Leaning in on Gerald – perhaps more than was necessary – Jillian’s overall impression of the necromancer’s body posture could be summarized thus: stiff. There was a kind of rigidness to his form that was not as readily apparent underneath the swaddling robe of his, but which she now felt very physically. He’s tense. Nervous, perhaps. Or at least uncomfortable. She could only wonder why; she knew that he had been married once, even expecting to become a father, so he clearly had no fear of women in general. Was it specific to her? Or was it just a more recent symptom, born of his tragedy? She couldn’t say, but no matter the reason, she could hear her inner devil whisper temptations of seeing just how far she could push the necromancer until he recoiled from her – or gave in. Briefly she wondered how he would react (and what he would think) if she leaned her head against his chest. Put her hand on his leg. Stroked. Purred.
It was all fantasy of course. She understood that she was pushing her luck as it was, and she was not trying to seduce him; she was legitimately freezing and wanted his warmth more than anything else right now. In fact, maybe it wasn’t her physical presence at all, maybe it was her question that made him uneasy. It was obvious that he wasn’t happy with having things about his person known to her or, probably, anyone. It was not inconceivable that he would avoid her question, change the subject, or at least only ask about her. Although he took a moment to savor his tea and consider his next move he did, to her surprise, open up and talk about himself, revealing far more than she would have expected.
“Remdal…” she muttered thoughtfully. Of course the name was known to her; not only was his name common knowledge for someone who lived in the higher stratum of Zerul City, but Jillian had furthermore been a student at the very academy that both Gerald and his stepfather had been associated with. Wide, viridian eyes stared at the necromancer’s face. Remdal… something about the name had a spicy aftertaste, like a half-forgotten memory about to rise from the ashes. It was there somewhere, in her subconscious, but before she even had to dig for it, Gerald spelled it out for her: the fire, of course. The scandal. It had been the talk of the city for weeks, speculations running wild. Now, however, there was no more need to guess as the final piece of the puzzle fell into place with a satisfying click.
“Huh, so that’s you. Makes a lot of sense now; not many bought the story of an innocent accident. I know I didn’t.”
The witch betrayed no smile, but felt glad that, for perhaps the first time, Gerald was so willing to open up to her. It was a good sign. His story was not yet complete, he hadn’t mentioned his wife yet, or his reasons for learning necromancy, but it could wait. Few portraits worth their Rodlins were painted in a single day, after all. She wondered what Dennis was like. Asking was unlikely to give her an objective answer; Gerald would almost certainly feel disdain for the man, given their disagreement. She couldn’t blame him. Unlikely that she would find him charming either if his stance towards necromancy was to burn it all to cinders. Well, at least she could appreciate his chosen method. Before she could ask about his stepfather, however, the necromancer tilted the spotlight onto her. How had she been discovered? What was her punishment? Well…
“Mh,” she murmured, “Not exiled. Not quite. I think you got off easy because you’re a Remdal. Hum, say, have you perchance heard of the Voice of Reason?”
In the likely event that he hadn’t, she continued: “As a necromancer, there was a small chance you might’ve. Put simply, it was a little secret gathering of like-minded individuals – influential people, I might add – with a desire to push for legalizing forbidden magics. Peacefully, mind you. And slowly, but firmly. My… well, my teacher – in black magic – was associated with them and through him, I was also introduced to their little round table. Long story short, though, something went wrong. Maybe we hid our trail too poorly, maybe somebody talked. Either way, our meeting was busted and we were all arrested on two charges: the practice of forbidden magic, as well as treason. They put us in the dungeon, had me neatly tied up from head to toe. Couldn’t move a finger. They had to, gave them the illusion of safety. They hadn’t gagged me for the interrogation, meaning I could have conflagrated half the dungeon with a single word. I didn’t, but someone else did I think. You don’t put that many sorcerers together into a tight space and promise them deaths of varying painfulness. Someone’s going to snap. And so they did. T’wasn’t long before the dungeon was in utter chaos and fugitives took to the corridors, overwhelming wardens and releasing more prisoners. They sent reinforcements quickly. Witch-hunters, mages, whatever it took. If they couldn’t contain us, they would purge the entire dungeon. I don’t know how we did it but Vince and I, we escaped with our lives, fled into the nightfallen streets. No idea what became of the others. We packed our things and left the city. Were pursued still, ran into witch-hunters on the Zerulic-Anaximite border just this morning. They… they got Vince. Almost did me in too.“
“There,” she nodded to the sheathed silver sword lying next to the bedroll that she had been sleeping in earlier, “that’s the weapon that killed Vince. Poor bastard. He didn’t deserve it. Never hurt a soul.”
