'd keep her in comfort until she could start a family of her own, and nurture them as they knew she would well. “Then, very suddenly, grandfather drew me so close I could smell the woodsmoke on his furs. Then he gestured with one of his huge hands. ‘Look, little dove,’ he said, so quiet I could hardly hear him, ‘But don't make a sound.’ Along the bank of the creek was something I'd only heard of in stories and songs; a big, burly brown bear, with three little cubs at her heels.” But that did not satisfy young Ynga. She had been told from her earliest days that she was the blood of Ienar the North Wind, who brought law to the lands at the crown of the world when there was none. Letting her brothers take over the hold, and lead their people, was all well and good for her, yes. Andri seemed to have an answer for everything, and everyone seemed to think Magnus would grow to be a warrior even the greater of their grandsire. But to sit idly by, tending little more than a hearth and her children? It felt wrong. Ienarich was a place of great hardship, the songs assured her, where everyone needed do their part. How could she rest in comfort at her husband's side while so many struggled and fought to eke out a living in the hills and amidst the fjords? “It didn't seem to notice us, too focused on the rushing water. Then, with a paw that made even grandfather's hands look small, it swiped into the stream and brought up a big, fat fish. I watched it drag the fish, flopping and thrashing, to the shore. When it bit into the fish, bright, gooey red marbles started to squirt out of it—Andri told me earlier that year that those are what fish babies looked like before they could swim. The mother and her cubs made a meal of it all.” But there was nothing she could do to convince them otherwise. What was she to do? Become some great shield-maiden, and sail down the river Breein with her brothers and uncles when the seasons turned and the fields became too crusted in hoarfrost to yield grain? She could hardly stand the sight of lambs going to slaughter. How would she fare when made to hunt along the river's shores on campaign? Or when the men needed to tend to the grim work of sending southerners to the same place the lambs had gone? The warriors of Ienarich may have been valiant heroes in her songs and her stories, but in the lands beyond her grandfather's kingdom, they were known to bring with them only death and destruction in return for that which filled Itenaian or Giellnalian coffers. “I remember being terribly upset. Once we had gotten well away from the bear, I asked grandfather, ‘How can the bear do that to the poor fish? Doesn't she know it was a mother too? Those were her babies!’ It wasn't often you could make out much on grandfather's face. He had seen enough winters that nothing seemed to upset him anymore. But to this day, I can still see the sadness that crept into the corner of his eyes when he spoke. ‘Because that's the way of the world, little dove,’ He told me, more sad that I needed it explained than for the poor fish, ‘Best you learn it now, while you're still young.’” The songs and stories had done enough to teach her the way of it, though. If words couldn't win the day, then the only thing for it was action. In the rugged north, those young folks who meant to claim themselves adults were expected to prove it to their community before it could be so. As autumn came to a close and winter loomed ahead, when a boy or girl thought themselves ready to be called a man or woman, they would head off into the wilderness for a time. Often it was a single day, sometimes longer, but rarely more than a week. They'd use what their mothers and fathers taught them to make it through the long, cold night, prove they were more than capable of handling themselves, and return triumphant, sometimes with trophies of beasts or monsters slain during their journey. Some would even return with something more precious than hides or fangs: some returned with magic, awakened through the hardship of the experience. Those who claimed such a prize typically rose to positions of prominence. Most Ienarians set out on such a journey after having seen fifteen, perhaps sixteen winters. Ynga was a girl of eleven when she packed her sack with salt beef and tinder and set out from the hold one chilly evening with one of the armory's swords tucked under her furs. “That was the way of the world. Mother and child devouring mother and child. I think that was the first time I realized it—realized the world was a truly wicked place. The big ate the small. The strong beat the weak. The natural order of things was one of cruelty. I didn't like that.” By the time her family's huskarls realized she had vanished from her chambers, it was too late. She was already well off into the wilds to the north of Ienarhald. She would prove herself to them all. Prove that she was just as capable of helping their people survive, no, thrive in their homeland. She would make Ienarich just a little brighter than it had been when she found it, just as she made the halls of her grandfather's hold just that little bit brighter with her wide smiles and laughter. It would simply take a different sort of work to make it so. The search parties dispatched in her wake followed her tracks into the treeline by the time the sun dipped down low beyond the horizon, but had little hope of continuing by the light of the moon. There was nothing to do but wait. “I wanted the world to be gentler. I wanted the world to be... kinder. But what was I to do? I was just a silly little girl sniffling over a fish and its roe, and the world had little patience for silly little girls with such silly woes.” When morning came, they continued, searching high and low for the lost lamb of Nordavind. By the time the sunset on the second day, the grim reality of what likely happened set in. Even still, Yngvar Nordavind was not a man to so easily give in. They would continue to search for his little dove until they found her, or whatever might well have been left of her. The search went on for three days, then four, and then five. Her father returned to Ienarich to console his wife, but still, the huskarls continued their thankless work, looking for tracks along an expanse of trees and rocks that seemed to continue without end. By the time dusk fell upon the seventh day of searching, even the resolve of the High Chieftain had begun to falter. Even more seasoned members of the kingdom would be hard-pressed to survive for so long, so far from civilization, with such little preparation. The weather would soon enough turn on them. It was unlikely Ynga was to return. Until, by the light of the retinue's cookfires, later that night, a pink-faced child with dark curls and big, bright eyes came upon them from the brush, and on her heels, two others. “When I got a little older, I realized there was only one thing to be done about it. If the world was such a cruel place, ruled by the strong, for the strong, then there was only one way for me to bring about the change I wanted to see.” Two other boys who had gotten lost on their own trial, little Ynga explained as if nothing in the world was wrong. She had found them a few days into her trek, and followed them further into the wilds, hoping to find friendly faces. When she instead met with another party fast on their trail—a pair of dire-wolves eager to fill their bellies in advance of the cold to come—she did as she had been told that great heroes were meant to do when monsters skulked in the dark and preyed upon innocent folk. She slew them both and carried on to try and bring the boys back to Ienarhald before something even bigger tracked them down. The uproar that followed her incredulous tale might have done a better job drawing such beasts than the plodding of a few beardless youths. Anger, disbelief, relief, and more. Ygna caught quite the scolding for her foolishness, for the tall tale she had so proudly declared, but when the boys echoed her sentiment, and her bloodied blade bore the scars of their claws and fangs, it became clear that the little dove of the Nordavind family had become more akin to some great eagle in absence of their notice. Answering her call in the face of such overwhelming odds, sorcery had coated the girl's blade as it had in the case of their honored ancestor, and carried by the north winds which now poured from the tempest of her soul, Ynga's future quickly shifted from one of inglorious kindness to one of true consequence. “Like Itena, and Haur, and Antes and Ienar all, I'd make the world a better place with my own two hands. I'd make up a sweeter, gentler story for the people of Lacorron, writ in the only language the world understands.” The years that followed were difficult, but satisfying all the same. Rather than spend her time by the fire, sewing and simmering, Ynga joined her brothers outside in the training yard. She learned from the huskarls how to wield weapons of war, how to track great beasts, and how to wield her gift against those who would harm her vision of what the world could be. Of what it should be. When it became clear her aptitude for sorcery exceeded even the more experienced of her Grandfather's warriors, it was decided the Ienarich was an unsuitable place to hone her further. If she meant to become a great hero, her grandsire reasoned, then it would only be suitable that she go to the place where the heroes of old were made: the Order of the Glade. It was a few months after her fifteenth year that correspondence from Atutania came, inviting the young Nordavind to test her mettle and see whether she was truly cut from the cloth of greatness so claimed. She set out only days later, with little more than talent and dreams of a better world to her name. C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N ________________________________________________________________________________________ Astute ⬗ Brave ⬗ Cheerful ⬗ Compassionate ⬗ Idealistic ⬗ Stalwart A B I L I T I E S A B I L I T I E S ________________________________________________________________________________________ For someone of her age, Ynga is a rather accomplished young woman. A true scion of the north, she is a skilled survivalist, capable of making camp, foraging food and supplies, following tracks, and leaving little of her own in turn. She knows how to sew both cloth and wound, which plants are good for eating and which for fever and sickness, and how to break a path for those of her friends who are not so accomplished outdoors. Her skills as a fighter are no less honed. While her sweet, caring demeanor might lead one to believe she is a merciful combatant, nothing could be further from the truth. She has been trained by the finest warriors of Ienarich, a kingdom renowned for the skill and ferocity of its soldiers of fortune. Ynga has learned how to wield axe and knife and spear and shield, as any of her grandfather's huskarls might do, though she holds a special, child-like reverence for the sword above all else—for the sword was the warrior of Itena and the many greats who followed in her example, a weapon of a hero before a warrior. The similarities between her and Itena begin and end there, however, as Ynga's way of fighting is one steeped far deeper in pragmatism than honor. She fights with sword and knife as much as tooth and claw in the heat of the moment, throwing elbows and kicks and dirt and whatever else might bring her to a swifter, more efficient victory, reasoning that all battle is inherently cruel, and it is all the better to bring it to the quickest end possible, when it must be had. Though she has only studied it for a short time, Ynga is accomplished enough in the usage of sorcery. Her application is one familiar to those warriors of the Ienarich, known to bedeck themselves in the elements that dominate their souls. The wind produced by Ynga's magic acts as a cloak about her, buoying her steps such that she might walk upon freshly fallen snow without sinking. It carries her limbs as she dashes about and slashes this way and that, lending inordinate speed and strength to the swings of her blade and the impact of her boot upon those who oppose her. She's even managed to grow adept at wrapping it around the length of her blade, the shearing force of her mana lending strength to the cutting edge of her weapon. She's even begun to experiment with surging this razor-thin aura at the peak of her swings, extending her reach for the half-heartbeat it takes to cut her enemy, before shrinking back down to preserve her strength. One can only theorize how her mastery might grow under the watchful eye of the Order.

