Apex Sunburn

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Late Morning
Location: The sea >> Sorian Harbour
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Mentions:
Attire:

Hider

Plain roughspun shirt (white) and trousers (brown)
Patched knee-length coat
Shoulder- and waist-belts
Old leather boots

'Beautiful, resplendent, and a wonder of the world, the city of Sorian is truly the capital which a Kingdom as grand as Caesonia deserves. From here, His Majesty King Edin Danrose, first of his name, rules his lands with both a just hand and wisdom worthy of a sage. Is it thus any wonder that Sorian attracts peoples from across the known world, and of every stock and every creed? Indeed, there exists such a vast selection of cultures within the city that it is often said that a saunter through Sorian’s welcoming streets would suffice as a cure for even the most itching wanderlust.

As befits the seat of power of a family blessed by the Gods, Sorian is nestled close to the end of a narrow, long fjord. Her gleaming spires and glittering buildings…'

“‘Er gleamin’ spires an’ glitterin’ buildings?” Cynwaer repeated, his tone dripping with mocking amusement and voice laced with a failed attempt to suppress a guffaw. He couldn’t quite believe what he was reading, partially because none of it sounded like the Sorian he knew, and mostly because he could scarcely think of anyone who could write such tripe and still expect to be taken seriously. A childish snicker played on his lips as he turned the page. He had to admit, when he had pilfered this ‘Nobleman’s Guide to Sorian’ from a careless patron at a coffeehouse, he had expected to flick through perhaps a dozen or so pages before tossing the thing into the ocean. Sorian was, put kindly, a city Cynwaer wouldn’t even piss on if it were on fire, after all.

But as it turned out, this book proved to be far too entertaining – even if unintentionally so – to be so easily discarded. And it was for that reason that, even as the Remembrance approached the city not-too-far off in the distance, Cynwaer continued to thumb through the guide’s pages. He stood near the beak of his ship, leaning over the gunwale and loosely cradling the book over the rolling surf far below.

He laughed derisively as he read another page. “Listen ta’ this, Neirynn,” he called out. “‘Truly, Sorian is a city ‘at deserves all ta’ awe it inspires in e’ry creature ‘at passes through its gates’.” He snapped the guide shut and looked to his left. Waving the book at Neirynn, he said, “Can yer feckin’ believe some fecker got paid ta’ write this shite? Even yer could dae a bet’er job than this feckin’ idiot.”

A pair of beady eyes looked back at Cynwaer. Neirynn froze in the midst of pulling the last scraps of meat from the skeleton of her latest prey, an unfortunate seabird of some sort. Fresh blood, bright and crimson, stained the earthen-brown feathers of her slender face. Stringy slivers of flesh swayed from her dark beak as she tilted her head. For a moment, she merely regarded her owner with silence. Then, she squawked.

“Aye, yer right. Comparin’ yer ta’ this shite-scribbler’s an insult ta’ yer. Sorry.” Cynwaer chuckled, reaching over to scratch her head. The swamp harrier let out another, quieter squawk and pushed her head into his hand. Sharp talons dug into the wooden guardrail, and she half-spread her wings to balance herself.

Cynwaer smiled as he watched her. For a bird-of-prey and a predator, she was surprisingly docile. But he supposed that rescuing her when she had just been a fledgling chick may have gone a long way in making her friendly towards him and his crew. “Aw’righ’,” he said and pulled his hand back. “Finish up yer brekkie, lunch, whate’er yer want ta’ call it, then yer can go ‘ave yersel’ some rest. Gae’n ta’ be a busy time fer yer an’ I both, aye.”

She tilted her head, squawked once more, then went back to eating.

Cynwaer looked away from her and towards the city. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what the writer of the guide was talking about. He saw no glittering spires, no glimmering buildings that inspired awe. Well, that wasn’t quite true; he did see a number of mansions, estates, and other expensive-looking structures that shone in brilliant hues of white, gold, and silver under the light of the late morning sun. But he didn’t feel any sense of wonderment looking at them. Rather, he felt nothing but disgust. Each and every last one of them were emblematic of the problems he had with Sorian and Caesonia as a whole.

“Captain, we’re passing the breakwaters,” a dour voice called from behind him.

“Aye, I’ve eyes ta’ see that,” Cynwaer replied. “Anythin’ that catches yer eye?”

“There’s a few Alidashti ships in harbour, Captain.”

Cynwaer shrugged. “Nae bother, ‘tis the partyin’ season fae nobles. I’m nae surprised they’re here.”

“And there are ships none of us recognise, Captain.”

That got Cynwaer’s attention. He immediately dropped whatever levity he had, pulled out a spyglass from his coat pocket, and scanned the harbour. “Which ones?” He asked, but found his answer almost as soon as those words left his mouth. The first was almost impossible to miss; it was a behemoth of a ship, easily twice the size of the largest Caesonian freighter. Her flat – almost vertical – sides, and snub-nose told him that she hadn’t been built for speed. Even with six masts of fully-battened sails, Cynwaer doubted that she was capable of anything beyond a gentle cruise. Essentially walking pace for a ship. “That one’s probably no trouble,” he muttered, then shifted to the other unknown vessel.

This other ship was lashed to its moorings, and the angle made it difficult for Cynwaer to pick out anything aside from the obvious. “That’s a fightin’ ship, aw’righ’,” he murmured. There weren’t many uses for a ship with a hull that narrow; it was definitely not useful as a transport. And the blackened muzzles peeking from her sides were almost certainly cannons, and she carried plenty of them. Far more than what an average vessel needed for self-defence. Cynwaer looked up, and saw flags which he didn’t recognise.

He collapsed the spyglass. “Well, if they’re nae Caesonian, nae Alidahsti, an’ nae Varian, then we I dae’n think we’ve ta’ worry about them fae now. We’re nae ‘ere ta’ start a fight, at least nae fer now. Still, I’ll ‘ave the lads keep an ear out fae news about ‘em. Cheers fae lettin’ me know.”

“It’s my duty, Captain.” There was a pause. “Captain, some of the–”

“I know,” Cynwaer interrupted with a sigh. “Yer can gae tell ta’ magebloods ta’ get below, an’ tell ‘em ta’ be feckin’ quiet than a feckin’ graveyard if they’re nay wantin’ ta’ be put in one. ‘Tis nae’ our first time’ dae’n somethin’ like this. We’ll be grand.”

Another pause, then a begrudging, “Aye, Captain.”

Cynwaer grimaced. He didn’t like it when his quartermaster was upset, because that was usually a sign of greater discontent on his ship. But it couldn’t be helped. Transporting magebloods was risky business, and to transport them here, to the capital of Caesonia? That was just insane. Cynwaer, however, was confident that insanity was exactly what they needed. No sane person would imagine that a fugitive mage would be smuggled into Sorian. Furthermore, one could get anywhere from Sorian. Both of those factors made the city the perfect place for a fugitive mage to go to ground for a time.

Similarly, Cynwaer was confident that Remembrance would be able to slip into Sorian harbour with almost no trouble. For one, she wasn’t Remembrance anymore, at least not on paper and on her hull. A snow of two-and-a-half masts, Remembrance was, for a ship, incredibly plain and common. Almost every privateer or merchantman, and even some Caesonian navy vessels, were close to identical to her. And so, a quick re-painting of her hull and an even quicker renaming was all it took to transform Remembrance, a wanted corsair, into Recompense, an innocent privateer. There simply wasn’t a harbourmaster alive who had the time and patience to scrutinise each and every one of the hundreds of ships that passed their eye to such a degree that they could see through a disguise that wasn’t done half-heartedly.

Cynwaer’s crew had done this many, many times before, but their – not his – nervousness was something that never truly went away.

And as usual, it was a nervousness that proved to be unnecessary. Remembrance – or Recompense, as it was now known to the authorities – pulled into her berth not long after passing the breakwaters. Soon, she would also have a letter of marque bearing her assumed identity, courtesy of Cynwaer and his ways with a harbour official known for having flexible morals. But that would have to wait. For now, Cynwaer had other things to do.

He stepped off the gangplank and onto the pier, his first taste of Sorian land in years. It tasted as bad as he thought it would. “Aw’right’,” he muttered to no one but himself. “Time fae trouble.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Morning
Location: The Church >> Royal Curd
Interactions:
Mentions: @Princess Charlotte
Attire:

Hider

(Placeholder until I get a better reference image)
Roughspun, blue trousers
A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment
Two swords and two pistols, one on either side
A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face (in his hands)

“Hey King! We’re here for the cheese!”

Sjan-dehk didn’t know what this ‘cheese’ was, and he didn’t understand why anyone would be seeking it in a temple, but he did have a very, very good feeling that the tone of those words wasn’t the sort one should be using with a King. Or anyone of any rank, for that matter. Formality wasn’t something Sjan-dehk held in high regard – he disliked it, to be perfectly honest – but even so, he thought that whoever had spoken had been somewhat rude.

And from what Sjan-dehk knew, to be rude to a vain man – let alone a King – was to be in danger.

He snapped his gaze over to the King, the latter seated high upon his throne. Iyen squeezed closer as the jostling crowd filled the temple, and he was forced to look away when the two of them helped an aged lady to a seat. Well, Iyen did most of the actual assisting; Sjan-dehk merely looked fierce to clear the way. The grey-haired woman thanked both of them. Iyen listened, and despite not understanding a word, responded with a smile. Sjan-dehk mirrored her. And then, he looked back at the King, and his smile vanished.

As much as he understood that gestures could have many meanings, Sjan-dehk couldn’t for the life of him think of an interpretation for a hand drawn across a neck that wasn’t bloody. Was this King seriously going to have someone imprisoned or killed for impertinence? Of course, rudeness in such a setting deserved a punishment of some sort, but either of those options seemed rather extreme. Sjan-dehk would have been satisfied with a fine or a literal slap-on-the-wrist. He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes. Perhaps this was just another misunderstanding, and he was simply being an idiot, but a not-so-quiet part of him didn’t put such unfair and drastic measures past the King.

He surreptitiously dropped a hand to the grip of one of his swords.

But despite his best efforts at stealth, his little action didn’t escape Iyen’s notice. She quickly wrapped her slender fingers tightly around his arm and fixed him with an alarmed glare. “What’re you doing?” Her voice was a quiet hiss, and held as much reproach as her disapproving frown. She glanced at her own arms, at her waist. “Without me?”

Sjan-dehk could have chuckled, had he any idea as to what he intended to do. Did he really want to start a fight here? Presumably against the King’s guards? Or did he hope to simply send a strong message? And for what purpose? To stop the King from meting out his justice in his own lands? That didn’t seem right, as wrong as it felt in this case. Sjan-dehk swallowed and chewed on his lip. Maybe this was why Lady Adiyan wanted him to be here. To learn and to get used to how the Caesonians did things.

Or maybe, as it turned out, Sjan-dehk was simply being an idiot. The gesture had been nothing more than the King ordering his guards to shut the temple’s doors. Red-faced and feeling as if he had just turned his ship against the wind, Sjan-dehk let go of his sword. “Nothing,” he replied to Iyen. “I’m not doing…Well, I’m not planning on doing anything. Just thinking that you might be right. My mind is sea-addled.”

Iyen said nothing. Instead, she touched Sjan-dehk’s neck with the back of her hand. Sjan-dehk glanced at her, amused. “Guess it’s my turn to ask. What’re you doing?”

“Flushed cheeks and agreeing that I’m right?” Iyen placed her other hand on her forehead. “I’m checking if you’ve a fever.”

This time, Sjan-dehk chuckled and gently pulled her hand away from him. Iyen gave him a smile, and they returned their attention to the ceremony. Not that there was much left for them to observe; aside from what Sjan-dehk could only assume to be a mishap with the King’s painting – as far as he could tell, there wasn’t anything wrong with it, but everyone else had reacted as if it were otherwise – the rest of it passed as little more than a blur. Before long, Sjan-dehk and Iyen were back out on the street with everyone else, golden ticket in hand and destination unknown. With no better idea, they simply followed the crowd.

“That was…Quick,” Iyen remarked.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Sjan-dehk said. “Thought you disliked these things, too. Don’t tell me all we’ve been through together was nothing more than a lie.”

Iyen rolled her eyes. “Oh, Sjan-dehk, you caught me in my elaborate plot to get closer to your sister–”

“Stop it,” Sjan-dehk interrupted quickly. “But I see your point. Feels like they rushed things at the end.”

“Think the painting had anything to do with it?” Iyen asked. She sidestepped to avoid a child, and in doing so ended up pressing herself against Sjan-dehk’s side. A wide, cheeky grin spread across his face, and he looked down at her.

“Sure it’s my sister you’re interested in?” He teased. Iyen looked at him with mock disgust and took a step away from him. He quickly returned to the topic of their conversation with a shrug. “Don’t know. Maybe, I’d say. Not sure what was wrong with it, though. The finishing touches looked a little rough, but I wouldn’t get upset over that.” A frown flashed across his face as he considered the possibilities. Maybe the style was a touch too progressive for the crowd? “Did you see the King, though? He looked fucking pissed.”

“He handled it well, though,” Iyen pointed out. “That, and the interruption that you were about to turn into a full fucking fight. I’ve to congratulate you for restraining yourself, by the way.”

The memory of that moment brought another flush to Sjan-dehk’s face. “How was I supposed to know that that gesture didn’t mean that he was ordering a beheading?” He protested, then cleared his throat. “You’re right, though. The King showed some temperance. Maybe he’s not as bad as we thought.”

“Maybe he’s just acting,” Iyen suggested. “Y’know, he’s so vain that he wants to look good for the crowd.”

Sjan-dehk nodded slowly. That was indeed a possibility; he didn’t put it past the King – or any ruler, for that matter – to put on an act for the sake of placating the populace. He wouldn’t be the first, that much was for certain. And the more Sjan-dehk thought about it, the more likely that possibility seemed. For one, a truly benevolent King wouldn’t have slammed the temple’s doors shut on the crowd when there was still space for standing inside. Sjan-dehk was still thinking of a second reason when he entered – or more accurately, was guided by the throng of people – into the building. On instinct, he took off his hat and tucked it under his arm.

The first – and really, only – thing he noticed was just how yellow everything was. The walls; the floor; the ceiling; the furnishings; the water, even the very clothes of the cheery lady who took his and Iyen’s tickets, all were in a shade of yellow or other. It felt almost excessive, and considering that yellow was one of the Commonwealth’s colours, that was saying something, coming from Sjan-dehk. The place felt strange, like it was a…

“Is this ‘cheese’ thing a cult?” Iyen asked, giving voice to Sjan-dehk’s thoughts. “Because right now, it feels like one. That woman talked about ‘cheese’ too, right?”

“I don’t think so,” Sjan-dehk said as he caught the familiar whiff of cooking in the air. “Think this is a sort of restaurant? Food’s involved in some way, that’s my guess.”

“So it’s a cult to food,” Iyen drolled. Sjan-dehk tapped her on the shoulder to shush her and led the way to a large room on the left. It was where everyone else was going, anyway. A thousand thoughts rushed into his head, but he pushed them all aside. There would be time later for him to carefully sift through whatever he observed. For now, he just wanted to find a quiet seat away from everyone else. He did, however, give the pale girl from the other day – her name escaped him – a wave and a smile as he passed her table. As usual, Iyen took note of that quick, minute action.