“Much nicer than I ever was,” she added more quietly. She stayed quiet then, catching her breath after a rather lengthy answer. So, Gerald, there you have it. You’re cuddling not just a witch, but also a traitor. I don’t suppose that bothers you, huh?
Yo folks, wanna hear something funny? The guy who struggles with getting frequent posts out for a single character is now putting a second character into the ring! Hah! Now that we've all had a laugh, though, it's time to get the serious face on because this character's story is anything but funny. Hopefully I hit the mark by keeping it this side of, if not tasteful, then at least engaging. I've spent the past few weeks discussing the concept and refining this or that lore point with Jack, and now that it's finally done I'm finally ready to post it in the thread in general.
My desire is to have this character become an ally of sorts, or at least stay in contact with the main group because it would be nice to pass around posts between others than just Jack, as is the case with Jill for the forseeable future. I'm admittedly not up to date on the IC posts that do not directly concern my character, but I've been told that at least Aemoten and Thaler (and Etakar, I suppose) would be arriving in Zerul shortly, as in, 4-5 posts. I'll have to read up a bit on what they've been up to so I can get a better idea of what is up. If that's true, we can probably organize a first-contact run-in by the city gates. Ciara, being underway with a few other clerics, is on a quest to convert some poor refugee suckers to Ismyel, meaning they'd be by the gates anyway. Wanted to make sure this encounter is okay with you folks. In any event, Ciara should be far more agreeable than Jillian was.
As for the sheet below, I strongly recommend reading the story first and then the rest. You don't have to, but the story was written as a self-contained introduction that practically makes the rest of the sheet optional.
Introduction Story:
Sleek fingers wrapped in blackened leather tightened their grip around the sword handle. Two hands clutching a downwards pointing blade, its tip securely balanced on the polished stone floor. Her vision was downcast, dreamy silver eyes following the fuller of her weapon.
“Yes, they are right,” she said, her voice firm and unhesitating but sweet all the same. Her left knee, placed on the cold, hard floor, shifted ever so slightly, grating the steel kneepad against the ground. “I was a slave. For a long time. I understand you want to know everything?”
A cold void enveloped her stomach. She had no desire to open these wounds, but if this was the will of her goddess, she would gladly apply the knife.
“I know who you are, Ciara. But I need to know who you were, as well. There can be no secrets if you desire more than your current lot in life.”
His voice was raspy and merciless, like the ocean breeze in winter. She could see his gnarly, sandaled feet before her, just behind the gleaming iron blade of her sword inside which the nearby torchlight flickered.
“Then I will spare no details. Unless my memory should fail me,” she answered with a heavy heart.
“I was born in Relimon, in a fishing hamlet they call Vickerstine. A small and dreadful place for small and dreadful people,” she began, pausing only to snicker at her own description, “Nobody knows it. Nobody should, by rights, know it. Father was a carpenter, or what passed for one back there. He made crooked little chairs, gnarly little tables, and fixed moldy old shacks that some would call home. It was a big household but a small house. We were fourteen all in all: Father. Mother. Mother’s parents. Seven brothers. Two sisters. Me. I was the third youngest. I believe I was… eight? Nine? Still a girl. There wasn’t enough space. I shared a bed with three of my siblings. There wasn’t enough money, or clothing, or food.”
She paused to clear swallow and clear her throat. Her fingers relented their grasp, then clenched again, finger by finger.
“The only thing we had in abundance were children. And father had no purpose for girls. We were too fragile to make fragile little furniture. Or to go out fishing. Girls were good for cooking, making more little boys and maybe keeping a bed warm at night. That’s what we believed.”
“Truth is,” she added after taking a deep breath, “I don’t know for how much time they’ve been setting up their little deal. Maybe it was planned months ago. Maybe it was a spur of the moment decision. They never deigned to tell me. Only one day, it was a late, autumn evening, father called me to come outside. I hadn’t seen mother that day, but I heard her swallowing tears in the kitchen. I didn’t think much of it back then. This happened all the time.”