---

Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

Wardens of the Glade: A Light Fantasy RP

you know this shit finished

Y N G A
Y N G A

^{“Oh! Uhm, hello! I'm Ynga. I've never really been this far south before, so... I hope we can get along!”}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________ Ynga Nordavind is a scion of House Nordavind and the granddaughter of Ienarich's current High Chieftain, Yngvar Nordavind. Despite her sweet, unassuming nature, she is the most promising sorcerer to rise from her lineage in the last century, something her grandsire hopes to exploit to carve greater in-roads with the nations of Lacorron by way of entry into the Order of the Glade. Age: 15 Race: Human Nationality: Ienarich Weapon of Choice: Sword Elemental Affinity: Wind Spiritual Affinity: Light

C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y ________________________________________________________________________________________ “I can still remember the first time I ever left the hold. I had just turned seven years old, and grandfather finally agreed to take me out to see our lands.” Ynga came into the world as many of her family did—amidst the crackling of logs and the howling of the winter winds. A daughter of the Nordavind family, who had served as the wardens of untamed Ienarich since the passing of Ienar himself. A sweet and bashful child from the outset, she was not as steely as the elder brother who came before her, neither as willful and wild as the younger to follow. Though hers were a harsh and proud people, born from the struggles of life in Ienarich's dense wilderness and across its rolling tundra, her earliest memories were ones of warmth and love. It was often that she would toddle behind her mother's skirts as she made her rounds around the hold and down into Ienarhald itself, wide-eyed and full of wonder at the sights and sounds, or sat at her grandfather's foot in his solar above the great hall, listening to the old, grizzled lord of all that was the north regale her with stories of their ancestors and their heroics, for Ienarich could not prosper without heroes, both great and small, such were the burdens of life upon its frontier. “We walked for what must have been an hour before we were far enough from home to be by our lonesome. Just us and the fir trees and the big, blue sky. I loved it. It was so... beautiful.” A life that her family, for all that they loved and doted upon her, saw her unfit for. She was a sweet girl, of that much all could agree, and kind, and earnest, always looking to help buoy the spirits of the other children whenever they'd fall into tantrums of doldrums. But she never had a stomach for the harsher things in life, wailing whenever it'd come time to cull the herds in preparation for the winters to come, or else wise dispatch those animals no longer fit for service. The time would eventually come that she would be a girl no longer, and she would need to face the world beyond the great palisades of their familial hold. Once her grandfather and father passed, Ienarich would fall into the good, sensible hands of her elder brother, and she would need to be sent to wed a man of good standing who'd keep her in comfort until she could start a family of her own, and nurture them as they knew she would well. “Then, very suddenly, grandfather drew me so close I could smell the woodsmoke on his furs. Then he gestured with one of his huge hands. ‘Look, little dove,’ he said, so quiet I could hardly hear him, ‘But don't make a sound.’ Along the bank of the creek was something I'd only heard of in stories and songs; a big, burly brown bear, with three little cubs at her heels.” But that did not satisfy young Ynga. She had been told from her earliest days that she was the blood of Ienar the North Wind, who brought law to the lands at the crown of the world when there was none. Letting her brothers take over the hold, and lead their people, was all well and good for her, yes. Andri seemed to have an answer for everything, and everyone seemed to think Magnus would grow to be a warrior even the greater of their grandsire. But to sit idly by, tending little more than a hearth and her children? It felt wrong. Ienarich was a place of great hardship, the songs assured her, where everyone needed do their part. How could she rest in comfort at her husband's side while so many struggled and fought to eke out a living in the hills and amidst the fjords? “It didn't seem to notice us, too focused on the rushing water. Then, with a paw that made even grandfather's hands look small, it swiped into the stream and brought up a big, fat fish. I watched it drag the fish, flopping and thrashing, to the shore. When it bit into the fish, bright, gooey red marbles started to squirt out of it—Andri told me earlier that year that those are what fish babies looked like before they could swim. The mother and her cubs made a meal of it all.” But there was nothing she could do to convince them otherwise. What was she to do? Become some great shield-maiden, and sail down the river Breein with her brothers and uncles when the seasons turned and the fields became too crusted in hoarfrost to yield grain? She could hardly stand the sight of lambs going to slaughter. How would she fare when made to hunt along the river's shores on campaign? Or when the men needed to tend to the grim work of sending southerners to the same place the lambs had gone? The warriors of Ienarich may have been valiant heroes in her songs and her stories, but in the lands beyond her grandfather's kingdom, they were known to bring with them only death and destruction in return for that which filled Itenaian or Giellnalian coffers. “I remember being terribly upset. Once we had gotten well away from the bear, I asked grandfather, ‘How can the bear do that to the poor fish? Doesn't she know it was a mother too? Those were her babies!’ It wasn't often you could make out much on grandfather's face. He had seen enough winters that nothing seemed to upset him anymore. But to this day, I can still see the sadness that crept into the corner of his eyes when he spoke. ‘Because that's the way of the world, little dove,’ He told me, more sad that I needed it explained than for the poor fish, ‘Best you learn it now, while you're still young.’” The songs and stories had done enough to teach her the way of it, though. If words couldn't win the day, then the only thing for it was action. In the rugged north, those young folks who meant to claim themselves adults were expected to prove it to their community before it could be so. As autumn came to a close and winter loomed ahead, when a boy or girl thought themselves ready to be called a man or woman, they would head off into the wilderness for a time. Often it was a single day, sometimes longer, but rarely more than a week. They'd use what their mothers and fathers taught them to make it through the long, cold night, prove they were more than capable of handling themselves, and return triumphant, sometimes with trophies of beasts or monsters slain during their journey. Some would even return with something more precious than hides or fangs: some returned with magic, awakened through the hardship of the experience. Those who claimed such a prize typically rose to positions of prominence. Most Ienarians set out on such a journey after having seen fifteen, perhaps sixteen winters. Ynga was a girl of eleven when she packed her sack with salt beef and tinder and set out from the hold one chilly evening with one of the armory's swords tucked under her furs. “That was the way of the world. Mother and child devouring mother and child. I think that was the first time I realized it—realized the world was a truly wicked place. The big ate the small. The strong beat the weak. The natural order of things was one of cruelty. I didn't like that.” By the time her family's huskarls realized she had vanished from her chambers, it was too late. She was already well off into the wilds to the north of Ienarhald. She would prove herself to them all. Prove that she was just as capable of helping their people survive, no, thrive in their homeland. She would make Ienarich just a little brighter than it had been when she found it, just as she made the halls of her grandfather's hold just that little bit brighter with her wide smiles and laughter. It would simply take a different sort of work to make it so. The search parties dispatched in her wake followed her tracks into the treeline by the time the sun dipped down low beyond the horizon, but had little hope of continuing by the light of the moon. There was nothing to do but wait. “I wanted the world to be gentler. I wanted the world to be... kinder. But what was I to