“She’s cute,” she quipped as she took her seat, a wide grin on her face. “The girl you waved to, I mean.”

Sjan-dehk let out a sigh and sat down. “Oh, don’t you start.”

“What? I’m just saying she’s cute,” Iyen replied, her grin turning into a smirk.

“Your words say that you’re just saying that,” Sjan-dehk said. “Your smile tells me that you’re going to ask me about getting to know her better. I can’t help with that, I’m afraid. I’ve only spoken to her once, and that was days ago.”

“You’re no fun,” Iyen said and pouted. Folding her arms, she continued, “But you know me. It’s your sis–”

Once again, Sjan-dehk interrupted before she could finish. “Stop it,” he said curtly, then turned in his seat to look over the room. "We're here to work, so take note of anything interesting, or anything worth knowing." The room was quickly filling with people, few of whom he could recognise. In fact, apart from the pale girl, he couldn’t say he knew anyone. Not that mattered. He wasn’t here to mingle; he was here to simply observe and learn.

Avalia

Time: Morning
Location: Campsite outside Roshmi
Interactions: Mari @princess; FIVE @shiningsector; Thraash @funnyguy
Mentions:
Equipment:

Hider

His travelling clothes - Dark, earthy shirt and coat, with trousers tucked into boots
A hooded, oilskin cloak
His bow, unstrung
A musket
Two pistols
Two hatchets
His travelling pack

Scathael accepted the Warforged’s gift with some hesitation. Not out of any sort of suspicion, however; the Dark Elf had a strong feeling that if the mago-mechanical being truly wanted him dead, such a roundabout method of killing him wouldn’t be their first choice of action. The handful of Warforgeds Scathael had dealt with weren’t the easiest individuals to handle – he had to admit that much – but neither were they prone to irrationality like creatures of flesh-and-blood. Logic guided their actions; logic that could be discerned with a bit of thought on Scathael’s part.

And based on his brief observations, this particular Warforged wasn’t the sort for subterfuge. Anyone who chose to storm a bar in Roshmi’s slums – by great force, Scathael would add – for a mere two individuals was unlikely to consider poison as a first resort.

If anything, Scathael had every confidence that the Warforged’s concoction would do exactly as he said, to the letter. His hesitation came from just how well it would do so. The differences between an elf such as he and a beastkin such as Vallana were vast, nevermind that she was a mere child, and he was well over the halfway mark to his third century. Even if he adjusted the dosage, or diluted the mixture, or made it weaker in some other way, what would put him to sleep might very well bring Vallana to an eternal slumber.

But that was unlikely the Warforged’s intention. There was no reason for them to harm a child.

“Thank you,” Scathael said and chucked the satchel into his bag. He would examine its contents in closer detail later. Perhaps he might even make a visit to a chemist’s shop to borrow their tools. Either way, there was no way he was going to feed any of it to Vallana before he made certain it was adequately safe. “Your arm,” he continued and nodded to the Warforged’s shoulder. “How is it? You should have the same range of movement as before. I don’t think the patching plates are interfering with anything.” He cast a glance at the Dragonborn. “And I don’t think he damaged your magical circuits either. Not that I can fix it, not without a proper, actual forge and magework equipment.”

The Dark Elf turned his attention back to the block of wood in his hands, shaving off a few more layers and carving out the start of a long, elegant curve along its length. “It wasn’t home,” he said in response to Mari, almost reflexively. That was the truth, wasn’t it? He hadn’t even been there for that long. It didn't make any sense for him to form any sort of connection with the place. Not a deep one, at least.

He chewed on his lip, then looked at Vallana. “Not mine, at least,” he added. The girl was beginning to stir, but she wasn’t quite awake yet. Soon, Scathael knew, he would have to rouse her, and that was easily the worst part of his day. In her dreams, Vallana was still living a peaceful life. She still had her family, she still had her home, she still had her life. In her dreams, she was safe. She was happy. But here, in this waking nightmare? There was nought but sadness and pain for her. Just the sting of sweet memories turning into painful recollections of a lost past. Scathael knew exactly what it was like. He had lived it before.

“Anyway,” he muttered with a quick shake of his head. He nodded to Vallana. “What are we doing with her, if we’re going after a manticore?” He asked pointedly and looked at Mari. “Bringing a child with us to deal with something like that is bloody insane.” It had crossed his mind that he had the option of simply waiting for them at camp – it wasn’t as if the manticore was his problem. But the more he thought about it, the less it sounded like a good idea. For one, he was likely stuck with this group for a good long while, and helping them now might get him into their good graces. And secondly, a manticore’s hide was too good of a prize to let slip.

As if on cue, Vallana’s eyes slowly fluttered open. A quiet yawn left his mouth, and she looked at Scathael with a dazed smile on her face. It didn’t last, however, and quickly turned into a dejected smile as she was reminded of the reality of her situation. “G…Good morning,” she squeaked and sat up. Her eyes went from the Warforged, to the Dragonborn, then the Rabbit Girl, before at least settling on the Light Elf. “Did…Did I oversleep? I’m sorry…” She pressed herself close to Scathael, as if she were trying to hide behind him.

"No, you didn't," Scathael quickly replied, and went on with his work. "You woke up just in time, I think," he added and gave everyone else a quick glance.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Morning
Location: The Church
Interactions:
Mentions:
Attire:

Hider

(Placeholder until I get a better reference image)
Roughspun, blue trousers
A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment
Two swords and two pistols, one on either side
A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face (in his hands)

Sjan-dehk wasn’t sure what exactly he had expected, but he felt quite certain it wasn’t this. And judging by how Iyen alternated between nervous giggling and quiet grumbles, she felt the same.

Neither of them were strangers to grandiose displays of piety. The Inner Viserjantan Provinces – and a few Outer ones – practically made a sport out of creating needlessly extravagant religious rites and rituals. He still remembered the ordeal that was accepting the Sejati and Vasenyan surrenders in the aftermath of the Siege of Mersawas. Signing the documents itself had taken mere minutes. It took, however, the better part of half-a-day to reach that point. In a show of mercy, the High Queen had afforded both capitulating parties the courtesy of an honourable surrender, and granted them the right to carry out all necessary rites. By the time all was over, Sjan-dehk had been just about ready to tear his hair out.

But even so, he could at least understand that the Sejatis and Vasenyans on that day had deserved every last minute and every last second of their ceremonies. They had, after all, held onto the Capital island for the better part of a year, fighting a valiant – albeit futile – defence even after their fellow rebels elsewhere had given up. Only when it became clear that further resistance would only lead to senseless deaths and suffering did they finally accept the High Queen’s terms. To Sjan-dehk, they had earned the right to march out with their colours high and pride intact, and the right to subject him to hours of boredom.

Here, however, he wasn’t quite sure.

Paying respects to the local Gods was one thing. Iyen and he had willingly played along, intoning after the priest and echoing – to the best of their abilities – the words of the crowd. After that, however, things got a little more uncomfortable for the both of them. Sjan-dehk had understood enough of the song to gather the general idea of it. Initially, he had scolded himself for being quick to cast judgement. Caesonian ways were new to him, after all. Forming an opinion – a strong one, no less – of the King through a mere song simply wasn’t the right thing to do.

But the moment the doors were thrown open, and the procession came through, Sjan-dehk had little doubt that his initial judgement was correct.

“The King…He’s uh, he’s quite proud of himself, isn’t he?” Iyen whispered.

“Self-aggrandising,” Sjan-dehk replied, his lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s the word you’re looking for.”

Everything about this little parade spoke of arrogance. And not just that, Sjan-dehk was quite certain that it was undeserved arrogance. It didn’t seem like the King had done anything great, such as winning a daring victory or bringing prosperity to his people. The entire city should be in a celebratory mood if that were the case, but it wasn’t, from what little Sjan-dehk had seen. Neither had the few traders and longshoremen his crew and he had spoken to shared anything regarding the King’s merits. If anything, they were a touch too eager to rant about the opposite.

“At least the dancing looks good,” Iyen remarked, but her discomfort was clear in her tone.

“Yes, and the armour of those guards look exceptionally polished,” Sjan-dehk added drily. “Haven’t seen a ritual so damn elaborate since…Since the Som Dran incident. And we only saw what? Less than a fifth of the whole thing?”

Iyen clicked her tongue. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“I defended your honour. Be grateful.” He glanced sideways at her with a grin.

Shaking her head, Iyen chuckled and said in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “Oh, my hero. Whatever shall I do without this sea-addled, provincial Captain by my side?” She turned her attention back to the parade, her face pensive. “But when you’re right, you’re right. This is awfully extravagant for just honouring a King, even if he is a God-King.” She paused and looked around. “Sjan-dehk, I think they’re definitely sacrificing him. Doesn’t this seem like a send-off to you? They’ve even got his funeral portrait hung up and ready!”

“First of all, you’re just as provincial as I am,” Sjan-dehk began. “Secondly, be careful. You’re showing your Sudhrayarn instincts again. I don’t think there’ll be a sacrifice, but if there is…” He looked at her and gave a non-commital shrug. “We’ll just stay out of it. Though we should also find their Crown Prince so we’ve at least got someone to negotiate with. Not unless they decide that he needs to ascend as well to keep their King company.”

Iyen giggled. “My, are those your provincial instincts that are showing?” She placed her hands on her hips and looked back at the aisle. “Well, at least they’ve got good music, and the performers are decen–Oh, by the Shadowed Green, Sjan-dehk, look at that!”

Sjan-dehk snapped his head around, following her gaze, and saw an ornate throne being carried down the aisle. The men shouldering – quite literally – its weight were themselves dressed in lavishly-designed and extravagant clothes. But even they paled in comparison to the man seated on the throne itself. Every part of his attire – from the crown that almost looked comedic in its complexity, to the cape that seemed closer to a carpet rolled down a corridor – was clearly made to impress. Attendants scurried like rats behind the litter, their hands clutching onto the tail of the cape. “That’s the King,” Sjan-dehk muttered to Iyen, pointing to the man on the throne.

“I guessed,” Iyen whispered back.

It didn’t escape Sjan-dehk’s notice that the King never once glanced at his people as he was carried down the aisle. Was this simply a Caesonian custom, or did he think of himself as too good to even deign to look at those who so worshipped him? It left a bad taste in Sjan-dehk’s mouth, either way. Amidst the nobility of Viserjanta, it was common to compare the Commonwealth itself to a ship traversing the waves. The rulers and nobles would be its captain, and the people, the sea. When both captain and sea were in harmony, all would be well. The captain had to respect the sea, and in return, the sea would never turn against them. If a captain were to think of themselves as too good to show the proper respects, however, then the waves would surely overcome them, and make them no captain at all.

Sjan-dehk folded his arms as the King reached the end of the aisle, and was set down. The applause that erupted from the crowd as he turned and raised his hands almost made Sjan-dehk burst out laughing, not out of any maliciousness, but out of instinct. Any Viserjantan noble who did such a display without properly earning the right would be laughed out of any court, and Sjan-dehk felt quite certain that this King hadn’t done anything that warranted such adulation. Could he be wrong? Perhaps, and he would offer the proper apologies should that be the case. But for now, he couldn’t say that he liked this King very much.

“I wish this was actually a cult, now,” Sjan-dehk remarked. “At least they have some purpose. This just feels like bloody vanity.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

The previous day (The 23rd)

The Calm

The wagon squeaked and groaned as it trundled along the forested road. Its spoked wooden wheels, fitted onto an axle of solid iron, buffered by solid metal springs, and rolling over rough, uneven dirt, ensured that every slight bump and every little dip were felt in full by passengers and cargo alike. Annoyingly bright and far too intense, the light of the late-morning sun filtered through gaps in the overhanging, sparse canopies of leafy branches. And with it, came an oppressive and sweltering heat; a heat made so much worse by a dampness heavy in the utterly still air.

Suffice to say, Morris was not having a good time.

Perched on a narrow plank at the front of the wagon, and seated hip-to-hip with a curmudgeon of a driver who seemed to swear more than he breathed, Morris – one of the King’s tax collectors – fought a tenuous battle against a throbbing headache that threatened to crack open his skull, and a grumbling stomach that threatened to eject his breakfast. It was a losing fight on both fronts, though not out of any lack of effort on his part. A thin sheen of sweat clung to Morris like a second skin. His jaw was cleaned so tightly that it felt as if his teeth would soon shatter under the force. A ghostly pallor coloured his grizzled face, tinged with a decidedly sickly shade of green.

In hindsight, Morris shouldn’t have taken so much drink the previous night. But what was a man to do in a village that had – quite literally – absolutely nothing going for it? Sure, it was sizable for a rural settlement, and with that sort of population came both wealth and a natural bustle in the air, but it was still ultimately a farming community. Not the sort of place that appealed to a city-dweller like Morris.

A sudden lurch almost threw him off the wagon. Bile rose in his throat.

“Claedo’s cock, are you driving us into every hole you see?” Morris bellowed as he righted himself. He had a hand pressed over his stomach, and the other gripping the seat with such strength that its knuckles were white. An acrid belch burned its way from his stomach to his mouth, until he could taste the revolting, sour taste on the back of his tongue. His face scrunched up, and he swallowed hard. It felt just as terrible going back down.

“Oh, shut up,” the driver grumbled. He took a hand off the reins to fix his askew hat. “This was all your idea in the first fucking place, taxman.”

Morris scowled, but didn’t reply. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t. Not when the driver was absolutely right – coming down this path had been his suggestion. But it was the right thing to do. More importantly, it was the safe thing to do. If the rumours he had heard from the bard singing in the village tavern yesterday night had any credence to them, then the Sorian-Felipina highway was currently rife with road gangs lying in wait for a good target. He had no way of verifying such claims, of course, but Morris didn’t want to leave anything to chance. Not when he had the village’s monthly tax revenue sitting pretty in the wagon’s bed.

A shiver ran down Morris’ spine as he recalled stories of what the King did to tax collectors who had been too careless with His revenue. Such terrible and sordid fates were ones he would rather avoid. And so, he had directed the driver to take this quieter, more isolated path. Better to suffer some temporary discomfort than the King’s wrath, Morris reasoned.

He twisted around in his seat and looked at the precious cargo with a wary gaze. The three chests – within each enough coin to give a small family a comfortable decade – were still where he had left them: packed so tightly into the bed that not even this rough journey could shift them an inch. All the same, he regarded each of them with suspicion in his eyes, as if he expected one to suddenly sprout limbs and run away.

Beside him, the driver chuckled and shook his head. “Gods above, you’re a jumpy one,” he said, smirking as he cast a sidelong glance at Morris. “You’re worrying yourself stupid over nothing, taxman. Your chests aren’t going anywhere. They’re trussed up tighter than Amora’s divine arse, I tell you what.” Morris saw no humour in such blasphemous talk, but the driver either didn’t notice or didn’t care, as he took a moment to snigger at his own words. “Gods below, so are we, for that matter. Take a look around, taxman. We’re safe as safe can be.”