“As if crying would have changed a thing,” she added bitterly, her knuckles becoming white underneath the leather gloves.
“He called me outside,” she continued, doing her best to stay the course and not lose herself in emotion, “Father was talking to a group of men with toned skin and strong bodies. Not locals, I would have recognized them. Looked like seasoned seamen perhaps from the city. They had a large carriage with four horses. Other fathers were also speaking with the foreigners, each with one or more of their misbegotten offspring in tow. Girls, boys, it did not matter. Clinking bags exchanged filthy hands. Then they told the children to get on the cart. Some refused, tried to cling to their fathers, or run to their homes. That’s when they began to bind their feet and their hands. That’s when they beat them. I almost got away, but Eirik, one of my older brothers, caught me in the backyard. Dragged me back out.”
She swallowed again, pausing for longer. Her eyes closed.
“I hate him.”
A late evening sun painted Vickerstine in rusted golden hues. Poorly constructed wooden huts with straw rooftops pressed against the muddy shoreline. Beached boats lined the oily coast from which deeply dredged trails led back to the inner village where sturdy wooden crates and bundles of nets were propped up against the ramshackle huts. The stench of rotten fish prevailed over everything, enveloping the hamlet like a poisonous miasma. To the inhabitants, it was the smell of home, but to the slave traders from the city, who themselves were used to the stink of the city harbor, it was revolting, fouling their moods and tempers. One boy struggled so much while they bound him that they beat him until his nose bled and lips split open, then they threw him on the cart where his body almost crushed a frightened young girl that squealed in pain. Next they wanted to bind a little blonde, but she tore at her captors and bit one of them in the arm, drawing blood. Her head slammed against the side of the cart, dizzying her and causing her vision to blur. When she lay on the cart afterwards, like a piece of meat, her little silver eyes glared hatefully at her house until she could no longer see it.
The seed had been planted.
“We didn’t stay with the slavers,” she specified, her face now a mask of stone gazing at the ground so intensely that she had come to commit every speck of dust, every piece of rubble and every fold in the rock to memory. “They were just the hired muscle. The collectors. I don’t think they’re working under Relimonian law. But they’re cheap and efficient. Nobody asks too many questions in this business. Money exchanged hands again and we were given to a reputable slave trader operating from the capital. We weren’t beaten anymore from now on, but most were broken by now anyway. They saw to it that our bruises were healed or covered up, washed us. We were quite young so we were told how to behave and even given a bit of education while we waited for a buyer. Sometimes there would be inspections where they lined us up and had a client eye us up and down like a farmer would look at a sow he was thinking of buying. We were told we were lucky to be in Relimon. Overseas they treat slaves worse. I didn’t feel lucky.”
“It’s a shame we haven’t returned the isles to the oceans yet,” she commented with an absentminded smile. “And speaking of oceans. I would soon spend a lot of time being rocked by her sometimes gentle, sometimes violent waves. One day, an enterprising tradeswoman picked me up, I don’t know for how much. She commandeered a trade vessel that ran a route between Arkanoz and the mainland. The Gallant. The ship brought in shipments of medicine and brought back exotic foods and sometimes cheap slaves to be sold at a profit. Wouldn’t surprise me if we smuggled a box if Piaan every now and again but I know little of the business, it’s not what I was bought for. The captain wanted a handmaid, likely because her newfound wealth got to her head.”
Ciara paused for a moment, cocking her neck to the left and the right, each time provoking a subtle cracking noise. Having knelt for a while, the stiff positioning was becoming stifling. But she could not bring herself to feel bothered by the discomfort; she had endured far more painful and far more humiliating things in her life. This was nothing, and she would gladly kneel for the rest of the day if it brought Ismyel joy.
“All things considered, this was a turn for the better. The Gallant’s captain, Eva Levant by name, was as good a mistress as a slave could expect. I – I should mention I was about twelve, thirteen maybe by this time. Sorry. As I was saying, she was fair to me. Mostly. How she expected a smelly little runt from a forgotten fishing hamlet to know how to powder her face or neatly fold clothing is beyond me, but I learned. You might be surprised that the vessel’s captain was a woman. I know I was.”
She subtly wriggled a bit to try and move her body. Her tight leather harness was chafing and she could feel herself sweating underneath.