do? I was just a silly little girl sniffling over a fish and its roe, and the world had little patience for silly little girls with such silly woes.” When morning came, they continued, searching high and low for the lost lamb of Nordavind. By the time the sunset on the second day, the grim reality of what likely happened set in. Even still, Yngvar Nordavind was not a man to so easily give in. They would continue to search for his little dove until they found her, or whatever might well have been left of her. The search went on for three days, then four, and then five. Her father returned to Ienarich to console his wife, but still, the huskarls continued their thankless work, looking for tracks along an expanse of trees and rocks that seemed to continue without end. By the time dusk fell upon the seventh day of searching, even the resolve of the High Chieftain had begun to falter. Even more seasoned members of the kingdom would be hard-pressed to survive for so long, so far from civilization, with such little preparation. The weather would soon enough turn on them. It was unlikely Ynga was to return. Until, by the light of the retinue's cookfires, later that night, a pink-faced child with dark curls and big, bright eyes came upon them from the brush, and on her heels, two others. “When I got a little older, I realized there was only one thing to be done about it. If the world was such a cruel place, ruled by the strong, for the strong, then there was only one way for me to bring about the change I wanted to see.” Two other boys who had gotten lost on their own trial, little Ynga explained as if nothing in the world was wrong. She had found them a few days into her trek, and followed them further into the wilds, hoping to find friendly faces. When she instead met with another party fast on their trail—a pair of dire-wolves eager to fill their bellies in advance of the cold to come—she did as she had been told that great heroes were meant to do when monsters skulked in the dark and preyed upon innocent folk. She slew them both and carried on to try and bring the boys back to Ienarhald before something even bigger tracked them down. The uproar that followed her incredulous tale might have done a better job drawing such beasts than the plodding of a few beardless youths. Anger, disbelief, relief, and more. Ygna caught quite the scolding for her foolishness, for the tall tale she had so proudly declared, but when the boys echoed her sentiment, and her bloodied blade bore the scars of their claws and fangs, it became clear that the little dove of the Nordavind family had become more akin to some great eagle in absence of their notice. Answering her call in the face of such overwhelming odds, sorcery had coated the girl's blade as it had in the case of their honored ancestor, and carried by the north winds which now poured from the tempest of her soul, Ynga's future quickly shifted from one of inglorious kindness to one of true consequence. “Like Itena, and Haur, and Antes and Ienar all, I'd make the world a better place with my own two hands. I'd make up a sweeter, gentler story for the people of Lacorron, writ in the only language the world understands.” The years that followed were difficult, but satisfying all the same. Rather than spend her time by the fire, sewing and simmering, Ynga joined her brothers outside in the training yard. She learned from the huskarls how to wield weapons of war, how to track great beasts, and how to wield her gift against those who would harm her vision of what the world could be. Of what it should be. When it became clear her aptitude for sorcery exceeded even the more experienced of her Grandfather's warriors, it was decided the Ienarich was an unsuitable place to hone her further. If she meant to become a great hero, her grandsire reasoned, then it would only be suitable that she go to the place where the heroes of old were made: the Order of the Glade. It was a few months after her fifteenth year that correspondence from Atutania came, inviting the young Nordavind to test her mettle and see whether she was truly cut from the cloth of greatness so claimed. She set out only days later, with little more than talent and dreams of a better world to her name. C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N ________________________________________________________________________________________ Astute ⬗ Brave ⬗ Cheerful ⬗ Compassionate ⬗ Idealistic ⬗ Stalwart A B I L I T I E S A B I L I T I E S ________________________________________________________________________________________ For someone of her age, Ynga is a rather accomplished young woman. A true scion of the north, she is a skilled survivalist, capable of making camp, foraging food and supplies, following tracks, and leaving little of her own in turn. She knows how to sew both cloth and wound, which plants are good for eating and which for fever and sickness, and how to break a path for those of her friends who are not so accomplished outdoors. Her skills as a fighter are no less honed. While her sweet, caring demeanor might lead one to believe she is a merciful combatant, nothing could be further from the truth. She has been trained by the finest warriors of Ienarich, a kingdom renowned for the skill and ferocity of its soldiers of fortune. Ynga has learned how to wield axe and knife and spear and shield, as any of her grandfather's huskarls might do, though she holds a special, child-like reverence for the sword above all else—for the sword was the warrior of Itena and the many greats who followed in her example, a weapon of a hero before a warrior. The similarities between her and Itena begin and end there, however, as Ynga's way of fighting is one steeped far deeper in pragmatism than honor. She fights with sword and knife as much as tooth and claw in the heat of the moment, throwing elbows and kicks and dirt and whatever else might bring her to a swifter, more efficient victory, reasoning that all battle is inherently cruel, and it is all the better to bring it to the quickest end possible, when it must be had. Though she has only studied it for a short time, Ynga is accomplished enough in the usage of sorcery. Her application is one familiar to those warriors of the Ienarich, known to bedeck themselves in the elements that dominate their souls. The wind produced by Ynga's magic acts as a cloak about her, buoying her steps such that she might walk upon freshly fallen snow without sinking. It carries her limbs as she dashes about and slashes this way and that, lending inordinate speed and strength to the swings of her blade and the impact of her boot upon those who oppose her. She's even managed to grow adept at wrapping it around the length of her blade, the shearing force of her mana lending strength to the cutting edge of her weapon. She's even begun to experiment with surging this razor-thin aura at the peak of her swings, extending her reach for the half-heartbeat it takes to cut her enemy, before shrinking back down to preserve her strength. One can only theorize how her mastery might grow under the watchful eye of the Order.

---

Wardens of the Glade: Interest Check

<Snipped quote by Asura>

You will not see the light of heaven.

@Lemons

neither will they.

Wardens of the Glade: Interest Check

how docile are the elven women?

The Things We Fight For

Odessa

Location — Petrichor-8 System, Frontier Planet Alora

Interacting — @Eisenhorn@Vietmyke@Xiro Zean

---

No plan of operations reaches with any certainty beyond the first encounter with the enemy's main force.

Though bullets still whistled this way and that and the screams of inhuman monstrosities rang through desolate city streets, there was a clarity that followed Odessa's dispatching of the Bishop duo. She was given a few moments to breathe the chlorine-scented air and take stock of the situation. Things seemed to progress as anticipated, with the high caste at the head of their opposition falling in short order. Without the spearhead of their push, the rest of the Aberrants would like as not fall apart under sustained fire from the remains of the infantry. Though she might have proved helpful in bringing down what opposition remained to expedite the process and see them advance all the faster, it was an important thing for a Constellation to conserve their strength for the true enemies. The infantry and accompanying vehicles existed solely to facilitate duels between her number and those high caste who would otherwise be immune to such mortal means of damage. So long as everything continued according to the plan, Odessa would not need to exert herself again until they reached the nest, or else another patrol of Aberrants that remained to defend the nest.