Morris grimaced. “I suppose we are,” he said, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

Drawing in a deep breath, he turned back around and tried to get comfortable – or as comfortable as such austere conditions would allow – in his seat. Once again, the driver had a point. They were making this trip in very good company. A full patrol of fifteen soldiers form Sorian’s garrison, to be exact. Well-trained and experienced, such troops would make short work of the riff-raff making up the typical road gang. And even if they – unlikely as it may be – should be overwhelmed, the four horses pulling the wagon were more than enough to get Morris and the coin out of trouble in a hurry. These were stout, powerful creatures, with tight muscles rippling beneath lustrous hides.

Morris leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Instead of worrying about their safety, perhaps he would be better served worrying over this headache. Even through his eyelids, the scintillating sunlight didn’t just sting his eyes, but felt like it was stabbing directly into his skull. His brow throbbed with a dull pain, and his temples felt like they were close to bursting.

“Gods above,” he groaned. “Free me from this fucking torture.”

The driver guffawed. To Morris, it was like an assault on his eardrums. “You should be giving thanks to the Gods that all you’ve got is a headache, taxman.” The old man’s smug grin was evident in his tone. It vexed Morris greatly, even if he didn’t see it. “That you’re still here and not knocking on Obitius’ front door after all that ale you knocked back last night is a fucking Gods-given miracle. That village brew’s no joke, I tell you what. Nothing like the city swill you’re used to finding in Sorian. A couple good mugs of that stuff would put anyone on their arse, and you were drinking it like it was fucking water!”

Then, he nudged Morris with an elbow. In a lower voice – but still with a smirk – he added, “Though I can’t say I blame you. There’s no fucking man alive with a functioning cock who could’ve resisted a drink from a wench with a body like that. Not one, I tell you.”

“Bard,” Morris corrected, his eyes still shut. A small smile came over his face, and whatever annoyance he felt towards the driver melted away. The pleasant sight of the comely lady with whom he had shared many drinks last night was still fresh in his mind. Unfortunately, that was all he could recall of her; whatever else she – or they – did remained a mystery to him. He had the ale to thank for that, but considering the effects it was still having on him, he supposed he should be grateful for the few surviving memories he had of the bard and her songs. “She’s a bard,” Morris repeated.

“Sure she is, taxman,” the driver said with a laugh. “And I’m the King’s fucking old man!”

If Morris’ eyes were open, he would have rolled them. The lady had introduced herself as a bard, and that was what Morris chose to believe. She certainly had the voice for it. Although the lyrics to her songs were now little more than vague murmurs in his mind, her sultry tones and dulcet melodies were still as clear as when he first heard them. Neither was anything he would forget anytime soon. And so too did the sight of her dancing; of the seductive sway of her hips; of the alluring flutter of her lashes as she sang, linger in his memories. Then, as the night went on, she had come closer until she could warm his ears with whispered breaths and imprint echoes of her slender, womanly frame onto his hands. Just the mere thought of it sent shivers down Morris’ back, and forced a quavering breath past his lips.

His eyes shot open. The driver looked sideways at him with a smug, knowing smirk. “Careful, taxman. We can’t have you making a mess in your drawers while we’re this far from Sorian.” He laughed and shook his head. “See what I mean? Only a wench’s able to make a man feel Amora’s touch with just a dream.”

Morris scowled. “Keep your eyes on the damn road,” he snapped. The driver was wrong; the bard’s beauty wasn’t the reason why Morris remembered her with such fondness. Well, it wasn’t the main reason, at any rate. But saying such to the driver would likely invite even more mockery and jokes, and so Morris decided against telling him that it was thanks to that very same bard that he knew of the dangers plaguing the main highway. Even this very detour they were taking was something revealed to him by her.

If there was one good thing about that entire village, it would be that bard. It was thus a shame that Morris failed to get her name. Or learn anything about her beyond her claimed profession, for that matter.

The wagon creaked softly as it entered a gentle turn. Here, its wheels found better ground, and the bumps and dips which had tormented Morris thus far gradually faded away until they disappeared entirely. A yawn left his mouth, and he dipped his head. With his stomach somewhat settling, and even his head throbbing a little less, he felt the most comfortable he had since the start of this trip. Rustling leaves, snorting horses, and the occasional snapping of a branch or twig made for a surprisingly good lullaby. Morris shifted slightly in his seat, resting his arms over his chest, and his breathing slowed. For now, Sorian could wait.

---

Time: Later morning of the 23rd
Location: A forest road between Felipina and Sorian
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Attire:

Hider

Plain roughspun shirt (white) and trousers (brown)
Patched knee-length coat
Shoulder- and waist-belts
Old leather boots

The Storm

Waiting. Cynwaer hated all this waiting.

Especially when he had to wait here, lying flat on the damp undergrowth of a forest so far from the nearest shore, and staring at an empty, secluded stretch of road. The heat, stifling and suffocating, pressed on him like a flatiron. Coupled with the moisture in the air, Cynwaer felt as if he were really being steamed alive. It did little to lift his spirits, to say the least. Sweat collected on his brow and – after soaking his coarse linens through – pooled within his clothes. Miserable didn’t even begin to describe these diabolic conditions.

But a debt owed was a debt that had to be paid, and Cynwaer would be damned if he didn’t pay it all back when he could. He might have the reputation of a ruthless corsair, but he was still a man of his word. And besides, it wasn’t as if Songbird and Renegade would ever let him forget it had he tried to talk his way out of doing them this favour. The pair always did have long memories for such things, but Cynwaer supposed he wasn’t one to talk. He was exactly the same whenever they owed him something.

In any case, Cynwaer didn’t particularly mind lending them a hand. Not when doing so usually gave him a chance to give Caesonia a hard time, like right now. There was nothing quite like taking a nice, long piss in the king’s breakfast to make Cynwaer’s day. And in a way, ambushing and taking a royal tax wagon would be more-or-less the same thing. If nothing else, returning the spoils to the villagers from whom it had been stolen made for a good, hard slap in the tyrant’s face.

But for now, Cynwaer had to wait. And wait. And wait some more.

The man – more of a boy, really – directly beside him fidgeted uncomfortably. “Come on,” he said through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw. His brows were so furrowed that they seemed to merge into one. He held a musket in his hands, gripped with such force that Cynwaer wondered if he were trying to crack the thing in half. “What’s taking so long?”

Cynwaer reached over to pat him on the shoulder. “Easy, mate,” he said in a hushed voice and glanced at him from the corners of his eyes. “Keep yer ‘ead on straight an’ yersel’ calm. Should’nae be too long more ta’ go. Dae’n go dae’in anythin’ silly, aye?” The boy gulped and nodded. Cynwaer gave him another pat on the back before looking up and down the loose lines of men to his left and right.

“Same goes fae the rest o’ yers,” he called out in a quiet shout. “Songbird’s ne’er let us down before. Keep yer ‘eads right and yersel’s ready fae a fight, an’ we aw’ go ‘ame nice an ‘appy, aye?” A scattered series of murmurs and mumbled acknowledgements were all the responses he got.

A quiet sigh left Cynwaer’s lips. If only he could believe his own words. According to Songbird – and it was they who masterminded this entire scheme – the tax wagon should have appeared ages ago. They should have at least heard it by now. But there was nothing. Just the quiet rustle of leaves and the occasional call of a bird. A not-so-small part of him wondered if it would actually come. He could think of many reasons as to why it wouldn’t.

Well, it really was just one very, very big reason. This entire hare-brained plan, from start to finish, was just gambles built upon gambles. And Cynwaer might be a gambling man, but these odds were much too long, even for him.

For Songbird’s plan to work, they would first have to convince a tax collector – likely to be on their highest guard outside of Sorian – that the Felipina-Sorian highway was unsafe. That wasn’t just a bold-faced lie, it was an audacious one that essentially demanded the collector to disbelieve their own eyes. In order to get to the village they needed to tax, they would have had to travel down that exact same highway. But even if Songbird was successful with that part of the plan, they would then have to, again, convince the collector of this isolated forest path – the one Cynwaer had been, and still was, staring at – as a viable detour. The collector would have to be a profound idiot to not feel suspicious about Songbird’s intentions.

And should the collector turn out to indeed be a profound idiot, and everything Songbird had to do went off without a hitch, there was no guarantee that the collector would actually take this exact route. There were a myriad of ways for one to reach Sorian; it wasn’t the capital for nothing. Even something as simple as a wrong turn would bring the collector away from Cynwaer and Renegade, and ruin the entire plan.

A crop of quiet grumbles stole Cynwaer’s attention away from his internal tirade. He shot a withering glare in the direction of the loudest one, but he couldn’t help but worry. These men lying in wait with him weren’t just random people plucked from the streets; they were members of his crew. Every last one of them was an experienced sailor in their own right, familiar with the rigours and stresses of sailing as an outlaw upon hostile waters. That they were beginning to feel the strain was a bad sign. Cynwaer couldn’t even imagine how Renegade and his group of hastily-trained villagers were faring on the other side of the road.

More time passed. It could have been hours, or it could have been mere minutes. There wasn’t any way of knowing. But regardless, Cynwaer could feel himself approaching his limit. His body ached to move, to get out of this terribly uncomfortable position. With each passing second, Cynwaer felt more and more inclined to grant that request. His fingers tapped a frenetic beat on the wet earth, and he chewed hard on his lip.

Right as his resolve was about to break, a whisper rippled down the line. “Taxman’s coming!”

And just like that, all thoughts of abandoning the plan disappeared from Cynwaer’s mind. He even offered a silent apology to Songbird. Clearly, he had severely underestimated their skills. He looked up and down the line once more. “Right lads,” he began and nodded to them. “All ‘o us know what we’re about, an’ all o’ us know ‘ow ta’ give a Caesonian fecker a proper tannin’. So I’ll nae bore yer wi’ a speech, an’ just remind aw’ yers why we’re out here in this shite.” He paused, and craned his neck to look at each and every one of his men. “We aw’ know what’s gae’n on in Sorian. They’re ‘avin’ one grand crack, an’ guess who ‘as ta’ foot the feckin’ bill? Aye, wee villagers like what yer and me were. If yer ask me, ‘tis nae fair ta’ pay fae a crack where yer cannae even get a mug o’ ale in return. So I say feck the king, feck Sorian, and ‘tis about feckin’ time we take frae them what’s not theirs, and gee’s it back ta’ the rightful owners.”

Someone started to cheer, but was quickly cut short by harsh, hushed words from his fellows. Instead, the rest of the crew simply nodded to their Captain. Then, they made their preparations. Firelocks clicked into position. Pouches rustled as spherical bombs were taken out and gently laid on the grass. Metal scraped against leather as bayonets and swords were pulled from their sheaths. “Remember ta’ cover yersel’s aw’ proper-like, lads,” Cynwaer called out and reluctantly pulled a heavy, green cloak over his body, leaving a gap just big enough to keep a watchful eye on the road.

In his hand, he rolled a thin rope between his thumb and index finger. It would be the trigger for Cynwaer’s main contribution to Songbird’s plan – a fiery surprise he had concocted specially for the taxman and their minions. So special was the occasion that Cynwaer decided against using his usual ingredient for one that promised to be much, much more spectacular.

“They’re here!” The quiet, urgent warning came down the line. Cynwaer pressed himself flatter against the ground and wrapped the rope around his palm. His breathing suddenly seemed much louder than usual.

Falling hooves thudded against the hard, sun-dried earth, one-by one. Cynwaer closed his eyes, focusing his mind on the sound. The languid rumble of a wagon followed the hoofbeats soon after. The taxman was travelling slowly. Walking pace, if Cynwaer were to hazard a guess. Either way, their speed was constant, and that was all Cynwaer needed to know. He risked a peek at his targets. The three soldiers leading the way were in gleaming cuirasses and majestic helmets. A carbine rested over each of their laps, but none of them seemed to be on alert. Behind them was the tax wagon. The driver didn’t seem too worried, either, and the passenger – the tax collector, Cynwaer assumed – seemed to be fast asleep.

“Rest while yer still can, fecker,” Cynwear muttered as a cruel smirk spread across his face. As the wagon passed, he pressed himself flat against the ground once more. There wasn’t a need for him to look, in any case. He simply had to time them, and by his estimate, the three leading soldiers weren’t far from where he needed them to be. “Just a wee bit more, just a wee bit more…”

Then, he pulled hard on the rope.

And nothing happened.

Panic surged through Cynwaer, and he immediately pulled on the rope again. Still nothing. Sweat dripped from his furrowed brow. His heart raced. Had he done something wrong? There wasn’t any time for him to figure it out – the wagon was still rolling along. “Come on, come on, yer wee shite,” he muttered frantically as he kept tugging on the rope. Each time, he received the same result. Nothing. Time was running out. If he couldn’t fix whatever was wrong, then Renegade would be forced to act. Either that, or they would have to let the wagon slip through their fingers.

With a guttural growl, Cynwaer pulled the rope with all his strength.

The explosion was deafening, massive, and much louder and far larger than what Cynwaer had expected, or even planned for. A hail of shrapnel slammed into the trees around him, and scythed through the air just mere inches above his head. Debris rained down on him, his ears rang, and a thick cloud of dust still hung heavy in the air. Even so, Cynwaer threw off his cloak and stood up with pistol in hand. “Dae’n just feckin’ lie there, lads! Gee’s ‘em fire!” A vague figure, quite obviously wounded and crawling on the ground, came through the dust. Cynwaer didn’t hesitate. He took aim and pulled the trigger. The resounding crack of his pistol’s report, rising high above the cacophony, was all the motivation his crew needed. With shouts and yells, they revealed themselves, stood up, and unleashed a devastating volley of musket fire.

“Keep pourin’ it in!” Cynwaer urged his crew on as he reloaded his weapon. The ringing in his ears slowly faded, replaced by the din of battle. One after another, firelocks snapped and muskets blared. Screams of terror and cries of pain erupted alongside the blasts of bombs. It was clear to anyone that the Caesonians had been taken by complete surprise, and were now deep in the throes of confusion. But Cynwaer was all too aware that their condition was only temporary. These were still trained soldiers; given time, they would surely reorganise and stiffen their resistance. That couldn't be allowed to happen.

And so, Cynwaer drew his cutlass. “Let’s feckin’ stick ‘em, lads! Follow me!”

With his crew behind him, he burst onto the road like a tidal surge breaking an embankment. His blood ran hot with anticipation and exhilaration; his head pounded with the thumping of his heart. But almost as soon as the soles of his boots touched the dirt of the road, he realised he needn’t have bothered. Not one of the surviving soldiers was willing to continue fighting. Rather, they were dropping their and raising their hands over their heads in surrender. Pleas for mercy babbled from their mouths like a waterfall. Cynwaer’s crew were as confused as he, and for a while, they did nothing.

Cynwaer drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He couldn’t lie; the disappointment was palpable. But at the same time, he supposed he should be happy that the fight ended with a victory. “Take ‘em prisoner, lads, an’ keep yer eyes on ‘em. They’re Renegade’s problem ta’ deal wi’, nae ours.” He left his crew to go about their work. Then, he turned around.