“I learned that the Melanians, degenerates that they may be, have far more respect for women than for men. In turn, this made trade deals much easier for Eva, who had learned how to engage the catfolk in such a way as to respect their customs and appeal to their sensibilities. I’m almost tempted to call her a smart woman, but she got greedy. Sailed further into the isles, began dealing with the Unseen. Travelled unsafe waters to reach untapped markets. It was a mistake that would ruin her.”
“Oh, how it ruined her,” she chuckled awkwardly. In the polished reflection of her sword, she could see her strange grin, framed by chin-length blonde hair. But then the expression vanished from her pale lips and her mien became grim once more. After a pause, she glumly added: “Ruined all of us.”
The entire vessel shook and leaned sideways when the great ballistae unloaded their broadside. The noise of dozens of arm-thick strings being released rumbled through every beam and plank of the ship. Frightened silver eyes stared upwards at the lantern dangling from the ceiling, which danced wildly from side to side, casting ever warping shadows across the lavishly decorated wooden bedchamber. The servant girl sat on a stool placed before a low desk, complete with drawers and with a large mirror situated on it. Her sleek arms were wrapped around her stomach, entire body shivering as if winter had invaded the cozy cabin.
“You really are a frightened little kitten, aren’t you, Lilian?” the other woman in the room, a tall brunette clad in fine silks, soft leather and wearing a rather large, feathered hat teased her servant. “This is one of the finest vessels in Relimon. We have about sixty ballistae and two mages aboard. This’ll be over in no time and we can all sleep soundly tonight.”
She sounded so confident in her crew and her vessel. Not for a moment did she believe that things could go sour. Whether her words belied her thoughts or not, the servant girl could not say. All she knew was that they were a far way from home, and they did not belong here in these savage waters.
Another barrage of heavy bolts left the ship’s starboard side, seeking vulnerable hulls to dig into. Again the entire vessel vibrated and rumbled in protest. Then the vessel was shaken a second time, more violently than before even, but without the accompanying sound of whizzing strings. Instead, there was the worrisome creaking of broken wood and bending iron. The frightened handmaid toppled from her stool and even the captain had to grab onto the front side of her bed to avoid falling. Dozens of men shouted above deck. Orders were shouted. Warcries were shouted. Dying screams were shouted. If one listened closely, one could hear the sound of clashing steel as men hacked at each other with saber and axe.
Worry crept up the captain’s face. This wasn’t part of the plan. The helmsman had been given the order to treat suspicious vessels with extreme prejudice. He should have engaged them at a sufficient range. There was no way anyone could have gotten into boarding range without sinking. Her orderly trade run had turned into a disaster. Thousands of Rodlins in losses. She would have to repair the vessel, hire new men. Not to mention the potential for damaged goods below deck. And if all of these concerns weren’t enough to give her a headache, her handmaid began weeping loudly on the floor.
Minutes went by, minutes of nail biting uncertainty. The captain sat on her bed, facing the door with a cocked crossbow in hand. A jeweled saber lay next to her. It had never seen combat, nor would it ever. The sounds of fighting had quieted down, but neither the captain nor her servant eased up – rather, they became even more tense.
Then they heard it. Thud. Thud. Thud. Somebody – no, multiples – were descending below deck towards the crew and the captain’s quarters. If they were coming to report of their victory, they would have been faster, and not so numerous. These steps were calculated, careful. They weren’t familiar with the ship. They were invading.
“Whatever happens now, don’t make a noise,” the captain whispered to her maidservant. Then she swallowed and spoke no more. She was trembling; her fine merchant fingers, more accustomed to counting Rodlins than to grasp a crossbow, were sweaty and uneasy. Unlikely she would even hit the mark if somebody were in the doorway, and she had only one shot.
Clink. Somebody tried to open the door; it was locked. They tried another time or two before realizing that gently pushing would not be sufficient. The captain nervously aimed her weapon at the door, aim swaying wildly. All she could think of was the Grand Relimon Harbor with its myriad vessels, a forest of masts adorned with colorful flags flapping in the wind while seagulls screamed in the fair skies above. And her mother who never ceased protesting against her daughter’s aspirations. In this moment she realized she would see neither ever again. And then the door was kicked in.
The seed took roots.
“The Gallant was seized by pirates,” Ciara explained factually and slowly, carefully measuring each word. She felt nothing but disdain for her former self as she recalled these events. All she could do was weep and beg and weep some more. A worthless wench. How did Ismyel ever find it in herself to uplift her from this sorry state? Perhaps she had seen potential that Ciara would have been blind to back then. They called her the spirit of evil, but to Ciara, she was the most magnanimous of all.