Of course, in that moment, she might have done well to remember the wisdom imparted upon her by the scholar, by way of the warriors of Old Earth: “No plan of operations reaches with any certainty beyond the first encounter with the enemy's main force.”

The sky igniting above her with streaks of radiant light was a reminder of that fact. Gold eyes traced their origin in time to marvel, along with the rest of her unit, at the behemoth construct that had produced them. The sight of such a Rook was not a surprise—at the start of a campaign. Yet they were deeply into the battle for Alora by the time it reared its ugly head. If such a creature was to confront humanity, it would have been in the initial waves of the war, when the resources of the planet were still rich and the Princess' instincts told it to make use of that abundance before it began to run dry. Yet there it stood for all to witness, with only days left before the planet's life was extinguished like so many candles in the wind. An unexpected turn of events.

A worrisome turn of events.

The Aberrants were a mighty foe to contend with, but they were no great strategists. Most of their number were no smarter than a common beast, no more capable of formulating strategies to combat the armies of humanity than particularly cunning animals following blueprints of action etched into their very genetics. And much as humanity had conquered the beasts first of their homeworld and then the cosmos beyond, defeating them was a simple matter of memorization and adequate action. The advantage of mankind has always been adaptation. Humans could array themselves in whatever way was most advantageous, and overcome their opponents through cunning as much as might.

The possibilities for how the Rook before her appeared bordered on that same cunning. Either the Princess of Alora had developed the ability to produce such units even while operating in a state of resource scarcity or, perhaps more worryingly, it had created the Rook well in advance of the current incursion toward its nest, and had it lay in wait for such a time that it could be deployed to counter a potential attack on its home. In other words, it had planned for their arrival. It had learned to do so.

Were Odessa not already dedicated to the notion of exterminating the beast before, then she certainly was after that passing thought. She had seen firsthand what destruction was wrought when the Aberrants deigned to evolve beyond their base instincts.

But before she could see to the destruction of the Princess, its Rook needed first to fall. Daunting though the prospect of such a lumbering monster might have been, she knew well enough that it could not be ignored. Even if it wouldn't menace their advance every step of the way with its many beams, it would certainly ensure that no evacuation of the forces at the nest could be staged even in the death rattle of its mistress. To leave it would be to spell death for all involved. Fortunately, she knew that it could be killed with an adequate showing of force. A show of force she knew herself more than capable of providing. Splitting off from the main force to handle the Rook would like as not preclude her from facing the Princess firsthand—a prospect which worried her, given the relative unfamiliarity she shared of her comrade's abilities—but in battle, risks needed to be taken. She would have to depend on Ahkari to see the mother of the horde did not leave Alora alive.

"Pilots! If you still got some engines left--follow me! Draw this Shrimp's fire! I'll knock it down!"

Or, perhaps, she would not. Odessa might have shown an expression of gratitude to the older Constellation if she was sure the woman would see it. But already, she was preparing to set off to confront the Rook. In the face of such a choice, Odessa's decision was all but cemented herself. One of the mouthier pilots called for the Constellations intent on facing the nest to gather, and she had little reason to refuse the call. Though her gauntlets all but hummed with residual energy, they did little damage to the exterior of the mech as she scaled up its leg and torso to rest atop its shoulder in the span of a heartbeat. From her perch, she could see the many who would either be left behind by the encroaching hordes or choose otherwise to make a last stand with those who could not continue forward. It was like as not that, even if she were to succeed, it would be the last time she laid eyes upon most all of them. More sacrifices in the name of victory. A shame she did not have time to learn many of their names.

"If you must die, then die well, Dan Kirk."

She offered her parting words to what appeared to be the lead pilot in their number with the same cold indifference as she ever managed in the heat of battle, then turned her sights away from the faces of the damned, and toward the gargantuan mass that was the Aberrant nest. The place where the battle would conclude one way or another, with victory or defeat.

The Things We Fight For

Odessa

Location — Petrichor-8 System, Frontier Planet Alora

Interacting — @Xiro Zean

---

Relief.

That was what Odessa might have felt, had she not been a more seasoned warrior. Relief that her senior had the good sense to reconsider their advance. Relief that the military men attached to them had the good sense to listen to a veteran Aberrant-slayer. Relief that their mission was marginally more likely to succeed as a result.

Such a luxury was not hers to enjoy.

Instead, she felt nothing more than familiar serenity, an emptiness she knew well, devoid of positive and negative. As the atmosphere far above them lit up with the wrath of man and his nemesis, filling the very skies with the rumbling staccato of artillery fire and plasma, she thought only of the storm within—the rumbling of her internal thunder. When the screeching of a thousand or more monstrosities echoed through war-torn streets, rattling the will of those around her with the threat that they might yet turn their soulless gazes upon those few souls hunkered down in the hotel, she kept her mind on the great storm to come, whose wrath would fill her veins with heavenly zeal and remake her flesh as a weapon that could humble the false Gods of the Archenemy's host. Even as the horrific screams of their foes died down in the absence of that great horde, now shambling for the front lines so many miles away, she could feel the kiss of Okeanos' heavens upon her nape, every minuscule hair standing on end in its presence.

"Alright," The call to move came on from high, stirring Odessa from her reverie long enough for her eyes to drift to their intrepid leader, "Move out. We have to reach the target before they figure out what is happening."

And so she did. Like some silent specter, she drifted through the crowds of soldiers checking their weapons and muttering their prayers, every step guiding her closer to the behemoth of steel and circuitry that would escort her to their place of battle. It would not be much longer after she scaled the giant and settled herself upon one of its great arms that the reverb of motors and the hum of thrusters filled her ears. Soon, the dank, depressing ambiance of a building now deprived of its purpose was replaced with fresher, but no less dreary skies of Alora. It seemed to her as though the very world itself mirrored that of her own: dark clouds gathering in preparation for the fury they would soon unleash. An auspicious omen, perhaps, were she allowed the mercy of hope.

But such a luxury was not hers to enjoy.

---

The reprieve of open skies and clear ground came to a predictable end sometime thereafter. Given such time to reproduce, it was of no surprise to Odessa that the Archenemy proved numerous enough to maintain a presence of sentries nearer the nest even under all the wrath that the Brigadier General brought to bear against their teeming horde. But the efforts of humanity's lesser combatants had done its job. Instead of a great flood of gnashing teeth and radiant beams, they faced only a swell, the likes of which could be broken against their host like a wave upon the cliffs.

"Engage the enemy!"

The rallying cry went out, and all as one both groups seemed to ignite into a flurry of activity. A thousand sharp cracks rang out below as the infantrymen unleashed all they had upon the armored carapaces of their foes, and Odessa's balance shifted as the iron giant beneath her banked sharply to the right to fulfill its objective and strafe the gibbering swarm far beneath them. The very act seemed to bring the tempest within her to the surface. She could feel it swelling, deep in the marrow of her bones, in every sinewy fiber of muscle, down nerve that familiar buzzing, burning, aching surge. It beckoned to her. Yearned for her to call upon it. Her body and mind as one hoped for it, desiring to unleash that which had stirred within her since they first departed their impromptu lodgings.

A luxury she could enjoy.

Two hard knocks against the cockpit of her escort informed the pilot within that their duty to her had been completed. A gentle push thereafter saw her leaving its embrace, free-falling towards the planet below. The winds whipped about her face as she plummeted toward the ground, but the thrill it provided was as a raindrop amidst a cyclone when compared to the rush building within her. The impact of her feet touching scorched asphalt barely registered in the face of the energy that surged within her, building and building and building. Her eyes found their focus in the face of the Aberrant threat just ahead of the makeshift host of infantry she had dropped into. The Pawns meant little to her, the Jetsam only marginally more. Her gaze instead searched until it landed on the leadership of the motley assortment of monsters. The high-caste—Bishops.