And right away, he understood why the soldiers had so easily given up the fight.

The wagon – or what remained of it – rested within a blackened crater that had once been its front half. Its occupants, and the horses that pulled it, were nowhere to be seen. Overhead, strips of red hung like sickly vines from broken branches. Blood, crimson and treacly, still dripped from some of them. The soldiers who had been flanking the wagon fared no better. By the looks of things, they had died in the initial blast. Some of their bodies even bore proof of the sheer destructive power of Cynwaer’s work. A few had their armour torn off by the explosive force. Another, laying heaped on the grass, was found with a wooden beam – part of the wagon, Cynwaer assumed – skewering him back-to-front, through his steel cuirass. Confronted with such brutal carnage, he doubted that even the stoniest hearts would be able to resist wavering.

“Gods above and below, Seahawk,” an amused voice, one lilting and ambiguous, called out to him. “When we told you to stop the wagon, we didn’t think this was what you had in mind.”

“It was’nae,” Cynwaer replied and placed his hands on his hips. “Last time I feckin’ use blastin’ powder fae anythin’, I feckin’ swear.”

He turned in the direction of the voice, and saw two others approaching him. One was…Well, he never did know what they were, and so he wasn’t about to try, now. They had a slender face and fine features which were much like a woman’s, and yet the boyishness in their cheeks and jaw were unmistakable. Their style of dress, however, was wholly feminine. The knee-length skirt, which parted at the front to reveal the tight trousers they wore underneath, and the bodice cinching their blouse tight around their waist, was exactly what Cynwaer would expect from a lady spending a day on the road. Coupled with a head of long, ashen blonde hair – tied into a messy tail – they certainly made for an attractive woman.

And they were also the one who made all of this possible. Most knew them only as Songbird, but Cynwaer also knew them as Sioridann Morcant.

“Blasting powder?” They repeated, bringing their fingers to their lips. Even their voice was hard to place as either a woman’s or a man’s. “You…Seahawk, you do know what that’s for, right?”

Cynwaer thought about it for a moment, then shrugged.

“It’s for mining.” It was the other person – a man – who spoke. Dark skinned, dark haired, and with a slight accent to his words, Renegade – or Myaatyun Kidelaut, to those who knew him better than most – was not a native of these lands. But it was also clear that he wasn’t a stranger to it. Cynwaer could hear the diction of Caesonian high society lacing his words, and the battered armour he wore over his clothes didn’t seem like anything from his native Kimoon. Not that Cynwaer knew what Kimoonese armour was like, but he just knew that Renegade’s armour was very much akin to that of a Caesonian knight. Such a combination was strange, to say the least, but Cynwaer wasn’t the sort to pry, so he never did.

“Miners use it when they face anything in which their pickaxes cannot find purchase,” Renegade continued and looked at the destruction around him. “So it’s usually used to destroy rocks like granite, ironstone, and sometimes even bedrock.”

“Well, thank feck I did’nae use it fae a feckin’ cannon,” Cynwaer said with a shake of his head. “We found barrels ‘o the stuff on a ship days back. I did’nae ‘ave a clue what ta’ dae wi’ it, and sae I figured I’d gee’s usin’ it ta’ make a mine, a try. I s’pose it worked a wee bit too well, aye?”

Renegade let out a long breath. “Yes, I suppose it did. I had hoped that we could capture the tax collector alive and have him face the people’s justice, but…” He trailed off and tilted his chin towards a collection of bloody ribbons dangling from a branch stripped of its leaves. One of them looked like it had been torn from a shirt, and the rest, like things Cynwaer would rather not know. “But I suppose he, in a way, still hangs for his many crimes against the common folk. I can take that as a small victory.”

“Aye, that ‘tis,” Cynwaer agreed. “I’ll get yer a nice taxman ta’ ‘ang next time, Renny. Dae’n worry yer ‘ead about it. Maybe even a whole feckin’ officer, aye? Those feckers always swing ta’ best, if yer ask me.”

Renegade chuckled. “I shall hold you to that, Seahawk.” Then, he gestured to Songbird. “Anyway, Si–” He caught himself just in time. “Pardon me, I mean, Songbird here has something I believe would be of some interest to you.”

Cynwaer arched his brow and looked at Songbird. “Oh, aye? ‘Tis nae gonna be another on o’ yer ideas ta’ get me ta’ dae more shite fae yer, is it?”

Songbird looked at him with an inscrutable smile on their face. “It amazes me, Seahawk, how you can say so much, and yet make yourself absolutely incomprehensible to most.”

Cynwaer fixed them with a blank stare. In a complete monotone, he said, “My sincerest apologies. Do you find this better, perchance? Or is it still far too rough for your delicate, ladylike ears?” Putting on the voice physically hurt his throat, and it wasn’t one he used often. But it was one that proved to be quite useful for someone like him, who more often than not needed to hide his identity. Or for situations like this, when he just wanted to mess around at Songbird’s expense.

A strange expression warped Songbird’s visage. “My apologies. I brought that shit upon myself, and I ask that you never, ever, do it again.” They shook their head, as if trying to shake the memory from their mind, before continuing. “Anyway, I discovered something yesternight, while I was whispering into the taxman’s ear. The two of you are welcome for that, by the way. I don’t need my feet kissed, but I wouldn’t–”

Renegade patted them on the shoulder before they could get too far. “We can discuss that later, I believe.”

Songbird looked at him with a mischievous grin. “I’ll hold the two of you to that,” they said before turning to face Cynwaer once more. “As I was saying, I didn’t just tell the taxman what we needed him to do, I asked about Sorian as well. Just to keep myself updated, you know? Well, he tells me a whole bunch of stuff that we don’t really need to know, like rumours and such. Have you heard the things they say about this…Lady Vikena, I think? It’s awfully juicy stuff–” Another pat from Renegade cut them short. “Anyway, there’s been a spate of disappearances in Sorian, and from what he tells me, most people think it’s got something to do with the slavery business. Seems like we weren’t thorough enough back then.”

Cynwaer swore beneath his breath. It wasn’t a secret that the Caesonian underworld was involved in such dark and sordid trades. Money was money, and there were plenty of outlaws who would do anything to get as much coin as they could. In Cynwaer’s eyes, they were no better than the nobles he fought, and so he hunted and destroyed them as he would any other Caesonian vessel. Years ago, he – along with Songbird and Renegade – had waged a personal war against these traders of flesh, and had forced them to submit to their demands to stop their actions. Clearly, they needed to go on the warpath once more.

“Dae’n s’pose yer know if they’re the same ones as before?” Cynwaer asked.

Songbird shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. This sort of thing makes enough money that you’ve got plenty of outlaws giving it a shot every year.” Their face fell for the barest of moments, but they recovered in just as short a time. “Anyway, it’s all just rumours from one taxman. For all I know, he was just bullshitting to make it sound like he’s got an interesting life. But it’s still something worth looking into, I think. It doesn’t feel right to say that we’re fighting for the common folk if we ignore this, wouldn’t the two of you agree?”

Renegade’s response was instant. “Yes. Even if it turns out to be nothing, it is still imperative that we carry out due diligence to be sure. And if there is indeed something so terrible going on…” He trailed off, patting the sword sheathed at his side. “Then we must extirpate those involved with great haste and violence.” He turned to Cynwaer and bowed his head slightly. “My apologies, but I must ask you a favour. Songbird and I still have unfinished business that remains beyond Sorian. If it would not prove to be much trouble, I would appreciate it greatly if you could go to the Capital first, and do some groundwork.”

Cynwaer sighed and chewed on his lip. He really wasn’t too keen on doing anything related to Sorian, but neither could he simply ignore this matter now that he has heard of it. Songbird’s words stuck with him – if he did nothing about this, and went about as if all was well, then what was the point of his mission? “Well, I s’pose a holiday in Sorian would’nae be too bad,” he said with some reluctance in his voice. “But the twos o’ yer had better not take too long, otherwise I might feckin’ firebomb the king by the time yer get there.”

Songbird chuckled. “We’ll make you a damn hero if you did that, Seahawk,” they said. “But thanks. You’re doing us a great favour. Once we’re done, we’ll make our way to Sorian as quickly as the winds and roads can take us, you have my word on that. It shouldn’t take us more than two weeks. Might even be half that, if everything goes according to plan.”

Cynwaer didn’t bother asking what that plan was, lest they drag him into that as well.

“Anyway,” Songbird said and walked past him. “We’ve got a lot of coin here, and not enough time to bring it all back if we stand around talking. Especially not since you blew the wagon to pieces. You’d better enjoy long walks in the forest, Seahawk, because you’re not getting out of this one.”

It took Cynwaer a moment to understand what Songbird meant. And when he did, he looked at them with an incredulous look on his face. Then, he turned to Renegade, who merely shrugged with a knowing smile across his face. Cynwaer drew in a deep breath, then released it as a long sigh. “Ah, feck.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Minor characters dump

Iyen

Rasehnyas Iyen Jodhesi • 24 • Female

Adiyan's Shadow, Blade of the Shadowed Green, and Emergent of Sudhrayar

Appearance

Height: 1.65 meters / 5'4
Weight: 52 kg / 114 lbs
Eye Color: Dark brown
Hair Length & Texture: Long / Smooth
Hair Color: Black
Skin Color: Earth-brown
Facial details: No features of particular note
Distinguishing features:

• She always seems to be smirking, as if she knows something you don’t.
• She has a few healed and faded scars on the insides of her arms
• Rope burns on her limbs, particularly after a fight

Clothing Preferences:
According to traditional Sudhrayarn beliefs, one shouldn’t hide too much of themselves from the natural world and its gifts. Iyen takes that to heart, and tends to wear clothes that could be considered risque and scandalous in certain parts of Viserjanta. She prefers loose fitting items that allow her maximum freedom of motion, and thin fabrics that allow her skin to breathe.

When on official duty, or when she knows a battle is due, Iyen would wear the typical uniform of the Commonwealth military, but with her own personal modifications to suit her style of fighting, as well as to give it a more Sudhrayarn flair.

Likes:

• Nature; specifically flora
• Exploring new sights and learning new things
• A good laugh and/or a practical joke
• Causing harmless mischief
• Music, dance, and theatre

Dislikes:

• Close-minded people
• Serious and formal situations
• Malicious mischief
• Boredom

Sexuality: She's not particular, but leans towards women

Hobbies:

• Singing, particularly Sudhrayarn and Jafin folk songs
• Dancing, particularly Sudhrayarn dances
• Reading and/or watching theatrical performances
• Daydreaming

Life Goals / Dreams:
She doesn’t have any at the moment. Not ones she considers seriously, at least. As things stand, she’s perfectly content with going anywhere so long as she’s with Lady Adiyan and Sjan-dehk. With those two around, she’s confident she wouldn’t find herself anywhere too strange.

Personality Summary: Free-spirited || Easy-going || Aimless || Playful || Impulsive || Tactless

Background

Current occupation: Lady Adiyan's bodyguard

Past occupations: N/A

Relatives:

• Rasehnyas Jodharsa Gajan; Father
• Rasehnyas Mahyon Jodhesi; Mother (Deceased)
• Rasehnyas Shoyojah Jodhesi; Older sister
• Rasehnyas Daman Gajan; Younger brother (Deceased)
• Rasehnyas Sejar Gajan; Younger brother (Deceased)
• Rasehnyas Sayan Jodhesi; Younger sister (Deceased)

Skills:

• Fighting, particularly single combat
• Marksmanship; pistols and bows
• Stealth and subterfuge
• Tracking and hunting
• Information gathering
• Dancing
• Singing

History Summary

Iyen never intended to be a warrior. Or have anything to do with arms, in fact. The performing arts had always been her greater – and in many ways, only – interest. Songs, dances, traditional theatre, such things were what a young Iyen had seen in her future. Unfortunately, the civil war that tore the Commonwealth asunder put a quick end to those plans. Sudharyar was one of the first provinces to declare themselves for the High Queen, and as such was also the first province to be invaded and occupied by the Imperial Restorationists. Most Sudhrayarns chose to stay and resist their occupiers in a guerrilla war. Iyen and her family were amongst those who decided to flee westwards.

It was a perilous journey, one made all the worse as province after province in East and Central Viserjanta either fell to, or declared themselves for the Restorationists. At Weksah, the Sudhrayarn refugees faced their worst day when almost half of their fleet – and the people they carried – were either sunk or captured in battle. Amongst the former were Iyen’s mother and younger siblings. By the time she and the survivors found refuge on Jafin shores, only a third of those who originally left Sudhrayar still remained.

Deep in mourning, angry, and thirsty for revenge, Iyen did what most of her people did, and joined the Sudhrayarn military-in-exile. She proved to be an excellent fighter, but a poor soldier. Although her skills in various weapons couldn’t be disputed, her personal discipline and ability to fight as part of a larger unit left plenty to be desired. That would have been the end of Iyen’s military adventure, had the High Queen’s Representative in the East – Lady Adiyan – not requested for a personal bodyguard. Iyen was given the task, as it was thought that her personal prowess in combat, and the expectation that a bodyguard would not be expected to fight in the line of battle, would make her a good fit for the job.

For the rest of the war, Iyen followed Lady Adiyan wherever the latter went. Most of the time, these travels also involved the Fourth Lesser Marquis of Jafi, a certain Wasun Sjan-dehk. Whenever Iyen had to go ashore for her tasks, it was usually in the company or with the support of the Jafin noble. Together, they wreaked havoc on Restorationist forces in Viserjanta’s western territories. And once they were done with the west, the three of them followed Commonwealth forces eastwards, until they liberated Sudhrayar from Restorationist control. Unlike her family, Iyen chose not to stay, and instead continued to accompany Lady Adiyan and Sjan-dehk as they spent the last year of the war tying up loose ends.

By war’s end, Iyen had forged a close friendship with both Sjan-dehk and Lady Adiyan. Moreso with the former; for close to five years, they had eaten, slept, fought, laughed, cried, and celebrated alongside one another on a near-daily basis. To Iyen, Sjan-dehk was akin to a brother, and Lady Adiyan, their motherly and concerned aunt. It thus came as no surprise to anyone that Iyen volunteered to follow them to seas and lands unknown, even when she was given the option of staying behind.

It wasn’t a difficult decision for her to make. Exploring the wider world, and with those closest to her outside of her family, no less? That was a dream. Iyen would have never forgiven herself had she allowed that opportunity to slip past her fingers.

Kidelaut

Myaatyun Kidelaut • 28 • Male

The Traitor of Hartworth, Renegade, and Knight of the Masses

Appearance

Height: 1.75 metres / 5’9
Weight: 65 kilograms / 143 lbs
Eye Color: Black
Hair Length & Texture: Short / Wiry
Hair Color: Black
Skin Color: Almond
Facial details: Stubble on his chin and jaw
Distinguishing features:

• Healed scars on the outside of both arms
• Rough callouses on fingertips
• Chemical scarring on the back of his right hand

Clothing Preferences:
As someone living outside of Caesonian law, whilst operating within Caesonia, Kidelaut wears whatever that will help in blend in with the crowd the most. That usually means clothes in flat shades, hoods, cloaks, and anything that would hide or obscure his outline. His equipment are supported by waist- and shoulder-belts, much like a regular musketeer.