“Most of the crew was killed in the ensuing combat. The deck looked like a battlefield. Thick smoke and fog hang over everything, the floor littered with bodies, body parts and blood. Parts of the deck were burning. There had been four ships attacking us from all sides. They took massive losses, we sunk two of their ships, but we were overwhelmed. Those that survived – meaning those who surrendered and those who hid below deck – were taken as captives along with sackfuls of other spoils. I remember the remaining pirate captains, as well as their henchmen, arguing over who gets what. I couldn’t tell you how their feud went. I… was in no state to pay attention. Those were different days. I was worthless and they treated me as such.”
Ciara’s head sunk lower than before and her lips pressed together in a disapproving pucker. Eyes frowned angrily at the stone tile before her whose features she had become so very familiar with.
“I ended up on the ship belonging to a human – a tall, massive, sweaty, stinking, bearded brute of a man,” she continued, expressing every descriptive word associated with the pirate captain in such a seething tone, such disdain that it was hard not to feel intimidated by the undiluted hatred in her voice. “Captain Levant, as well as a few of her crewmen were also there. I knew none of them. They- They had… cages. Easier to fit below deck. Easier to stack. About… five by five feet I guess. Ahem.”
She cleared her throat as her voice began quivering towards the end. She had to rectify the angle at which she held her sword down numerous times now. Part of it was because of her arms becoming fatigued, part of it was the ice cold void that had slowly ascended from her stomach to her chest, gripping her heart and making her insides feel as though they had been left to freeze at the bottom of the ocean.
“I spent... I spent – about, I think, five years. Six years. I don’t remember. I lost count. I was there for a long time. You remember when I said they treated slaves badly in Melanaoth? Well… that was referring to the official ones. Those in the cities. I wasn’t one of those.”
Ciara gasped for breath. Her cheeks felt wet and hot. Her body quivered. She hated herself. She was a different person now, there was no room for weakness. This shameful display alone deserved punishment, and she would do so by telling this man everything she had gone through that her mind could recall. Perhaps this was the only way to expunge the last vestiges of frailty from her ailing mind. Thus, her tale continued as she slumped down on her sword, breaking form.
“Picture a rickety wooden vessel, barely sea-worthy. It’s not very big. It’s very crowded. Everyone is a man. Able bodied men, mostly young or middle aged at least. These aren’t men like those in the countryside or in the cities. These are the rejects of society. These are the filth at the bottom of civilization. They know not decency, they know not mercy. The only reason they cooperate at all is because they both fear and adore their captain, who keeps them docile with generous supplies of gold, alcohol, piaan and ‘wenches’. Half a decade or more is a long time to become intimately familiar with the customs of lawless seamen. Where do you want me to begin? The part where they have me scrub the deck in the nude? While they piss on it? Or the part where they wake me up in the dead of night, drunk as lords, tearing me between them because they can’t decide who gets to go first? How about the part where they feed me leftovers, if you can call it that? Or the part where I can’t fall asleep because the girl in the cage next to me can’t stop crying? Oh I know, how about that one time when the Melanian-“
“Enough,” the old man commanded sternly from his chair. “You did not come before me to receive my sympathy, nor have I any to give. Continue the narration.”
Ciara clenched her teeth and straightened herself once more. She could feel her golden hair sticking to her temples, wet with sweat. She would not apologize. He was right, however. She wanted no sympathy. Only the old Ciara would have wanted sympathy. The new one only wants to persevere. Wants revenge. Wants her every word and every action to exalt the goddess that both saved her and transformed her. And she never wants to be who she was before.
“As you wish,” she said plainly, exhaling a long breath to calm the nerves. “As I’ve said, I wasn’t the only one in this predicament. There were others, mostly girls. There weren’t too many men and they were often quickly sold. I understand the girls would have fetched a fine price on the isles, but they were also an inexhaustible drug to keep the rowdy crew pacified. A few years after my capture I met strangely large man – also a prisoner – in the holding decks below. They must have nabbed him during one of their raids. He was big and strong, perfect for hard labor. A good catch. Who would have thought he was a gentle soul though? I imagine that’s how they caught him. He almost certainly hadn’t fought back. He took pity on us, seemingly less concerned with his own fate than ours. Rightfully so, I suppose, but I had grown to forget that selflessness was a human trait at this point. Of course, there was naught he could do but talk, but he did so to share with us the names of the spirits and the gods, and what those names stood for. That’s how I learned of the name that is now branded on my flesh: Ismyel.”