Hulking and monstrous, one would be forgiven for comparing them to the steely humanoids mankind brought to bear. Odessa knew better. No matter how mighty the firepower of their mechanical brethren might have been, there was no hope for them to puncture the barrier of a Bishop. It was the threat posed by these grotesques that necessitated the presence of humanity's greatest defenders in the first place. They were the closest equivalent amongst the Archenemy to Constellations, and the great foe that she had been brought to Alora to do battle against. The monsters spread out to better dispatch the force of humans invading their stolen territory, and her fellows went in turn to meet them. The less experienced among them might have gone in fear, in the face of their enemy's might, the likes of which tore concrete asunder like so much wet sand.

Odessa had no such fear. She had seen the most divine of the Archenemy's armies firsthand. In the face of such Gods, she could only find the Spearmen before her wanting by comparison.

Heavy boots met the street below one step at a time as the power within seemed to dance up her spine and lick at her fingertips. There were eight foes to be felled, and only six Constellations to be spared. Their leader faced off with more than her fair share, as was to be expected of a Red Giant. It was like as not that Ahkari would be sufficient to defeat the entire patrol of Bishops by herself, given the time. But every moment spent dispatching the high castes, one by one, would leave the others to wreak havoc upon their infantry. Even as the Stardust among them struggled to deflect a blow and found herself in the care of a more veteran Constellation and Rudis dispatched of one of their number, another descended upon the nearest support vehicle to the front line, bringing to bear the tip of its monstrous blade. Even the thickest armor of a human transport would puncture like so much tissue paper in the face of such an assault, and with it so too would those unfortunate souls inside now hurriedly moving into reverse.

Every inch the vehicle retreated, the energy within her seemed to surge. She breathed through the euphoric pain until it was nothing more but a passing squall. She breathed as the rapture threatened to consume her. The black clouds above whirled within her mind's eye, and yet she remained atop her mountain peak, at the eye of the storm. Every breath seemed to coax them to rumble. Every step seemed to dare the clouds to lash out. Once. Twice. Three times. By the time her boot met the ground for the fourth time, and her lungs emptied, the world itself seemed to slow to a crawl. The frenzied infantry carriers. The charging behemoth only meters away from it. The thousands of bullets whizzing about the air froze in that most exulting of moments.

Then, the world seemed to move all at once, and Odessa moved with it.

In the space between heartbeats, she was gone, leaving only a concussive blast and shattered roadway in her wake. The Bishop's spear lunged forward like some horrible, hydraulic viper, lashing out to claim its prey. But its fangs found no such purchase in its quarry. The razor-edge of its gargantuan stopped meters shy of its intended target, the horrendous force behind its wild attack coming to a creaking halt in the embrace of a woman so much smaller than it as to beggar belief. The servos in Odessa's gauntlets whirred and hissed as her fingers bit down like the jaws of some equally horrible beast along the very tip of its spear. Her arm almost seemed to vibrate as every strand of muscle she had clenched with a might that could only be described as superhuman. Riding the lightning had carried her to the defense of her allies, and in that stunning moment, it filled her with the vigor to halt juggernauts as one might halt a tossed ball, coursing through her body like an almighty circuit.

Whatever intelligence the beast possessed rebelled against the ludicrous notion of what its misshapen eyes saw. It jerked backward with such force that one might have expected Odessa's arm to come with it. But her body held strong, muscles in her back tensing like so many steel cables as they maintained her stance. Her knuckles were surely as pale as milk beneath the heavy, cobalt metal encasing them, her fingers exerting force such that they might well have shattered the spear between them before letting go. The monster tried again and again to free its weapon, each time only managing to budge the defiant warrior holding it hostage a matter of centimeters. It roared in protest and yet found little more than icy aurum eyes staring back at it, unflinching, unfeeling.

Its fellows were not so heartless. Another Bishop, having clamored atop the ruins of a nearby building to find an angle of attack on the unguarded infantry beyond, turned to face them. A bestial roar hearkened its arrival. Even an animal could understand pack tactics. Attack her flank while she was busy holding off its fellow hunter. Fell greater prey by working in tandem. One could even call it intelligent if they did not know any better.

Neither intelligence nor might, would carry the day for them, however. The second Bishop launched itself from the building in a shower of broken concrete and glass, rocketing down like a reaper from above to bring death and desolation upon her. She waited there, in the eye, for it to arrive. The storm blazed all around her, but she did not flinch from it. She welcomed it in the same way she welcomed her opponent's challenge. It was only in that split moment before the alien weapon came down to render her as paste that the skies opened once more. The ground shattered once more, metal met metal, and Odessa nearly buckled in the face of a blow that embedded her boots well into the ground below.

Nearly.

But a child of Okeanos did not wither in the face of such tribulations. A thousand thousand tiny needles seemed to prick all along her arms as she held both Spearmen at bay, the Heavens blessing them with necessary strength for the herculean endeavor to come. Their might combined, they might well have managed to tear her in two by pulling in unison, but such a fate was not one she intended to face. There was not even enough time for her heart to beat once between the second Bishop's spear finding purchase against her gauntlets before her back heaved mightily, and she turned, hard as hard could be, first at her shoulders, then at her hips. Her legs cut through the earth that encased them as she spun, pulling so hard that the first Bishop lost its footing and the second, still airborne from its assault, found itself caught up in the momentum of the Constellation that held its weapon so firmly.

Were they truly intelligent, they might have simply let go of their weapons in that moment and freed themselves from her grip. But their attachment to their weaponry would prove to be their downfall. In one cataclysmic show of might, Odessa hefted both Spearmen into the air, one held aloft in each arm. Once they were both deprived of the ground below, and only then, did she finally let loose. Not her grip, no, but the tempest swirling within her. The lightning within flowed like the waters of a mighty dam let free, and sparks of electricity danced along every inch of the horrible monsters caught up in her momentum. It surged and crackled and roared until finally, with a whine, the barriers that had bedeviled her more mortal companions broke under the flow of her anomaly.

And in the fraction of the second to follow, that which still flowed within her gave her the strength to bring her arms together, swinging the Bishops into each other. The circuit was complete at that moment, and the storm passed through them as it had her.

But they were no children of Okeanos. Day became night in the face of the flash to follow. Thunder boomed loud enough to shatter what glass remained along the ruined avenue they battled upon. The stench of ozone filled the air.

And when the sun returned in the wake of her great undertaking, there was little left in Odessa's grasp but blazing slag. Hot ash and ember rained down on her cheeks as she used the remaining strength in her arms to toss the half-melted spears and the remnants of the Bishops now fused to them to either side of herself, each landing with a heavy crash. Another breath, to clear the euphoria. Another breath to come down from the rush. Without ceremony, Odessa wrestled her leg free from the earthen prison it had been driven into, and soon her steps continued, leading her further into the battle. There were more foes to fell. Her storm could not yet be allowed to pass.

The Things We Fight For

Odessa

Location — Petrichor-8 System, Frontier Planet Alora

Interacting — @Xiro Zean

---

War was never something to be taken lightly. It was a difficult, costly affair for all those involved. Even the most legendary of warriors grew weary of it after a time. The rush of battle, the thrill of found in glory, of clashing against foes beyond the ken of mankind grew dull in the face of constant, unending repetition. Like howling wind against a mighty cliff, it wore one down bit by bit, piece by piece, almost unnoticeable, until they were made lesser for it. After a time, war became laborious. Tiresome. The campaign to defend the planet Alora from the encroaching forces of the Aberrants had long since transcended tiresome.