In a fight, he wears a stripped-down version of the panoply he used in Caesonian service, consisting of a lightened breastplate, a pauldron on his right shoulder, and shortened tassets. All Caesonian insignia are either removed or defaced. When he needs to hide his identity, he wraps a simply, plain orange cloth around his face, or wears a white theatre mask that covers his entire face.

Likes:

• Views of the Caesonian countryside
• Calm, melodic music, particularly instrumentals
• Aiding the weak, the sick, and the forgotten
• Meting out justice

Dislikes:

• Injustice of any stripe, in any place
• The Caesonian upper classes, and profiteering merchants
• Exploitation of the weak and powerless
• Greed and avarice

Sexuality: Mostly straight

Hobbies:

• Sketching Caesonian scenery, particularly that of the countryside
• Scribbling his thoughts in a journal
• Peaceful meditation, especially at the end of a long day
• Exercising and keeping himself fit for task

Life Goals / Dreams:
A fair and just world, one where the common person's life is worth as much as that of a nobleman. Or the extinguishing of the nobility as a whole, as well as a thorough scouring of the merchant class to address injustices caused by their greed and avarice.

Personality Summary: Well-mannered || Forward-looking || Self-hating || Repentant || Regretful || Tenacious

Background

Current occupation: Sellsword / Insurgent

Past occupations:

• Apprentice blacksmith
• Apprentice leatherworker
• Apprentice carpenter
• Apprentice fletcher
• Apprentice gunsmith
• Apprentice chemist
• Squire
• Knight

Relatives:

• Myaatyun Satsuut; Father
• Myaatyun Kiisu; Mother
• Myaatyun Yatkyaki; First older brother
• Myaatyun Ratsaada; Second older brother
• Naangse Daiyat; Older sister

Skills:

• Melee fighting, particularly with heavy weapons
• Musketry; long arms
• Small-scale unit tactics
• Tactical planning
• Blacksmithing and leatherworking
• Basic chemistry
• Basic art, specifically sketching

History Summary

Maybe he should never have touched that hat.

Maybe he should have left it where he had found it; forgotten on a muddy road, and soaked by the falling autumn rain. Maybe he should have pretended that he hadn’t seen it drift from one of the woman’s over-laden baskets. In hindsight, it would have certainly saved him plenty of trouble, and a world’s worth of heartache. But Kidelaut, honourable and dutiful knight of Caesonia that he had been, simply couldn’t leave it alone. He just had to pick the damnable thing up. He just had to run over to the woman to return it. And then, he just had to help her carry her finished hats over to the millinery’s warehouse.

Still, that could have been the end of it. There had been no need for him to seek her out in the following days; no need for him to come up with silly excuses as to why he kept running into her, and there had surely been no need for him to – after a few ‘chance’ encounters – join her for dinner and drinks after her shifts at the millinery. But Kidelaut did all of that. Then, he did more. He grew to love her, and she grew to love him. And for a few sweet months, that was all that mattered to Kidelaut.

But as with all sweet things, the bitterness that followed cut deep.

Kidelaut never gave much thought to the intricacies of hat-making. Who did? A hat was only ever a thing to be bought, to be worn, and to ultimately be left collecting dust in a closet. But the woman – Kidelaut’s dear lover – taught him many things. One of which was how raw fur was separated from hides and matted together to form felt. It was a simple process, really, and one with a strange name – carroting. Anyone could be taught to do it, and so everyone who worked at the millinery was expected to work the carroting station – ‘fingering the felt’, as the workers called it – at least once a day.

Turning matted furs into smooth felt, however, involved the use of a chemical. The orange stuff, as it was colloquially known. What comprised it, how it worked, and what exactly it did, Kidelaut never found out. He did know, however, that it contained a poison. A dangerous one; one that accumulated in the body over many, many periods of exposure. It was a slow, insidious, and cruel killer. It had no cure. And it was that which afflicted Kidelaut’s lover.

Naturally, Kidelaut ignored common medical knowledge, and went about seeking a cure. Although his efforts were in vain, he did uncover an alternative to the orange stuff. It wasn’t completely safe, but it was at least a lot less likely to poison an unsuspecting worker through regular use. And it wasn’t even anything new; it was already in use in millineries outside of Caesonia.

Kidelaut took his findings to the merchant who owned the millinery. The merchant listened attentively to his words, took them all in, and disregarded them with a flippant explanation. This alternative chemical wasn’t unknown to the merchant, but it was simply too expensive to bring in the quantities needed to replace the existing stocks of orange stuff. Kidelaut, naturally, pointed out that the millinery could afford it in exchange for just a year of reduced profit. Their doors would still be open, Kidelaut argued. The merchant simply had to live with a year of less money. And naturally, he was shown the door.

So, Kidelaut went to the lord he served. Surely, the man who had, so many years ago, given a young Kidelaut – back then a mere youth of sixteen earning his keep by working odd jobs and fighting in tournaments – a chance would be more reasonable. Once again, Kidelaut presented his argument. And once again, he was told, albeit in a nicer manner this time, that his suggestion wasn’t feasible. The lord couldn’t order the merchant to make the changes because the merchant would simply up and leave for another holding, and the millinery alone hired most of the locals. Its disappearance would be disastrous.

And that, really, was all the answer Kidelaut needed. What use was a lord who couldn’t even corral a single merchant? And what worth was a merchant whose greed blinded them to decency? His mind made up, Kidelaut began to make his plans.

He stayed with his lover throughout her final years. He watched as the poison took her health, her mind, her body, and when she had nothing left, her life. The very same night she drew her last breath, Kidelaut prayed for her soul, asked for her forgiveness, and – as per her request – cremated her and scattered her ashes in a nearby meadow.

The next day, Kidelaut returned to the merchant and cremated him as well. Sadly, he failed to properly kill the man before setting him alight. Kidelaut then left for the wilderness, where he killed every guard, every mercenary, and every bounty hunter his former lord sent after him. When the merchant’s son took over the millinery, Kidelaut sent him a message containing the exact same things he had told his father. And when the son chose to ignore it like his predecessor, Kidelaut returned to finish things once and for all.

He roused the workers – already upset about the hazards of their work – into action, and together they stormed the millinery and torched the place to the ground. The lord’s guards arrived and, naturally, slew a number of the workers, but the survivors fled with Kidelaut back into the Caesonian countryside. Most decided to leave for greener pastures, but those that stayed became the core of Kidelaut’s loose group of part-time mercenaries, and full-time rebels. They wouldn’t stay together for long, of course – it made it too easy for the King’s men to catch them all at once – but when needed, they would come together to raise more havoc for the powers that be.

Maybe Kidelaut should never have touched that hat. But he never regretted doing what he did. For he had been blind before he met his lover, oblivious to the evils of the land, and she had helped him see.

And now, Kidelaut would make sure the rest of Caesonia saw what he saw as well.

Sioridann

Sioridann Morcant • 25 • ???

The Whispering Death, Songbird, and Melody of the People

Appearance

Height: 1.70 metres / 5’6
Weight: 54 kilograms / 119 lbs
Eye Color: Pale blue
Hair Length & Texture: Medium-long / Smooth
Hair Color: Ash blonde
Skin Color: Rosey ivory
Facial details: They have prominent dimples when they smile
Distinguishing features:

• Healed whipping scars on their back
• Healed point burns on arms and abdomen
• Burn scar on right hip

Clothing Preferences:
As a performer by trade, Sioridann tends to wear brighter, more elaborate clothes to attract more attention. A keen enthusiast of fashion, they would also often wear accessories to further accentuate their appearance. Although this can sometimes make it hard for them to do their other activities, it works out when they are working with others – namely Renegade and Seahawk – as Sioridann's usually the only person anyone can remember.

When on the road, Sioridann prefers to be more subdued. Heavy, utilitarian cloaks and roughspun traveling clothes would be their preference, along with tough boots for long treks over rough, country roads.

Likes:

• Making someone smile, especially with their performances
• Anything cute, adorable, or just endearing
• Sweet desserts
• Striking fear into Magehunters
• Mingling with a tavern crowd

Dislikes:

• Magehunters and those who enable them
• Caesonian authorities
• The flesh trade
• Discrimination against magic users

Sexuality: ???

Hobbies:

• Knitting, sewing, textile crafts in general
• Songwriting
• Singing, particularly folk songs and original pieces

Life Goals / Dreams:
The end of Caesonian persecution of magic and its users. A world that embraces both the common and the magical. Bringing those who would hunt mages, and those who allow such hunting, to justice. A purge of the Caesonian underworld and the vices it permits.

Personality Summary: Sociable || Flirtatious || Vengeful || Optimistic || Haunted || Compassionate

Background

Current occupation: Travelling bard / Insurgent

Past occupations:

• Apprentice tailor
• Mage's assistant / apprentice
• Streetwalker
• Tavern waitress

Relatives: None they find worth mentioning

Skills:

• Performing Arts: Singing, Dancing, Acting
• Manipulation, both magical and normal
• Seduction
• Tailoring
• Rumour-mongering
• Planning, particularly for long-term tasks
• Make-up and disguise

History Summary

Sioridann never was an agreeable person.

Or they assumed they never were; they couldn’t think of any other reason as to why their mother would so readily sell them to a trader of illicit goods so soon after their father’s death. And as if to rub salt into the wound, they were chosen out of seven other siblings. At least the money was good – or at least, that’s what Sioridann often drily hopes – otherwise the suffering they would go through for years would be all for naught. And it was indeed a terrible few years, the time they spent with the trader. Sioridann witnessed just about every possible depravity one could imagine, and had the same inflicted upon their person.

But in hindsight, and in an ironically twisted way, it was during that time that Sioridann picked up most of the skills that would prove most useful in destroying the very system and people that tormented them.

Sioridann’s time with this dark aspect of the Caesonian underworld came to an end when an adventurer attacked the trader’s encampment. This was also Sioridann’s first encounter with magic, and at first, it absolutely terrified them. To see someone manipulated forces unknown and infernal to crush, maim, and utterly destroy people – even ones as vile as the trader – was enough to put the fear of the Gods in their heart, and Sioridann hadn’t believed in them for years by that point. And yet at the same time, they felt a strange sense of kinship with the adventurer.

And so, after all was done, and the trader and his fellows were no more, Sioridann followed the adventurer as a mere assistant at first, and when their own abilities began to manifest, as an apprentice. This period of their life remains one which they remember fondly. Their days were spent either practising, studying, or helping the adventurer with his daily tasks. An older man, who seemed to carry the weight of the world upon his shoulders, he was simultaneously a father figure and a mentor to Sioridann. Through him, they learned the tricks of living outside of Caesonian law, and the ways of a hedge mage.

But where there’s magic, there’s the King’s men.

Sioridann wasn’t there when the adventurer was finally taken by Magehunters – she was busy gathering firewood – but they did witness the gruesome aftermath. And when they finally arrived at the town where the adventurer was receiving his sentence, they witnessed the end of the man who, for a good few years, had been their only friend and companion. And just like that, Sioridann was alone in the world, once again.

For a while, they did everything and anything to survive. But soon, that wasn’t enough. They wanted vengeance. Who were these Magehunters, these people of status who saw it fit to murder a man who had done nothing wrong? Who had, in fact, been the one to dispense justice to those who received none? The righteous indignation burned within Sioridann until one day, they decided to act upon it. Sioridann was no fighter – they were perhaps the farthest thing from it – but that didn’t stop them. With their abilities, it took only a mere rumour, whispered into the right ear, for a Magehunter to be bludgeoned to death in a dark alley behind a tavern.

Another whisper, and a Magehunter was killed in a drunken brawl.

A few whispers, and a group of them were stabbed to death by an angry mob.

And this was how Sioridann wandered from village to village, town to town, and city to city. Each time, they would first see if there were any Magehunters around. If there were, they would then take the time to ingratiate themselves with the local tavern crowd. Not a difficult task for someone as skilled in the art of seduction as Sioridann. Every night, they would sow a new whisper of strife and doubt. Every night, they would nurture it, until the time was right. Then, they need only give things one simple push, and things would take care of themselves. By the time the dust settled, they would have returned to the road.

Sioridann never was an agreeable person. And Caesonia was about to see how disagreeable they could be.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Morning
Location: The Church
Interactions:
Mentions:
Attire:

Hider

(Placeholder until I get a better reference image)
Roughspun, blue trousers
A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment
Two swords and two pistols, one on either side
A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face (in his hands)

It didn’t take long for Sjan-dehk and Iyen to find the temple. The radiant morning sun was still where it had been when they left the docks – lingering midway between the horizon and its zenith – and that alone was far more than what could be said for Sjan-dehk when he navigated the city on his own.

That little fact didn’t escape Iyen’s notice – how she even found out about it was a mystery – and she used it to its fullest extent to tease Sjan-dehk. For the most part, he didn’t particularly mind. If this was all it took to get a rise out of him, the two of them wouldn’t even be friends. And besides, she deserved to have a bit of fun, and he somewhat deserved to have that fun be done at his expense. Iyen had been the one to read the map and lead the way this entire time, after all, and she had done a good job of it. Far better than what he would have done, Sjan-dehk had to admit.

He just wished that she would stop playing jump rope with the boundary between teasing and gloating.

“This wasn’t so hard, was it?” Iyen’s grin was full of unrestrained smugness, and her eyes didn’t twinkle as much as they scintillated with wicked mischief. Loose strands of hair hung like black, wispy vines down the sides of her face, and tickled her cheeks. The corners of her lips rose even higher. “Really, a Captain such as you shouldn’t have any trouble finding his way around. Or should I say, ‘charting his course’? That’s the way sea-faring provincials like you put it, isn’t it?”

Sjan-dehk grumbled beneath his breath. “You’re just as provincial as I am, Sudhrayarn,” he shot back, but his words lacked strength. There wasn’t much for him to say, not when Iyen’s navigation had brought them here, in the midst of the crowd gathering before the temple’s doors. He pulled his hat a little lower over his eyes to shade them from the sun’s glare. “Charting a course at sea’s completely different from finding one building among hundreds that look the damn same in a city this fucking confusing.”

Iyen giggled. “Excuses, excuses,” she sang and danced a few steps ahead. When Sjan-dehk didn’t follow, and she saw how utterly unimpressed he looked, she returned to his side and gave him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Young Marcher Prince. You’re still a brave and intrepid sailor to me. One I’d follow all the way to the ends of the world.”

Despite Iyen trying to placate him as she would a child, Sjan-dehk chuckled. “If by ‘ends of the world’, you mean the Kokinshun islands, then you’ve already done that many times.” He cast her a sideways look and a cheeky grin. “Might want to consider changing your words. Otherwise one might think you’re insincere.”

“Oh, it’s the thought that counts with such things. Besides, I came all the way here with you, didn’t I?” Iyen replied and took him by the arm. “Anyway, let’s hurry. We’re not going to find out what these people pray to by standing around out here!”