Ciara paused yet again, feeling parched and tired. Her tale was approaching its climax and ending and this knowledge kept her going, kept her frozen in this dreadful kneeling position and talking her gums dry.
“He taught me some prayers. Taught me her symbol. Taught me her creeds, her boons and her demands. I believe he was a priest from Fokon. Or maybe a scholar. Either way, he had spent many years in the Joint Temple, studying the ancient scriptures. It doesn’t matter, I guess. Through him I learned to revere her name, and so I did. Day after day. Night after night. In my despair, I called out to other gods and spirits too, I admit. I was weak. But no answer ever came and my misery continued. Until, one night, I had a dream. More than that, it was a vision. It was too vivid, too detailed, too specific, to have been a dream. I did not understand it at first, but this vision kept haunting me every so often. Eventually, I had it daily. I saw flashes of it before my eyes even while awake. The vision consumed me until, eventually, I understood.”
A brief fit of coughing interrupted her tale. She wiped her pale lips with her left hand, the cold steel of her gauntlet feeling like ice against her dry skin.
“I need it,” the silver-eyed girl insisted sternly. Her body was bare, covered in bruises, scabs, dirt and dried blood. Her hands and face were almost black from the caked in filth.
“But it’s all I have… I – my mother-“ another girl with messy brown hair weakly insisted, her voice bordering on whining. She was nervously looking around, trying to spot some kind of escape. She was cornered.
Then she screamed and collapsed against the damp, rough wooden wall of the lower cargo deck. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed miserably.
“I will take your hairpin now,” the blonde declared confidently, feeling a subtle sting in her palm. The other girl did not protest and let the fair haired girl remove her hairpin. They spoke no more; the brown haired one cried herself to sleep, the blonde left the cargo deck. She had plans. On her way out, she put her hair up with her newly gained ornament, feeling pretty as a princess. A princess in a pig pen.
When she emerged on deck she was welcomed by dozens of leering, lustful eyes of animals wearing the skin of men. They were too busy at the time rigging the sails and repairing damaged sections of the ship to harass her. Not busy enough to not make vulgar and suggestive remarks, calling out to her. She ignored them all. They weren’t important to her yet. They wanted her, and they would get her. But not yet.
There was the captain, slumped on a rickety chair in front of the steering wheel. His face was fat and greasy, covered in black, coarse hairs. His breath stunk of dead things and alcohol. His beard infested with lice. His clothes tattered and old, covered in stains. He was more than just a captain; he was a despot. Sat like a king on the only chair on deck, bellowing commands to his crew as droplets of spittle fell into his beard. Then his eyes caught sight of her. Fragile. Small. Coy. Her gaze downcast and ashamed, legs pressed together. There she was scrubbing the floor from where various alcoholic and organic substances were spilled on deck. He loved seeing that and she knew it.
He was not a smart man. Smart enough, perhaps, to commandeer a vessel of sea dogs, but not smart enough to notice her new hairpin. Not smart enough to realize that she hadn’t acted this embarrassed in years. All he could think of was a more ‘fun’ time, long ago when they captured a grandiose trade vessel. This nostalgia would be his doom and that of his crew.
“I want you scrubbing my personal quarters tonight,” he slurred, his filthy head filled with rum already. “I’ll see you there or I’m gonna hurt ya’.”
His threats were empty. In a world of pain and suffering, what import did the promise of more of the same hold? All the same, she heeded his command. Her plan was working. Later that evening, she found herself cleaning the moldy floorboards in the captain’s chambers. A far cry from the quarters of her former captain. This ship was the embodiment of decay, both material and spiritual. Here on this vessel, everything rotted away.
The girl played her part. She had known this man for over half a decade now. Knew what he liked. Knew what drove him crazy. Animals are simple creatures, after all, and he had always been an animal. Looked like one. Lived like one. Would die like one, too.