Perhaps that was why Odessa chose the relative solace of solitude over the comfort of socialization. The burnt-out ruins of what must have once served as a hotel proved their meager force with a place to rest out of sight from the watchful eye of their foes, who circled the skies above like so many wild dogs, hungry for any scraps they might find amidst the desolation their packs wrought upon the surface. Most of their company had broken off into their disparate groups, the enlisted men trying to distract themselves from the gnawing dread of what was to come. The fighting to reach where they stood had been fierce, but the fight was yet to conclude. They were nearing their objective but not quite at it yet. The most ferocious resistance was yet to come, and already, they had lost so much. Those valiant survivors swept up in the orbit of a Red Giant on the warpath could be forgiven their discomfort.

Odessa would not forgive herself for such things.

There was nothing to be gained in ruminating on a fate yet to come. Those who dreaded the future to come—who allowed fear to turn their minds to the potential for imminent failure—already condemned themselves to an inglorious defeat. In lieu of such lamentation, the Constellation rested her body against what likely constituted a supporting wall during the hotel's heyday, arms crossed over her chest and her cap pulled down over her eyes, soaking in what rest she could manage between sorties. Some might have thought her to have been asleep. The more clever of them might have thought to get some sleep all their own, knowing what was to come. Such a luxury would certainly evade Odessa, if not for her responsibilities, then for the timely arrival of the group's 'commander'.

Ahkari Ganju was not a familiar face before Alora. To hear it told, she had been across the frontier on worlds foreign to Odessa, earning her place in the stars across what must have been dozens of planetary conflicts. Yet she hurried across the vast sea of stars when the archenemy threatened the world they now shared, and for good reason. Alora was more than just another front to Ahkari. It was home. Her home. And now, it was being made hollow by a parasitic host that could not be reasoned with nor easily repelled. Every day of the last six weeks, a little more of the planet's vitality drained away, used to birth the mechanical monstrosities that had swarmed over their ranks in the millions. A little more of Alora died with every second, minute, and hour. The specifics of how long a world could hold out against such a pestilence were lost to a woman who had steeped herself more in the lore of killing the disease than treating its symptoms, but it could not be very much longer.

Indeed, if Ahkari's very audible conversation was anything to go by, it would not be long until the event horizon was crossed. Their commander did well to hide it, but Odessa could hear it in her voice. A need to find an end. To make the sacrifices make sense. Desperation for a cure.

All understandable things to feel. How many could stand idly by and allow their homeland to be consumed? To have spent weeks on end, countless comrades, millions of lives, only to still lose the world that had birthed them? It was an easy thing to be objective about when it was not one's world. Could she be half-so-logical if Okeanos was threatened? If the lives of her daughter and her family hung in the balance? Perhaps she could. Perhaps, in her years of training, she had mastered herself enough to make the correct choice. For whatever else one might have said about Ahkari Ganju, however desperate she was to bring salvation to Alora, one could not question her instincts. Her choice was the correct one. The only one. To see their collective voyage to a conclusion—be it tragic or otherwise.

When the Red Giant stepped forward looking for counsel from those who had fought beside, Odessa tilted her cap up and scanned the room with a single aureate eye, following the first to voice their opinions. The pilots seemed to have the requisite dedication to see the plan through. For that much, they could be respected. Most of those not born of noble warrior's blood did not dare to face such insurmountable odds without overt protest. Either they were cut of stronger cloth than most, or they had given themselves over to the stark reality of their situation. Death was a likely companion in such campaigns. But death would come for all in due time. Better to meet it on one's terms than allow it to come to their door unimpeded.

But that did not mean it should be met eagerly or recklessly. Pushing herself off the heels of her muddied boots, the Perseid made her way through the ranks and toward their impromptu commander. Approaching from the side, she offered the comfort of her voice before that of her gesture.

"I concur with this course of action. There is no such thing as 'playing it safe' in regard to our enemy. With every moment they grow stronger. If we wait any longer, we consign ourselves to defeat. All we have sacrificed will have been for naught."

The weight of her weapons might have been enough to drag a lesser woman to her knees, yet after years of their constant embrace, the bulk of Odessa's gauntlets weighed no heavier on her than skin. A similarly unfitting lightness might well have carried over in her touch, as she brought one of her metal-clad hands to rest atop Ahkari's shoulder. She squeezed with all the comfort one could manage in their position.

"If we are to do this, however, we cannot allow desperation to reach a swift victory to cloud our vision. We must act swiftly, but not recklessly. We must carefully plot our course before setting off."

Her countenance bore both a gentle empathy, acknowledging her fellow Constellation's earnest wish to save her home, but also a desire in itself to see that want made real. A desire that she was confident could be made to come to pass, with the right direction.

She could feel the stiffening of the muscles even beneath her steel, the tensing that precluded battle. The Red Giant turned toward her, eyes searching, not for validation but for a purpose in her actions. It seemed she would take no comfort from the gesture.

"Do you have an alternative?" Aurigae endeavored, her arms crossing as she glanced at the holographic display hovering a dozen feet away, slaved over by the handful of information specialists in the company. "Be that as it may, this is a situation that calls for desperation. Our efforts must be swift if we are to minimize the damage dealt to the planet as much as we can. The mission is dire enough that the planet might have already been lost during this brief conversation."

The commander's words were straight to the point as ever. It seemed like she was all but ready to rush out into the streets with the company at her heels, prepared to go down in a blaze of glory if that was what was required to take the nest. All the more important Odessa had an alternative. Bravery was an expectation for those who called themselves Constellations, but there was a stark divide between bravery and foolhardiness. Such a line was blurred by the notion of caution equating to inaction.

"We do not have the resources to brute force our way to the nest and proceed to take it after arriving," The Perseid lowered her voice as she continued, offering a convenient excuse for their closeness when reassurance was placed out of the way, as well as keeping morale from crumbling any more than it already had, "We need to draw the Aberrants between ourselves and the Princess away if we are to make it in time and with sufficient force to kill it. Contact General Ackeroid and request he launch an offensive to cover our advance."

It was hard to say what forces the Brigadier General had at his disposal. It had been some weeks since their force had the mercy to rendezvous with anything greater than a few scattered platoons. Whatever he did have, though, was doubtlessly in greater number than their own company, and like as not to be fresher to the fight. As long as they could cause a significant enough disturbance to throw the Aberrant's equilibrium out of balance, it would be enough for them to land a decisive blow at the heart of their enemy. Once deprived of the head, the body of the beast typically collapsed in the days to follow.

"They need not take any ground. Only force the Princess to divert resources away from its protection to keep them at bay, opening a path for us to reach it. Of that much, he should be capable of providing us."