There wasn’t much Sjan-dehk could do apart from allowing himself to be dragged by Iyen as she barrelled through the crowd. For someone with a physique as slender as hers, she had little trouble pushing people easily twice her size aside, and each time with a friendly smile and word of excuse. Unfortunately, she said it all in Viserjantan, leaving Sjan-dehk the trouble of providing hurried translations and additional apologies to those who had the misfortune of being in her way. She only stopped and released Sjan-dehk once they were at the base of the steps leading up and into the temple itself. Dark grey stone, joined by pale mortar, towered over them. Panes of coloured glass decorated the walls, and ornately carved statues stared down imperiously from the roof’s edge.

“Impressive place,” Iyen remarked.

“That, it is,” Sjan-dehk agreed and immediately turned to look at her. “You’re sure you won’t get the both of us kicked out dressed like that?”

Iyen clicked her tongue. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m perfectly decent.”

“By Sudhrayarn standards, yes,” Sjan-dehk replied drily. Iyen’s clothes were still largely similar to what she had been wearing earlier, aboard Sudah, and therein laid the problem. Most of the people here – the ones he could see, at least – were dressed rather modestly. Nothing fancy or elaborate, just clothes that left far more to the imagination than what Iyen wore. Her shirt was little more than an decorated strip of cloth that was wrapped tight around her chest, leaving her shoulders and belly exposed. And while her skirt reached down to her calves, the thin fabric favoured by the Sudhrayarns were almost translucent in the radiance of the Caesonian sun. Thankfully, the pants she wore underneath still left plenty to the imagination.

Iyen rolled her eyes. “When did you become so…So fashion conscious?”

“I’m not,” Sjan-dehk said with a shrug. “I just don’t want this to become another Som Dran Incident. You do remember what happened then, don’t you?”

“Sjan-dehk, they didn’t throw me out because of what I wore. They threw us out because someone tried to touch me and I almost gelded him.” She smirked. “And you got thrown out because you just jumped in and almost turned a small fight into a full battle. Which reminds me, are you sure you want to go into a place of worship looking like you want to pick a fight with their Gods?”

“Yes,” Sjan-dehk’s response was instantaneous. He didn’t like the idea of being disarmed, and besides, no God worth that title should be worried about one man armed with only two swords and two pistols. “Maybe I’m the one who misremembered. Sorry. I think the fight's really what stayed in my memory. Was a good one, I think.” He gave Iyen an apologetic nod, who looked as if she wanted to say something, but settled on waving it off with a smile. Then, Sjan-dehk pulled out one of his spare shirts, which he had tucked between his shoulder-belt and his body. “I grabbed this when I got my weapons from Sada Kurau. You might as well take it since I brought it all the way here.”

Iyen tittered and accepted the shirt. “My, what a gallant Captain,” she teased. “Are you that worried about me? You know as well asI do that I can take care of myself. Anyone who tries anything would have to deal with this–” she patted the curved sword and pistol sheathed and holstered on her left, then the rope coiled around her waist “–and this.”

Sjan-dehk grinned. “It’s not you who I’m concerned over. It’s whoever that offends you. Lady Adiyan would skin us both alive if we ended today with a murder, however justified it might be. I hear that that’s not great for establishing trade relations. Or relations of any kind.”

“I’ve heard the same,” Iyen replied with a laugh. She threw Sjan-dehk’s shirt around her shoulders and tied the sleeves over her chest, wearing it much like a cape. “Oh, by the way,” she began as they quickly went up the steps. “Do you know anything about what’s happening here? I’ve heard talk that they’re going to be worshipping their king or something.”

Sjan-dehk frowned. “No, I haven’t,” he replied truthfully. How did Iyen hear of such things, when she spent far more time away from the city than he? Sjan-dehk decided against asking. Iyen’s ways were mysterious and sometimes better left unknown. “But that can’t be. I just saw their king a few days ago. Unless they’ve got a damn good sorcerer on their payroll using his corpse like a puppet, he was alive then and he’s likely alive now. Worshipping someone still living…” He wrinkled his nose. “That’s just not right.”

Iyen was quiet for a moment. “Do you think they’re going to sacrifice him?” She asked casually. “Make him a deity by giving him a hand in ascending?”

“Careful, your Sudhrayarn instincts are showing.”

A playful punch to his shoulder was Iyen’s immediate response. “Oh, shut up,” she said. It was clear in her tone that she wasn’t offended in the least. “We haven’t done that since three centuries ago. Two at least, if you want to be one of those hair-splitting scholar types.”

“Well, I hope it’s not a sacrifice,” Sjan-dehk said flatly. “Going to be hard to explain to Lady Adiyan that the king we want to negotiate with decided to up and become a God.”

A huge portrait of the King, mounted in an elaborate – almost overly so – altar which dominated the entire temple, was what greeted Sjan-dehk and Iyen as they stepped onto the polished marble floor. As the two of them quietly made their way to a corner far to the back, they noticed more portraits of the King hanging from the rafters. There was even a painting of his face on the floor, something which struck Sjan-dehk as a particularly confusing decision. Either the King was inviting others to walk on his face, or he was making it difficult for his own people to walk through the temple. Neither seemed befitting of anyone holding a title of that stature. A deep discomfort filled Sjan-dehk. This didn’t feel like any religious service he knew.

Iyen felt the same. “By the Shadowed Green, what’s going on here?” She asked in a hushed whisper.

Sjan-dehk shook his head. He didn’t know. But he did have a good guess. “I think we just found ourselves a cult.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Watcher from the Mist

---

He was amidst the inky black, once more.

But this time, Sjan-dehk didn’t feel its icy touch chill him to the bone. He didn’t feel its clammy grip mire his movements. He drew in a deep breath, and his lungs filled with…Something. It didn’t feel soft and light like air. Neither did it drown and choke him like water. It didn’t feel like anything at all; as if it was a fragment of pure nothingness from the void. And it was a void that surrounded him. A dark, featureless sea of opaque blankness that stretched into eternity, and at the same time remained permanent and unchanging. It was ominous in its mystery; eerie in its silence, and disorienting in its emptiness.

And yet, Sjan-dehk felt naught but calm. There was a strange comfort in this formless chaos. Or perhaps it was formless order? It was impossible to tell, and he didn’t care to. What did it matter? He was safe here, amidst this infinite obscurity. Here, where everything happened at every point in time; here, where nothing ever happened, and would keep never happening, he was at peace.

“Tsaan-teik, my dear.”

There was that voice again. It had always been there, always whispering, but it had been unclear. Muffled, garbled, like a vague murmur reverberating through the void. Now, however, its dulcet tones were clear in his head. The words were soft, and spoken with soothing gentleness. And still they seemed to fill the void from its countless corners, and to its boundless borders. “Tsaan-teik, Protector of Jafi.” The voice called to him as a mother would sweetly call for her child. Sjan-dehk smiled. Or he thought he did; he didn’t feel his lips move. He didn’t feel any part of himself. The void and he were one and the same.

“Tsaan-teik, open your eyes.”

Were they even closed? Did he even have eyes, here in the inky black? Either way, he didn’t listen. In the darkness, he found peace. In the darkness, he was safe.

“Tsaan-teik, open your eyes.” Louder. The whispers grew louder with each word.

Still, he refused.

“Tsaan-teik.” The voice turned hard. It was still that of a mother’s, but a strict one. A stern one. One whose patience was at an end. One whose commands demanded obedience. “You will open your eyes.”

And so Sjan-dehk did. He had no choice. The darkness lifted like a veil snatched from his eyes. White light blinded him. A pained cry welled within his chest, but had nowhere to go. Scorching heat seared his flesh, and biting cold numbed his joints. Treacly wetness crept up his legs and down his arms. His body was his once more. His limbs and senses were returned. His mind was returned. And fear grew in his heart. Fear rooted his feet to the soft ground. Fear turned his mouth dry. The peaceful darkness of the inky black was no more. The safety he felt was no more. The comforting void was no more.

The light subsided. Sjan-dehk’s sight returned. And he wished it hadn’t.

Crimson clouds, dripping with blood, hung frozen in a burning sky. Shattered hulls and broken masts rose out of the ground like grotesque monuments. Torn flags and ripped sails fluttered from these carcasses in a ghostly wind. Corpses were everywhere. Falling from dead ships. Impaled on splintered wood. Hanging from ropes. They littered the ground. They were the ground. All half-buried in each other. All broken. Some with innards spilling from wounds. Some little more than viscera. Rot blackened their flesh. Flies swarmed them. Writhing maggots crawled from open mouths.

Sjan-dehk wanted to scream. He wanted to run. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t do anything. He could only stand in the middle of everything and stare. Stare at his hands, which were drenched in a never-ending flow of blood. At his feet, which sank deep into the bloated dead. At the sky, which seemed to curve around him. And at empty gazes filled with accusations. He was their killer. It was their blood which stained him to the soul.

“Tsaan-teik, Favoured Child of the Mother.” It was that voice again. Still, it was gentle. Still, it was that of a mother’s soft call. But Sjan-dehk felt its mocking bite. Felt the stab of its barbs. An unseen force turned his attention to a horizon distant and close.

And from there, a ship approached. Swirling, undulating, and ever-changing mists formed its phantom hull; its sails stitched from dense clouds of dark fog. It carved a path through the wreckage and gore. Corpses and flotsam alike were crushed beneath its infernal keel. Once again, Sjan-dehk wanted to run. But still he couldn’t. The ship approached. It left. It came closer. It went farther. It was everywhere. It remained in one spot, frozen like a statue. Sjan-dehk felt the macabre ripples of its wake through the sea of dead. Surely, it would be on top of him soon. And yet, it still looked to be far away.

A figure stood at the ship’s bow. Like their vessel, they were formed from mist. Or shrouded in it. Or simply consumed by it. They were formless. Shapeless. Featureless. And yet Sjan-dehk felt their cutting gaze all the same. Felt their presence looming over him like a grey shadow. “Tsaan-teik.” When they spoke, it was with that voice. But it didn’t come from them. It came from the sky, the ground, the wrecks, the bodies. “My dear, lost child of Jafi. Favoured by the Mother, but unguided by her grace. Devoted to her name, but lost amidst her endless seas.”

They reached out with a tendril. Grey wisps draped from the gangly, ever-shifting limb.

“Come to me, my dear Tsaan-teik.” Sjan-dehk knew he had to resist her call. But her words, echoing in his head, overpowered all else in his mind. “Come into the Mists of Dusk and Dawn. Come sail across seas of doubt and thread the Paths, and I shall bring you to where you must go, and instruct you of what you must do. Come to me, lost Jafin child, and remember your forgotten roots.”

Sjan-dehk’s hand shivered. It reached for the grey wisps.

---

Time: Morning
Location: Aboard Sudah
Interactions:
Mentions:
Attire:

Hider

(Placeholder until I get a better reference image)
Roughspun, blue trousers
A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment
Two swords and two pistols, one on either side
A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face (in his hands)

A powerful slap across Sjan-dehk’s face pulled him from the nightmare.

“Hey, wake up!” It was Iyen. The cheek where she had struck him stung – it would almost surely redden as the day went on – and she had used enough force to almost throw him from his seat and onto the polished woodwork of Sudah’s accommodation deck. Even so, Sjan-dehk couldn’t find it in him to feel anything but gratitude towards her. Although nightmares weren’t anything new to him – they were almost nightly events at this point – this one felt particularly unnerving. It had been too visceral; too uncanny; too confusing. He understood not even half of all that he had experienced.

Well, more likely than not, there was nothing to understand. The sleeping mind was a mysterious thing, as the scholars and mystics liked to say, and Sjan-dehk’s seemed to make a hobby out of tormenting him. He was glad to be freed from its demented hold, even if the unease it caused still lingered.

With a tired grunt, he righted himself on the chair. Dull aches dotted his body – a result of yesterday night’s adventure – and his heart drummed a frenetic rhythm against his ribs. Whether because of the nightmare or Iyen’s unique method of waking him, the reason for the latter was up for debate. Sjan-dehk decided that it was a combination of both. He placed a hand on his chest. “You’d better hope my heart settles soo–” He began in a grumble, but Iyen didn’t let him finish. She took him by the chin and turned his head to look her in the eyes. Large, hooded, and upturned, their dark irises bored holes into Sjan-dehk’s own.

The blank expression he gave her reflected his utter lack of amusement. “What in the abyss are you trying to do?” He asked drily.

“Checking to see if you’ve finally lost your sea-addled mind,” Iyen replied, her eyes scrying his features for whatever it was that she hoped to find. Despite the seriousness in her voice, the smirk growing across her lips gave her true intentions away. “I’m serious!” She said through a laugh. “You looked like you were close to having a fit! Or you were about to shit yourself. Either way, aren’t you glad I woke you when I did?”

And just like that, memories of the nightmare began to fade. Most of them, in any case. Sjan-dehk tittered quietly and pushed Iyen’s hand away with the back of his. “Sorry to disappoint,” he said with a shake of his head. Letting out a long sigh, he added, “But it was just a bad dream. Strange one, too.”

Iyen’s face fell into a troubled frown. “You get them too, huh?” Her voice had turned soft, and she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Comforting warmth radiated from where she touched him. Sjan-dehk reached across his chest to brush his fingers against her hand. “None of it’s real, you know?” Her voice had turned soft, and she averted her eyes. “It’s all just our imagination playing tricks on us, and it’ll stop on its own. It’ll just take time, that’s what they all say.” She drew in a deep breath. “Wish they’d stop sooner, though.”

Broken corpses. Shattered hulls. A ship of mist and her grey captain.

Fragmented scenes – the ones too stubborn to leave on their own – flashed through Sjan-dehk’s mind. He very briefly closed his eyes and willed them away. This wasn’t the time to dwell on them. Well, there never would be a time for that if he could do anything about it, but now was a particularly bad moment. Iyen had her own terrors to battle, and they were arguably far worse than his. Sjan-dehk had only fought a war. She had done the same, in addition to witnessing the invasion and occupation of Sudhrayar, and surviving the subsequent evacuation of her people across treacherous waters to faraway Jafi. She rarely spoke of those times, but what little she had shared in the past was enough to paint a very, very unpleasant picture.

If anything, Sjan-dehk should be the one to comfort her. And so, he covered her hand with his own, gave it a gentle squeeze, and said the only words he could think to say. “I hope the Mother brings you to peaceful shores soon, Yen-yi, and with following winds.” The smile he gave her was small, and hesitant, but one of heartfelt affection.

Iyen giggled and brought her eyes back to him. “Looks like someone’s feeling soft today,” she teased with a playful grin gracing her face. Then, it turned into a look of sincere tenderness. “Thank you, Shanya. Your words mean plenty to me.” In a softer voice, she added, “And may the Shadowed Green grant you peace and calm within its protective shade, seafaring one.”

With that, she pulled away and took a bounding step back. “Well, that’s enough moping for one day.” Mirth and chirpy lightness returned to her voice. She twirled in front of Sjan-dehk, the wide skirt of her dress like verdant waves flowing and fluttering around her legs. “Lucky for you it was me who woke you,” she said, a playful twinkle in her eyes and her mouth pulled into a toothy grin. “There’re many who dream of waking to sight as fine as this. Makes you forget about that nightmare, doesn’t it?” She struck a pose, accentuating her slender face with her hands.