He forced his bloating, greasy body onto her on the floor. She faked him a smile. She faked him feelings. She gave him everything he desired. When later she sat on top of him, she gave him the best time of his life – until she stopped, knowing exactly when to cut short to frustrate him. He would get no chance to question or reprimand her. With an eerie smile on her face she removed the hairpin from her soiled golden locks. Clutching it with both hands, shaking with excitement, she plunged the spiked end into his throat.
Their faces were close now. Blood and gurgling noises escaped from his maw as he gasped for air like a fish out of water. “It’s my turn now,” the silver-eyed girl whispered with a youthful giggle. His fat fingers tried to reach for her body, to somehow throw her off, but she did not relent. Out went the needle. In it went. Out it went. In again. Then into his left eye. Then into his right eye. She tried penetrating his forehead, but his skull was too thick. Up the nostrils the hairpin went.
It was her turn now. She defiled him. Spent minutes transforming his face. When she heard footsteps outside she screamed wildly, ecstatically. The men would know not to intrude. When the hairpin was little more than a crumpled iron string and the captain’s face an unrecognizable soup, she stopped. It was the happiest day of her life.
And the seed burst from the blood-soaked soil…
“I stabbed him needlessly. I thought about stopping but couldn’t. I couldn’t stop, my hands. My hands they wouldn’t stop moving, wouldn’t stop stabbing. I only stopped when the hairpin was too deformed to carry on.”
Her eyes were wide, face torn in a manic grimace. Even the memory of this event was enough to intoxicate her. Her exposed shoulders began to quiver and then she laughed, could not hold it back. It took a minute before she regained her bearing under the judgmental gaze of the old man in black robes before her.
“The best part – the best part is I pissed on him too before I got up. I – ah. Yes, the narration,” she snorted with the occasional chuckle, still unable to wipe that grin off her face. “This next part should be good. In my vision, after the deed, I would find a strange, pristine cloak in the same room. Black as night. It did not belong to the captain, nor had it been on the ship before then. So I turned around and, well, there it was. Just lying over a chair. My sweet little embrace. The next part of the plan was madness. Only a fool could have believed in it. A fool, or a zealot. I don’t know which I was, but it did not make a difference. It was too late to go back. Somebody would find the body. They would see me walk out of the room. I had blood all over my body. All over my hands. All over my face. I was bathed in it and had never felt so clean. The only way forward was to continue with the plan. It would either work, or I would die. Both options were fine.”
“So, I donned the cloak and took the captain’s saber. The saber, actually, had belonged to Eva Levant. He’d taken it as a trophy. To this day it had never been drawn for combat. Levant was too inept to fight. The pirate too decadent. But that day, I would make up for every one of those lost opportunities to shed blood. I believe the saber was encrusted with sapphires at the grip, but they’re rubies now. But maybe I wasn’t sane of mind. The cloak I wore was magical, you see. It made me invincible. Nothing could touch me. I even tried it myself: clenched my fist around the blade and pulled. My palm was unscathed. More than that, the cloak erased any sense of self-preservation from the others. It was as if they were all even more drunk than usual. So when I approached them, sword in hand, my naked body covered in blood, they did not think to panic. They only asked me to come closer and maybe play with their noodle. So I came closer, but I was the one doing the penetrating. I cut every single man aboard that ship. Dozens, you understand. There were so many my arm felt like tiring out towards the end. The deck overflowed with blood. The bodies were clogging up the corridors inside. I had such fun.”
The robed man’s eyes widened as he listened to her story. He had his doubts of course. The woman before him appeared more insane by the minute and he could not consider her a reliable narrator. Even so, her description of the cloak was too accurate to be a mere coincidence, mere fabrication. If what she said was true then… the implications would be enormous. He had to take her serious, against his better judgment, because if she spoke true and he chose not to believe her – no, he could not afford such a blunder. Religion, after all, was a matter of faith, and right now his faith was being put to the test. He would not fail her.
“What happened next?” he pressed her, making sure to obscure as much of his vested emotions as he could.
“It’s a bit of a haze. I was so drunk on the carnage I had wrought, so drunk on the freedom I had gained, that the following days are all a blur to me. I freed the other captives. When I showed them my masterpiece, they went mad with fright. My old captain stared at me with eyes like a frightened little kitten, then cowered in a corner and buried her face in her knees. She stayed like that for days. The others – I don’t know. I paid no attention. Somehow, we managed to return to the mainland, arriving somewhere in Relimon. Not sure why no other ships tried to hail or seize us. Maybe the lookout spotted the deck, full of rotting bodies that were now decaying in the sun and the rain, and decided to steer clear. I don’t know. But we arrived on the mainland, for better or for worse. We parted ways there. No goodbyes were said. Not sure where they went.