The Things We Fight For

mommy's home

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx B A S I C I N F O [Name] Odessa Ulani Thaddeus Isabella Samara [Callsign] Pegasus [Gender] Female [Age] 26 [Rank and Designation] Main-Class Constellation [Place of Birth] Core Territories; Okeanos [Official Statement] "This odyssey, too, has a purpose." C O M B A T A B I L I T Y [Anti-Barrier Sword] #15: Heaven & Earth Gauntlets [Anti-Barrier Quotient] 30% [Physical Description] Though possessing an ostentatious name, the Heaven & Earth Gauntlets are rather tame in their appearance. A series of AB-alloyed metal plates overlaid atop carbon nano-mesh fabric disguise a network of miniaturized internal servos, designed to provide their wielder with the manual dexterity of uncovered hands while encasing their limbs in a pair of weapons capable of withstanding blows launched at speeds approaching that of light. Though lacking decoration, the dark, smoky metal seems to have an almost cobalt coloration that shines through when its wielder channels the wrath of the heavens through it. [Attributes] The Heaven & Earth Gauntlets are so named because of their affinity for that which bridges the gap between: lightning. Those who possess Anomaly abilities within the purview of electricity find their abilities enhanced when channeled through them, increasing their output significantly. The gauntlets have a tendency to 'drink' in the power that flows through them, becoming increasingly iridescent as the charge within grows more and more powerful. Their metallic shells have been scorched more than once by impromptu flares of plasma caused by wielders spontaneously vaporizing enemy and surrounding alike once the energy within had reached a feverish peak. [Anomaly] Two Heavens [Origin] Polarity [Phenomena] Ostensibly an ability to manipulate one's own electromagnetic field, Two Heavens is an Anomaly steeped more heavily in philosophy than it is science. The concept of the internal and external, of activity and passivity, has a tradition in the martial world stretching back to the days of Old Earth. Those adept in the usage of Two Heavens take this tradition to heart, perfecting first their inner selves—the so-called esoterikós ouranós—through intense self-discipline and meditation, such that they might control the incredible power inherent to their lineage. The counterpart to this, the exoterikós ouranós, is honed through rigorous physical conditioning and training in the martial arts, such that their bodies might handle the incredible strain of what is to come. Only once a wielder has mastered both aspects might they move on to channeling the true strength of their ability. Combining their inner and outer worlds, Two Heavens adepts become a font of incredible energy, generating absurd amounts of electricity within themselves. Born from their own bodies, the lightning which courses through them does them no harm, but instead empowers them beyond their means. Their muscles produce a force that is inconceivable even amongst the lauded Warrior Families, their perception of the world slowing as they move at the speed of the electricity crackling along their very nerves. A master of the Two Heavens is a force of nature, the eye of the storm, power made flesh. Their fury is made known in brief, near-instant exchanges, obliterating their foes in brilliant flashes of light, and leaving only thunder and the lamentation of enemies in their wake. [Limitation] For many who possess an Anomaly, utilizing their power comes to them as second nature, commanding oceans of flame or tearing very fabric of space as easily as a bird takes to wing. Those whose blood carries the Two Heavens are not given such an easy path. Lightning is dangerous, fast and unpredictable. Merely directing it requires the utmost respect and precision, much less coursing it through one's self to force their body to achieve heights previous thought impossible. Two Heaven adepts must exercise the utmost focus when utilizing their abilities, carefully measuring their every move in the instant before it is made and only exerting themselves as much as precisely necessary. It is a taxing Anomaly to make use of, not only mentally, but also physically. As their cousins under the auspices of Limit might best understand, the candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long, and those who channel the primordial might of the heavens through flesh and bone burn brighter than most could ever hope to.