Sjan-dehk chuckled and stood up, taking his time to stretch his limbs. In truth, he found it hard to disagree with Iyen – she was, indeed, attractive by most standards. Lithe and cutting a figure that was both elegant and strung with subtle, wiry muscles, she struck a fine balance between beauty and brawn. And her dress certainly didn’t hurt her appearance. Made in typical Sudhrayarn fashion, it hugged her body tightly where it did, like bark on a tree, and flowed loosely where it didn’t, like the fronds of a palm. Her shoulders, arms, and stomach were left bare.

“Almost,” Sjan-dehk replied with a grin. He had known Iyen long enough to know when she playing the tease. “I think the way you woke me gave me something new to have nightmares about, though.”

Iyen laughed and winked. “Damn. I’ll have to do better next time, then. Maybe I should dress as a fish next time. That’s what you sea-loving folk like, right?” Then, she cleared her throat and folded her arms across her chest. “Anyway, I didn’t wake you just for fun, though your reaction was very entertaining, I’ve to say. I bring word from our good Lady Adiyan.”

It was only then did Sjan-dehk remember why he was even here, aboard Sudah, in the first place. He had received a missive earlier that morning, summoning him for an audience with Lady Adiyan. By the officious tone, stern wording, and lack of any cordiality, he had assumed that he was due for a scolding for what he had done the previous day. It wouldn’t have surprised him – he did take Sada Kurau out to sea with barely any notice, and he hadn’t written a report about that incident to Lady Adiyan. In fact, he hadn’t written any report on yesterday’s affairs. That was probably another reason for her to be upset with him.

“She regrets that she can’t see you,” Iyen continued, much to Sjan-dehk’s surprise. He must have made it clear on his face, as Iyen then explained, “Our wise doctor–” she made no effort to hide the sarcasm laden in her voice “–has decided that she had done enough work for the morning, and has ordered Lady Adiyan to rest.”

Worry entered Sjan-dehk’s heart. “Is she alright?”

Iyen shrugged and gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “She’s fine. As fine as she can be, at least. She’s definitely not so sick that she can’t work, though.” She huffed. “Anyway, Lady Adiyan asked me to remind you that we’re not in Viserjanta, so don’t go around intervening in things you shouldn’t. It’s fine to help the locals, and she encourages you to do that, but don’t take it too far. The pirates here might not be the same as the pirates we understand as Viserjantans, so be careful when hunting them. Don’t start an incident we can’t handle, and most importantly, don’t take the law into your own hands. Keep in mind that we’re simply guests here.” From the boredom in her tone, and the way she spoke progressively faster and faster as she went on, this was clearly something she had been made to memorise.

Sjan-dehk nodded slowly. There was sense in Lady Adiyan’s warning, even if he would rather not see any of it. “Is there anything else?”

His question brought a grin to Iyen’s face, and it wasn’t the sort that he liked. “Our good Lady also strongly suggests that we learn more about local culture. She’s heard word that there’s to be a religious ceremony happening somewhere in the city, today. You’re strongly advised to attend.” That meant that Lady Adiyan expected Sjan-dehk to be there. “And I am to go along with you. To keep you out of trouble, you know?”

Sjan-dehk blinked. “What do you mean, ‘keep me out of trouble?” He asked incredulously. “You were there with me when we went out to get those pirates!”

“Oh, was I?” Iyen’s grin widened, and her tongue peeked through her lips. “I must’ve failed to mention that to Lady Adiyan last night. My mistake.”

A long, drawn-out sigh of resignation left Sjan-dehk’s lips. Well, he supposed it could be worse; attending the ceremony on his own would have been painful. At least with Iyen around, the pain would be shared. “I guess I’ve no choice,” he grumbled. This was likely Lady Adiyan’s way of punishing him. She knew he had little interest in religious affairs; the occasional visit to a temple or shrine, and the occasional assisting of a priest or priestess was the most he had ever done as far as the Gods were concerned. “So when must we leave?” He asked.

“As soon as I get my things,” Iyen replied cheerily. “It’ll be just like old times! Let’s see what trouble we can try to keep ourselves out of.”

---

The Navigator in the Mists

The Navigator in the Mists

The Navigator in the Mists (Alternatively known as The Misted Lady, Mistress of the Doubt-Sea, They-of-Many-Paths, Master of Dusk and Dawn, the Unmentioned God, She-who-is-most-Humble, the Eternal Tomorrow, the Harvester of Fates, They-of-two-Faces) is a Goddess – or God, depending on depiction – of the orthodox Jafin pantheon. They have dominion over fate and prophecies, possibilities, misdirection, twilight – both in terms of the time of day, and boundaries between two opposites – and the destiny of mortals. Modern interpretations of her lore place them as a primordial deity that predates the ascension of the Mother of the Waves. It is widely believed that the Navigator was once the prime deity of the ancient Jafins, a position since taken by the Mother.

Depictions of the Navigator are varied. As with most Viserjantan deities, they are not viewed as inherently good or evil. However, myths related to the Navigator largely paint them as a negative entity; one who leads the righteous astray and seduces the lost to be their unwilling servants. However, alternative interpretations exist, where the Navigator is instead merely a neutral force that brings one to where they are needed, rather than where they want to go.

A newer, and more radical interpretation of the Navigator paints them as simply another aspect of the Mother. Indeed, the similarities between them are plenty – both are seen as ‘guiding’ deities, both are seen as progenitors of the Jafin peoples, and both have domains related to the sea – and arguments have been put forward that the Mother was, in fact, either a projection or manifestation of the Navigator.

The Navigator in the Mists’ domain is known as the Infinite Obscurity. The nature of their plane is said to be utterly incomprehensible to mortals. It is a place where every possibility of every fate happens at the same time, or never happens for all eternity. The realm changes its form and nature according to the whims of the Navigator, although it is said that its true form is a featureless, ink-black sea. The Navigator sails through their realm upon a ship made entirely out of sea fog and mist, and from there, they chart the courses of mortals from birth to death.

They are considered to be the patron of the lost, the uncertain, and those whose life is at a crossroads.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

A couple of days ago

Time: Night
Location: Somewhere around the Varsonian Strait
Interactions:
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Attire:

Hider

Plain roughspun shirt (white) and trousers (brown)
Patched knee-length coat
Shoulder- and waist-belts
Old leather boots

For a man who was held at the points of several muskets, bayonets, and cutlasses, the Caesonian captain was remarkably calm. He stood with his back ramrod straight, his hands clasped behind his back, and his head tilted just enough to allow his frigid, blue eyes an imperious glare down his aquiline nose. Dressed in an immaculate uniform – with its yellow trimmings bright against the night and spotless fabric shimmering in the lamplight – his presence contrasted starkly with chaos unfolding around him.

Cynwaer met the captain’s contemptuous gaze with a mocking smile. The two men said nothing, with only the clamour of looting punctuating the extended silence. With a wave of his hand, Cynwaer dismissed the men guarding the captain. They hesitated for a brief moment, glancing at each other with uncertainty upon their grimey and sooty faces before nodding their acknowledgements and moving off to join their fellows in plundering the captured merchantman.

“So,” Cynwaer began and hooked his fingers into his sword-and-pistol belt. “Are yer gae’n– goin’ tae finally start talkin’, or do I ‘ave tae ‘elp yer find yer tongue?”

The Caesonian captain's eyes narrowed. Then, he exhaled sharply through his nose. “I am Captain Oscar Soderman, Captain of the Summer Evergreen.” Exasperation and impatience laced his words, and he did nothing to hide the scorn in his voice. He looked Cynwaer over, examining him as if he were nothing more than some strange specimen to be studied. “Surely, you are tired of hearing the same thing over and over again as I am of saying it…Captain.”

The Caesonian spat that final word out like it was some disgusting thing, clearly meaning for it to be taken as an insult. But Cynwaer instead chuckled. As much disdain as he had for anyone serving under any and all Caesonian flags, he had to give credit where it was due. Only a Caesonian officer could willingly strike his colours and surrender after the briefest of skirmishes, and still sound like an arrogant lordling. It was, if nothing else, highly amusing.

And Oscar – insufferable as he was – did have a point. Although Cynwaer was the captain of his own ship, he certainly didn’t look like one. At least, not one similar to his Caesonian counterpart. Where Oscar was refined, with clean features and holding himself with the airs of a gentleman, Cynwaer was rough, and not just around the edges. From his drab and roughspun clothes – over-patched and stained – to the shadow clinging to his chin and jaw, and to his unkempt mane of rusty hair, everything about Cynwaer spoke of a man who cared little about the elegance of higher society. And judging by the smirk on his face, and by the confidence in his mossy eyes, that was a source of pride for him.

“Aye, I am,” Cynwaer replied. “And I’m nae interested in any o’ that nonsense. ‘Tis yer cargo that I’m after knowin’ more about.”

Oscar stiffened – if that were even possible – and his thin lips cracked into a frown. “You know as well as I do that I cannot tell you that,” he said. “The Rule of the Sea is explicitly clear on such matters. The captain of any boarded merchantman is required to divulge only three things. His name, his ship’s name, and their destination. I have already told you all three, and I am under no obligation to tell you anything more. I trust that your…crew will undoubtedly discover all that you wish to know whilst ransacking my ship.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “And I do hope, captain, that you are aware of your obligations to myself and my crew, seeing as how you accepted our surrender under the white flag.”

Cynwaer shrugged. “Cannae say I dae, ta’ be honest.”

“You are to treat myself and my crew fairly, captain,” Oscar said pointedly.

“Aye, aye.” Cynwaer waved his hand dismissively in front of him. “I’m nae sure if you’ve noticed, cap’n, but we’re nae privateers. We’re feckin’ pirates. Yer rules mean piss-all ta’ us.” For the first time since boarding the merchantman, Cynwaer’s smile disappeared. “Aye, I’ll treat the lot o’ yer fairly, yersel’ and yer lads, but it’ll be what we consider ta’ be fair. Not what feckin’ moronic rules yer crown decided ta’ be fair.” The threat in his words were clear, but Oscar didn’t seem too perturbed by it. Perhaps he believed that Cynwaer was merely trying to sound tough. Perhaps he simply didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. Either way, Cynwaer decided to approach this in another way. He tilted his chin towards Oscar. “Soderman’s a strange name fae a Caesonian. Yer nae Varian, are yer? Or ‘ave yer got some Varian in yer?”

Oscar scoffed and folded his arms across his chest. “Of course not,” he replied, sounding almost offended and looking like he had just been slapped. “Montauppe has been my home all my life, and so it is our King Edin’s authority which you go against, should you decide to be…Unreasonable.” He fixed Cynwaer with a glare, and the corners of his lips twitched in a smug smile. “I am sure you know what the consequences of doing such a silly thing would be, captain.”

Cynwaer ignored everything Oscar said about the King. “Montauppe, aye. I’ve ‘eard good things about the place,” he remarked with a series of nods.

Then, very casually – as if it were the most natural thing in the world – he drew a pistol from its holster and pointed it squarely as Oscar’s chest. The Caesonian captain’s eyes widened. Panic broke his composure, and his face visibly paled. “Wha-what–” he stammered, holding up both hands in front of him.

“Oh, ‘tis simple, cap’n,” Cynwaer said with a shrug. “If yer nae wantin’ ta’ return ta’ Montauppe in a feckin’ box or barrel or whatever the feck we’ve got fae a coffin, then I suggest yer gee’s– give us aw’ that I want ta’ know.” He thumbed the pistol’s hammer. It locked into place with an ominous click.

“You–” Oscar began, his voice starting to crack and waver. “You would really shoot a man over grain? Are you mad?”

Cynwaer smiled darkly. “See? That was’nae so hard, aye?” He kept the pistol aimed at Oscar, and took in the look of realisation creeping over the Caesonian captain’s face. “Yer’ve almost a thousand tons burden o’ grain in yer hold, aye? An’ aw’ bound fae yer capital o’ Sorian, no less. ‘Tis a lot o’ grain ta’ take frae the common folk. Aw’ frae just one village, aye?” Oscar began to stammer something, but Cynwaer cut him off before he could even get one word out. “Surprised? Word o’ advice frae cap’n ta’ cap’n, make sure yer lads can ‘old their drink, an’ if they cannae, make sure they’re nae the sort ta’ get loose lips after just one drink. ‘Twas feckin’ embarrassin’ for aw’ involved, mysel’ included.”

“If you knew,” Oscar swallowed hard and hissed. “Then why do all this?”

“Just wanted ta’ ‘ear it frae yer, ta’ be honest,” Cynwaer replied with a nonchalant shrug. He briefly turned his eyes towards the deck. “So aw’ o’ this ‘neath our feet, ‘tis just grain ta’ yer, is it? Ne’er crossed yer wee mind that ‘tis what some folk need ta’ live, aye?”

“We didn’t take everything,” Oscar protested. “Just what is rightfully the crown’s by tax. Those people have enough to eat. You are making a mistake, captain.”

Cynwaer didn’t reply immediately, and instead raised his brows. “Are yer a farmin’ man, cap’n?” He asked, and when Oscar didn’t respond, chuckled. “I did’nae think so. Yer types ne’er are. But I s’pose I’m nae the person ta’ talk. I used ta’ fish fae a livin’, yer see, but I knew some farmin’ types. Want tae know somethin’ interestin’ I learned frae ‘em? See, aw’ the grain they ‘arvest duin’ ta’ season’s nae just fae eatin’. Some o’ it’s stored awa’, some turned ta’ feed fae livestock, an’ that livestock’s made ta’ salted meat ta’ last ‘em the winter.” He paused, and upon seeing no understanding on Oscar’s face, continued. “So if yer leave ‘em wi’ just enough fae them ta’ eat, then they’ve nothin’ ta’ feed the animals an’ nothin’ ta’ store. They’ve nothin’ ta’ feed the animals and nothin’ ta’ store, they’ve nae salt meat or stores to last ‘em o’er winter. An’ when they’ve nothin’ ta’ last ‘em o’er winter, then people start dyin’.”

He jabbed the pistol towards Oscar. “An’ everythin’, cap’n, starts wi’ yer takin’ their grain. Ta’ me, it sounds an awful lot like yer’ committin’ murder, aye.”

“That– That’s ridiculous!” Oscar protested loudly. “You can’t know–”

“Oh, but I dae, cap’n,” Cynwaer interrupted. “‘Tis a story I’ve ‘eard and seen many times, aye.” He stopped smiling, and gave Oscar a hard look, one discomforted the Caesonian captain greatly. “Normally, I’d shoot yer and be done wi’ it, but I’ve places ta’ be. More o’ yer bastard king’s ships ta’ rob, yer see. An’ I s’pose ‘tis yer lucky day, ‘cause I’m feelin’ particularly generous. I’ll let yer live, but only if yer turn this ship around and bring it back ta’ where yer came frae. Gee’s o’er the grain ta’ the village, gee’s ‘em an apology, an’ I’ll consider everythin’ o’er. That’s more than fair if yer ask me.”

Oscar baulked at the suggestion. “Th-That’s crazy! I will be branded a criminal–”

“Aye,” Cynwaer agreed. “Yer can join our wee club.”

“–the King will place a bounty on my head–” Oscar’s words tumbled and fell from his mouth, each melding into the next, in a semi-coherent ramble. He barely noticed Cynwaer’s interruptions.

“Again, we’ve a club for yer ta’ join.”

“–And I have a family–”

“So did I, pal. Yer’ll be fine.”

“–I need the money–”

“The people need ta’ eat.”

“–What will I do–”

“Yer free ta’ join us. Plenty o’ yer kind sailin’ wi’ me.”

“–No, I cannot do this. Please, you must understand–”

Cynwaer sighed heavily and shook his head. “Took yer own sweet time ta’ say that, did yer?” He grumbled with a huff. “Yer know what, feck it. I’ve nae the time ta’ reason wi’ the likes o’ yer. Yer bastard king’s grain ships’ nae gae’n ta’ wait.” He lowered the gun, and pulled the trigger. The frizzen flashed, flames shot from the muzzle, and the crack was deafening amidst the relative silence of the night. A bullet crashed through Oscar’s knee, snapping bones and cutting flesh as it sliced cleanly through the joint. The man immediately crashed to the deck, howling in pain and clutching his thigh.

“Y-You bastard!” He managed to shout through clenched teeth. “When my family finds you–”

“Oh, nae bother, pal. I’ll send ‘em aw’ yer way, don’t yer worry,” Cynwaer interjected and casually stepped over to Oscar. Kneeling beside his head, Cynwaer said, “Yer cannae blame everythin’ on me, aye? I gave yer a chance ta’ walk awa’ untouched, and yer did’nae take it.” He patted Oscar on the shoulder. “Learn ta’ take some responsibility fae yer decisions, aye?”

“Gods damn you,” Oscar hissed. His eyes were wide with both pain and rage. “Just kill me, pirate. You’ll be joining me soon enough. When the King’s forces find you, you will pay with your life, but only after days of suffering and pain. You will find no respite and no relief.”

Cynwaer shrugged. “Tell yer what, pal. I’m plenty damned as ‘tis, aye,” he said. He leaned over Oscar with a wicked grin pulling his lips wide across his face before continuing. “Nae need ta’ worry. I’ll be sendin’ yer on yer way in due time, but what’s it yer people say about me? Was it that I torture folks like yer until death seems merciful? Nae sure I like the sound o’ that, ta’ be very honest, but reputation’s reputation, aye? An’ I hate disappointin’ folk like yer, so I s’pose I’ve ta’ live up ta’ yer expectations. Pretty sure some o’ my lads would want ta’ ‘ave a go, too.” Oscar’s face paled even more. His lips trembled, as if he were trying to say something, but no words left his mouth.

“Take it as time ta’ reflect,” Cynwaer said and stood up. “I gave yer a chance ta’ show some compassion fae us lowborn folk, and yer chose ta’ be selfish. Kept thinkin’ about yerself, din’t yer? S’pose yer just bein’ what yer are. Dis’nae matter. You showed nae compassion. Yer kind ne’er showed compassion fae us little folk, and so now we will’nae show you any.” He nudged Oscar’s ruined knee with his boot, and that was all it took to get the man to start screaming once more. His pleas for mercy gradually turned incoherent, and his screams into nothing more than animalistic, blood-curdling shrieks.

“An’ we’re makin’ nae excuses fae our terror,” Cynwaer said and turned away. There was plenty of work to be done. By the time the night was over, Sorian would have a new taste of the Seahawk’s vengeance.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Cynwaer 'The Seahawk' Fiachin

Appearance

Cynwaer Fiachin | 32 | Male

Captain of the Remembrance, The Seahawk, and Terror of the Caesonian Coasts

Height: 1.85 meters / 6'1
Weight: 76 kg / 168 lbs
Eye Colour: Mossy green
Hair Length & Texture: Medium / Coarse
Hair Colour: Auburn
Skin Colour: Tanned
Facial Details: Dark freckles across his nose; horizontal scar on his left cheek
Distinguishing Features: None that is known. Cynwaer is very careful to hide any and all features that would make him easy to find.

Clothing Preferences: Cynwaer changes his attire depending on the port-of-call. He dresses as inconspicuously as possible, and always in a fashion that is common to wherever he finds himself. Solid, plain colours are his usual choices, with either minimal or no patterning at all.

Likes:

• Bringing harm to Caesonian nobility
• Fighting for the common man
• Redistributing his spoils to the needy
• Oppressing the oppressors and terrorising the tyrants

Dislikes:

• All nobility, specifically Caesonian nobility
• Injustice of all stripes
• Inequality and inequity
• Greed and avarice
• Sorian

Sexuality: Straight

Hobbies:

• Spending time with his pet Harrier, Neirynn
• Scribbling in his journal
• Reading, particularly political and military treatises

Life Goals & Dreams: The destruction of the Caesonian noble class, the overthrow of the current order, and the death of King Edin and all who allowed such barbarous laws to pass and be maintained

Personality summary: Charismatic || Driven || Unfettered || Ruthless || Partisan || Sensible

To the nobility, Cynwaer is one of the worst criminals to plague the seas. Bloodthirsty, rapacious, and utterly repugnant, he attacks and robs merchant ships with neither compunction nor mercy. Gods help those who he catches sailing beneath a royal standard, for it is they to whom he shows no mercy. The lucky ones can expect to be summarily executed. The unlucky ones can only wish for the mercy of death while they are tortured for sport. Any ship flying any Caesonian flag is considered fair game by this voracious corsair, in fact, and he considers any person serving any court of any noble to have forfeited their lives. To make matters worse, this violent criminal is also a skilled rabble-rouser. His glib tongue pulls throngs upon throngs of the masses to his banner wherever he makes landfall, all lured by promises of so-called emancipation.

To the common folk, Cynwaer is a beacon of hope. For those chafing beneath the boots of the nobility, and those whose fates are controlled by an aloof and uncaring upper class, whatever terror he visits on his victims are, at worst, a necessary evil. Others even call it justice, for why should mercy and compassion be given to those who had none for their own people? And so, to the oppressed masses, Cynwaer - the Seahawk - is a paragon of virtue. With determination and tenacity worth of a knight-of-old, he fights for those who are unable to do so for themselves. Best of all, he remains true to his humble roots despite the fame - or infamy - he has earned. Fair and just, he treats everyone - from pauper to merchant - as an equal, and judges them with temperance and wisdom.

The truth, of course, is a lot more mundane.

Cynwaer is ruthless, but he is not mindlessly violent; he is kind to the oppressed, but he is far from virtuous. Injustice fills his heart with burning indignation and rage, but it is tempered by the vengeful calm chilling his blood. And it is that vengeance which truly drives him. Yes, he fights for the underclass because he empathises with their plight. Yes, his belief in the cause of emancipation is true. But were it not for the vendetta which turned him into a pirate all those years ago, he wouldn't do or believe any of those things. Cynwaer is himself all too aware of that, and it matters little to him. He is, after all, a simple man. He has a goal. He has a mission. What happened to him cannot be allowed to happen to anyone else.

And if liberating the masses and ending the nobility is the best way to achieve that, then, well, that's exactly what he will do.

Background

Current occupation: Corsair

Past occupation: Fisherman

Relatives:

• Cedric Fiachin, Father; Deceased
• Wynne Fiachin, Mother; Deceased
• Cecilia Fiachin, Wife; Deceased
• Nerys Fiachin, Daughter; Deceased

Skills:

• Sailing
• Fishing
• Rigging, ropework in general
• Weaving
• Gunnery; muskets, pistols, and cannons

History Summary

"Beware, you haughty nobles, beware the Seahawk
For he is a creation of your own making
And he will be your undoing."

Drinking Song, location unknown

In another life, Cynwaer would have had everything.

Well, he wouldn't have adventure, but he was hardly the sort of man to ask for such a thing. A simple life was all he ever wanted, and for a while, it seemed like that was exactly what he was destined for. Both of his parents had been fisherfolk, and when they passed, they left their boat, their nets, their lines to Cynwaer, who - as most coastal folk were wont to do - followed in their footsteps. Even in this regard, he had been luckier than most. It hadn't been disease or cruel waves that took his parents. Rather, it was simple age. And while they were alive and spry, they had taught a young Cynwaer everything he needed to know about the ocean and its bounties. And so, while Cynwaer had spent months grieving their passing all the same, it didn't take long or much for him to not only recover, but flourish as an accomplished fisherman in his own right.

In another life, Cynwaer would have been the envy of many men.

On the day he married Cecilia, his childhood sweetheart, his fellow villagers had told him as such. It was something that could have come out of a storybook, they had said. Cynwaer didn't disagree back then, and he still didn't, now. He had known Cecilia when she had been a timid girl who cried during storms and hid from the tides. Falling for, and then marrying, her after she had grown into a daring young woman had felt like a dream. And when Cecilia gave birth to a daughter, Cynwaer felt convinced that he had everything he could ever ask for. In another life, that might have been true. The rest of his days would have been spent working the sea in the day, returning to his family as the sun slipped beneath the horizon, and teaching Nerys - his daughter - the tricks of the trade. When she became of age, he would gracefully retire and live out the rest of his days in peace.

Another life, perhaps, but not this one.

Sorcery ran deep in Cynwaer's blood. He had known that all along - his father had been the one to tell him about their magical ancestry. But it wasn't anything to fret over, the old man had said. The magic was dormant, he had said. Sleeping and inactive. Minor parlour tricks - simple and inconsequential - were about the best Cynwaer could ever hope to conjure, if even that. And that much was true. Aside from performing the odd feat to entertain his drunken fellows every other night, or as a conversation starter, he never found any real use for his meagre abilities.

But in Nerys, the magic awakened. She had only just turned five when she had her first outburst. Had Cecilia not calmed her in time, Cynwaer had no doubts that the gusts she had inadvertently summoned would have turned into an uncontrollable tempest. And it only got worse from there. Nerys might call forth a gale one day, and a premature high tide the next. The magic in her blood might scry every mind she passed against her will, or it might send her into a catatonic state. As she grew older, so too did the magnitude of her powers. Cynwaer and Cecilia had agonised over what to do. The logical solution would have been to send Nerys somewhere away from Caesonia, where her magic might see her imprisoned or worse. But the logical solution was rarely every the easy one, and so the two found every reason to wait and dither and delay, all in the vain hope that one day, Nerys would simply wake up and it would turn out that all this was naught but a passing phase.

The King's men found Nerys before that day came. They came during the night, when all others were asleep. Cynwaer had been the one to open the door, in response to their impatient knocks. Clad in ornate armour and wielding weapons that were fit for a lord, the soldiers had been an intimidating sight. But none of that mattered when they demanded for Nerys to be handed over. Cynwaer had protested. Cecilia had protested in a louder manner. Raised voices turned to shouts. The demands of the King's men turned into threats. The neighbours gathered to watch the commotion, and before long, they too were shouting at the soldiers. The tension had been thick enough to taste. Swords were drawn, pistols cocked, and arrows nocked. Fear had made a home in Cynwaer's heart, but for his daughter, he stood firm.

Then, someone - a soldier, a village, it didn't matter - lost their nerve.

The resulting fight was wholly one-sided, with plenty of blood spilled. Little of it came from the King's men. Fortune, however, had Cynwaer survive the massacre - for that was the only way he could describe it - with only a scar on his face. But fortune, unfortunately, did nothing for his wife and daughter. He found both of them dead amidst a pile of corpses. The very next morning, he buried Cecilia, but couldn't do the same for Nerys. More of the King's men returned at dawn and took her body away. Still in shock from the previous night, and with little fight left in him, Cynwaer could only watch as they wrapped his daughter's body in roughspun linens before unceremoniously loading her onto a cart. He never did find out where they had taken her, or even why they had done such a thing.

What was there for him to do after that?

The grief came, and it went. The sorrow came, and so too it went. Then the rage came, and it refused to leave. It demanded recompense. It cried for vengeance, not only on the soldiers who had killed his family, or the nobleman who sanctioned their actions, or even the King who sat upon a throne of blood and suffering. No, it called for something more. Killing one, killing an entire family, or even an entire city, wouldn't be enough. Not when it was laws centuries old that were the true problem. Not when it was society - a society that abided such cruelty - that needed to be changed. The whole system had to be uprooted, burnt, its ashes scattered to the winds, and a new order - fair and just - built upon its ruins, for Cynwaer to consider his revenge complete, and justice done for Cecilia and Nerys.

And so, he took to the seas. Not as a fisherman, but as a corsair. Learning the criminal trade was by no means easy, but he didn't care. It didn't matter how many times the Caesonian navy sank him. It didn't matter how many times he slipped beneath the murky waves. He would always return. It didn't matter how many times he had to find a new ship or assemble a new crew. There were plenty of people like him - angry, disgruntled, dispossessed, and more than eager to bring the fight to a crown, a court, and a system that treated them like dirt. It didn't matter how much money Caesonia placed on his head. Cynwaer feared neither death nor capture nor torture. Let the crown do as it pleased. He would gladly return the favour. And so long as he still drew breath, Caesonia would know no peace.

In another life, Cynwaer would have been a simple man. But not this one.

---

Questionnaire

Questionnaire

History
Did you grow up nurtured or neglected?
"Nurtured enough ta' learn, neglected enough ta' figure things out on me own."

When you were upset, where was your sanctuary?
"Nae where. If you're upset, go do somethin' about it, aye?"

What were you like in your teenage years?
"Proper mongrel, I imagine."

How close are you to your parents?
"Close enough, aye."

Do you have any trauma that haunts you?
"Aye, the King's bastards murderin' yer whole family's pretty feckin' traumatic."

What advice would you give your younger self?
"Learn how ta fight."

Were you an obedient child or defiant?
"A bit o' both."

What is your biggest regret?
"Should've probably feckin' bottled one o' them soldiers when I had a chance, aye."

Romance
"Aw'right, piss off with these questions, aye?"

Personality
Describe your ideal Sunday morning
"Just set one o' those fancy royal merchant ships on fire this past week. T'was a proper crack, aye."

What kind of person do you aspire to be?
"Whoever the stories say I am, tae be honest. You 'eard 'em? Feckin' ridiculous, I tell yer what."

What bad habits do you have?
"I'm nae tellin'."

If you could go back in time and change anything in your past, what would it be?
"Aye, I'd move the feck awa' frae Caesonia."

What is your greatest fear?
"Ever wondered if that bastard king's wantin' ta live fore'er? Feckin' ghastly thought, aye?"

What are your pet peeves?
"Oh, I'm nae one for pets. Wee Neirynn 'ere's enough for me."

When you are in a sour mood, do you like to be alone or with others?
"Others, aye. Preferably Caesonian sailors sailin' for the navy, and preferably wi' 'em afire."

Are you more likely to fight with your fists or your tongue?
"Both. Nae need tae get tanned if yer can talk it o'er, aye?"