Profile [Surface-level Impression] Odessa can best be described as reassuring, if not approachable. She is cool and collected, possessing a certain comforting serenity that belies the steely conviction beneath her unflappable exterior. Kind by nature, she often finds herself looking after the welfare of others, especially those comrades whom she has had the opportunity to fight beside before. Nurturing and stoic in equal parts, one might be forgiven for thinking her gentle. A notion that is quickly replaced when she enters the field of battle. A seasoned veteran and warrior, the peaceful tranquility that underpins her behavior outside of battle turns to a cold fury in the face of the archenemy, like a deadly calm before the storm. She is as ruthless as she is fearless while fighting the enemies of mankind, efficiently dispatching her opponents with a dead-eyed composure that rattles even fellow Constellations. Woe be unto those who make themselves her enemies, for Odessa is a woman of absolute faith in both her sense of justice and the conviction to see that justice is done by her own hand, regardless of what their affiliation may be. [Personal History] Born amidst a terrible hurricane during the dog days of Okeanos' long summer, the howling winds and crack of lightning served as an omen for the tempestuous and stormy youth that Odessa was to lead. The child of a decorated Constellation and his beloved wife, there was little doubt that greatness would come to her in time—a notion backed up by rigorous testing when she grew old enough. With a high aptitude for the Anomaly latent in her genes and exceptional scores on her physical exams, it was a foregone conclusion that she would follow in the footsteps of her father and his father before him and become one of humanity's chosen defenders. Aptitude was not enough to guarantee her such a position of pride, however. Her line held itself to higher standards than more pragmatic families. She was brave and bold and strong and swift, yes, but also impetuous and reckless, more focused on playing at arms than refining herself in silent meditation and careful contemplation. An abundance of heat in her blood, an affinity for the exoterikós ouranós, would impede her hopes of mastering the Two Heavens which had propelled their family to prominence nearly a century before. A course correction was required. When the time came for the wild young Odessa to enroll in training for the Constellation program, she was not placed with some off-worlder who might encourage such a cataclysmic lack of balance in the pursuit of martial excellence, but instead with an older, more prudent hand: her grandsire, the so-called Old Wolf of Okeanos. A seasoned warrior and survivor of many clashes against the archenemy, Autolycus, whose true name now sprawled into the dozens, was a harsh taskmaster who had little patience for his granddaughter's foolhardiness. He had seen firsthand what tragedies such impulsiveness wrought upon the battlefield mankind found itself ever losing ground upon, much less how disastrous it could be for those who thought to command the primal forces of the heavens. Something he vowed to teach her. And something she learned. Bit by bit. Lesson by painful lesson. The fires in her never quite died out, but they did temper in time. She learned that if she was to master the world beyond her, she needed first to master the world within. Once she committed that principle to heart, once she found discipline within herself rather than outside herself, she excelled. Whatever progress might have been lost to the willful arrogance of youth was more than made up for under her grandfather's watchful eye. As she neared womanhood, and her official induction into the ranks of the lauded Constellations, her capricious nature reared itself for one final time, a parting shot to Okeanos. On the eve of her graduation, Odessa found herself with child. Whether purposeful or not, the conception of her daughter halted any hopes of quickly progressing as a Constellation. The armies of humanity had little use for a woman with a child in her belly, and the precious bloodline the child bore was too valuable to potentially sacrifice in the hopes of an expedient promotion. The traditions of her family, still but fledglings compared to the storied ranks of the Sol's most prestigious, further compounded the issue. Their focus on strong foundations barred a child from being left by both parents in the first two years of life. As Odessa refused to name her daughter's sire, she was planet-bound for the foreseeable future. Some called her feckless. Others, a coward, using her child to escape her duties. She paid them little mind. The baby, Thelema, was born after many long months of such scorn. And in holding that smallest, most innocent soul in her arms, Odessa found within herself a font of something she had lacked for much of her life. She found prudence. She found restraint. It was difficult to commit to danger and recklessness when someone so dear depended upon one. Raising her daughter for those precious few years was an eye-opening experience for a young woman who had, until that point, lived life for herself first and foremost, a woman of force and activity rather than consideration and thoughtfulness. As she watched her flesh and blood grow from a helpless infant to a bright, vibrant little girl eager to learn about the world, Odessa too learned. And in those lessons, she would find salvation when the call to war finally reached Okeanos. No longer forbidden from service as a Constellation, Odessa was gifted with the mantle of Pegasus. All the better prepared for the rigors of battle by her long rest, she remained a Stardust-class for only a few months, ascending to the rank of Proto just in time for a dire front to open in humanity's unending war against the Aberrations: the Battle of Planet Pray. Until that point, Odessa had only dealt in skirmishes and clean-up operations in the wake of more experienced Constellations. The battle for Pray did not seem like it would be much more trying than those most minor of clashes she had known. The initial days of the conflict were tame. All went as expected for a mid-level incursion into occupied human space. Then the Crownguard arrived, and her baptism in battle rapidly devolved into a baptism by fire. The arrival of a Crownguard was a disaster for the world it landed upon. It was not uncommon for a single one to overpower an entire planet in a day and lay waste to dozens of humanity's best in the process. The surface of Pray was cursed not only with one but two Crownguards only days before its defenders could reach the princess' nest. In the span of a mere few days, they had carved a bloody swathe through the valiant defenders of the world. Forty-three Constellations perished, among them three separate Supernovas—each the veteran of a hundred such battles—and the Main-class Constellation that had taken Odessa under her wing. It was only a few weeks later, when the remaining Constellations managed to put down one of the beasts, and send its companion fleeing for its life with the Princess in tow, that salvation was in sight. With neither the incomprehensible strength of a Crownguard to support their offensive, or Princess to buoy their numbers, Pray was fully liberated from the Aberrant threat after a month non-stop fighting, much of its surface in ruin. It was a victory for humanity. A Pyrrhic victory, but a victory all the same. It was also an important experience for Odessa. Her first taste of true battle. Of true fear. Of true fury. Were she the same arrogant pup that came striding from the Old Wolf's den feeling all the invincibility of a young fool, she may yet have perished in that treacherous world. But thoughts of home, thoughts of her daughter, kept her disciplined when she otherwise wished to cave to instinct. Her love for Thelema kept her spirit strong when all seemed lost. Through care and experience, she learned wisdom, and through wisdom, she managed to leave the planet Pray on her own two feet and carry on to other battlefields across the domain of mankind. The years that followed went swiftly. A survivor of Pray, she quickly found herself promoted to the rank of Main-class before year's end by virtue of how ferocious the fighting had been. Years bled into years as she bounced between active front to active front, honing her skills as a warrior and a leader of men. Every time a Constellation stepped onto the surface of a world, there were no guarantees of victory, of living on to see another day. Pray had taught her that much, and much earlier than most. With her beloved daughter coming of age and beginning her tutelage under that same steely Old Wolf that had molded her into a force of nature, however, the campaign to defend Alora seemed promising. It seemed hopeful. And it seemed she would swiftly be proven wrong. Home World [Planet Description] Okeanos is as lush and verdant a world as one is likely to find outside of the ancient gardens-worlds of the Milky Way. It is so named for the massive freshwater sea that bisects the planet in two, like the fabled river of Old Earth. As this ocean wraps around the length of the planet's equator, the waters are warm and rich with fauna, some of which reach truly monstrous sizes, supported by the abundance of oxygen in the atmosphere and the abundance of smaller prey. The ocean plays host to a series of archipelagos and island chains that dot its pristine waters, with two large, mountainous continents in the north and south where the majority of the population make their homes. Okeanos has a full four seasons thanks to its stable rotation, with hot summers and temperate winters separated by equally mild autumn and spring. Owing to its vast ocean and warm temperatures, Okeanos is wracked by intense storms throughout its hottest months, with some islands vanishing entirely into nation-sized hurricanes at the height of the storm season. [Culture] Okeanos, though welcoming on a surface level, is a planet of extremes. The floodplains along its coasts and larger archipelagos are fertile enough that, in combination with its rich sea, the planet's population has had little difficulty cultivating the necessary food supply to sustain itself. The seasons, barring summer, are mild and temperate enough that open-air settlements are the norm, defying the more advanced arcologies of other colonized worlds in its sector. But these things come at a cost. Summer brings with it violent storms capable of wiping out entire nation-states, and the primeval sea that produces innumerable aquatic sustenance also plays host to aggressive, monstrous mega-fauna capable of dragging the largest vessels to a watery grave. This duality has instilled a distinctive devil-may-care attitude in its populace. The world is a paradise with the potential for cruelty unimaginable. Therefore, the people reason, it is best to live well and to live boldly while one has the chance, and to seize every opportunity presented to them before the mercurial hands of fate twist the fortune against them. The relative plenty of Okeanos means that the populace needs not to trouble themselves over matters of food or energy security, giving rise to a culture of warrior-scholars the likes of which their ancient progenitors would be proud. Its government is organized into an aristocratic representative democracy, wherein members of its founding families are elected by the citizenry based on who will see to their needs the best and, increasingly, who can manage the demands of the UAS without jeopardizing their way of life. [Warrior Family] Descended from a black sheep of the Symtropantos line, the Perseid family are a relatively new arrival to Okeanos, appearing only after the defeat of Belle during the Chandra conflict of 268 IC. Having lost every comrade he had come to love throughout the war, Perseus found comfort and rest on the ocean planet's shores, charmed by the starkly optimistic views of the locals. It was on Okeanos that the experiences he had weathered—and the wisdom of the dead—that he formulated the doctrine that would go on to govern the family which would one day carry his name. Fathering a plethora of children on a dozen wives, it would only be after his death in 282 IC, and after those children rose to prominence in the fight against the Aberrations, that the Perseid line was formally acknowledged as a fledgling Warrior Family. By then, their code had been formalized. Sons and daughters of the Perseid line were to live courageously, but not recklessly. They were to act with wisdom and temperance, be just in deed and honest in word, and demonstrate a near fanatical loyalty to their comrades, not only those born of their blood but especially those born from battle. This dedication is best demonstrated by the tradition of enthýmisi, or remembrance. A pariah for his lack of ability amongst the Symtropantos, Perseus cast off his birth name and vowed to become the most shining beacon of humanity, a Constellation, without them. He managed to achieve this feat in no small part the assistance of his fellows in the rigorous training process. These comrades of his, of whom he thought the world, answered the call to bring down the Hive-Mother Belle, and he so accompanied them. Yet to his despair, all but Perseus perished, one after another, in the fight to break the Queen's Crownguard and vanquish the foul beast for the good of man. When the monster was slain, the victory all mankind felt could only be pyrrhic for Perseus. New Constellations would file in to replace his dear companions, picking up their weapons and carrying on where they left off. Crushed by the thought they might yet be forgotten, Perseus began the tradition of enthýmisi, memorializing the dead by taking their names onto his own, replacing the stain of Symtropantos with those who cherished him and were cherished in kind. This tradition is carried on by his descendants, who begin their lives bearing only the name their mothers gift them. As they live and learn, love and lose, their names grow, and every sacrifice is immortalized as part of their very identity. The oldest Perseids have names that stretch into the dozens, each a beloved friend now lost to the archenemy, each a reminder of why they fight. Perseids are therefore a proud and dependable family. They fight for their beliefs without regret, pursue their justice without pause, and defend their companions with unmatched ferocity. Their commitment to defeating the Aberrations goes beyond the simple desire for survival, but a deep and ingrained sense of duty, both to those who have been lost before them and those who will be lost long after they too have passed on. Only with the final defeat of the Hive-Mothers will their purpose, set out by Perseus himself, be fulfilled, and only then will their grim determination be halted. Notable Contacts [Name] Thelema [Relation to Subject] Daughter [Analysis] Odessa's only child and the light of her life. Thelema is a bright little girl of eight years old, and by all accounts, surpasses even her mother in potential as a Constellation. Precocious by nature, she lacks the fiery streak of Odessa's youth in favor of a curious intelligence that precedes her years. Like many from the more stable Warrior Families, Thelema idolizes her mother and great-grandfather, who serves as her primary guardian in Odessa's absence. She wishes to one day follow in their footsteps as a Constellation all her own, something that she has only just begun journeying towards as of the beginning of the year. [Name] Rudis Saint-Saëns [Relation to Subject] Comrade [Analysis] A fellow Main-class Constellation who made Odessa's acquaintance some time before the campaign to liberate Alora. Rudis' indomitable will and dedication to protecting her comrades quickly endeared her to Odessa, who found that she had more in common with the fiery redhead than not. Perhaps too much in common, even. While the relationship between the two can largely be described as that of a warrior kinship, forged in the heat of both real and mock battles, Odessa can not help but worry over Rudis. The image of a volatile young woman filled with an absolute confidence in herself is not one that is unfamiliar to Odessa, and she knows firsthand the folly of believing that one is absolute in their indestructibility: that the steel which never bends will eventually break under enough strain. She can only hope to be there when the weight grows too impossible to bear.