As for me, I dragged my failing body all the way to Gilmah. Got no memory of the road. I was more akin to a dead body shambling onwards. Do you remember how I collapsed on your doorstep?”
Asking a question for the first time, Ciara raised her head and looked the high priest directly in the eyes. She was serious now, no cheeky smile on her lips, no madness in the eyes.
“I crawled into your home on all fours, half dead. I was almost cast out but I found my voice just in time. Do you remember what I said?”
“I give my life. I give my life for Ismyel. It belongs to her. I belong to her. Make use of me as you will. I am yours.”
And then she fell silent, staring at the high priest with piercing silver eyes. Now only the gentle growling of torches could be heard in the dark, hollow room.
Name: Ciara (Doesn't give a last name) Race: Human, Relimonian Occupation: Paladin of Ismyel, the Spirit of Evil
Appearance: Often mistaken for a paladin of Liya or Deliph, Ciara stands tall and proud with an expression of openness and confidence on her face. Although her inviting demeanor defies expectations when it comes to those favored by the Spirit of Evil, her behavior belies her inner being the same as her clothing hides the large tattoo of Ismyel’s mark sprawled over her back. She is a woman of average height with pale blonde hair, cut straight at chin length, and an athletic build that speaks of a disciplined and hardworking lifestyle. The most striking feature of her face is no doubt the pair of unusually pale eyes, more silver than gray, which veer between attentive and dreamy depending on the circumstances. Aside from these, her face is rather plain, never having felt the touch of powders or rouges.
Ciara prefers form-fitting clothing, typically wearing some form of leather pants and a tight shirt that does not hide her somewhat ample bosom. Although she likes clothing made from more expensive materials such as silk, she has never once worn any kind of jewelry, nor does she intend to. Moreover, she strongly dislikes wearing skirts or dresses of any kind, they make her feel too feminine and vulnerable.
In combat she dons an armless jerkin and pants, both made of blackened and thick leather. Though offering less protection than plate or chain armor, these help her remain more mobile and quick on her feet and do not exhaust her as much over prolonged engagements or lengthy journeys. Her belt has a variety of bags attached to it, and on journeys outside of the city she also carries a knapsack on her back to contain supplies for the trek. While most of her body is protected only by leather – albeit of high quality – she covers some of her more important spots in something sturdier. In particular, she wears steel gauntlets over the elbow-length leather gloves as well as a sturdy pair of boots that come with metal shin plates and knee caps. Lastly, she puts on an open-faced helmet with a black and violet-colored plume prior to heading into battle.
Personality: There is a prevailing sense of aloofness about Ciara, some lingering impression of wrongness in her words and actions that is hard to quantify. She is largely an open and engaging person who appears to enjoy the company of others, regardless of their religious beliefs. In conversation she is polite to the extent of trying not to insult anyone, but every now and again it becomes apparent that she has a less than perfect grasp on social etiquette when she says things more plainly and openly than Rodorian sensibilities are used to, or when her humor ends up being too crass for people that aren’t sailors or mercenaries. This only becomes worse the more highly ranked people she talks to are; a meeting with nobility would be an outright disaster for her. Even so, those who can tolerate her uncouth manner will find in her a pleasant person to speak to. Only when she is pressed for personal information, particularly that relating to her past, she tenses up and becomes unwilling to speak.
Her main motivations in life are twofold: First and foremost, she is driven by an unrelenting desire to serve and exalt Ismyel with whom she has a fanatic kind of infatuation. She loves her chosen goddess and will do whatever she can to help those who would serve her as well. That is why she sought out the temple of Ismyel in Gilmah, so that she could conscript herself into the service of the clergy and become their paladin. It is unfortunate, then, that those serving the Spirit of Evil are known to be schemers that like to further their own agendas as much as they like to act in their goddess’s best interests. Ciara’s zealotry makes her blind to all but the most egregious of attempts to take advantage of her.
Secondly, and definitely taking a backseat to the former, is a strong hedonistic drive. As someone who has discovered that life has many pleasant things to offer only very recently, she has difficulty controlling her desires for entertainment and enjoyment, particularly of the sexual kind. Given her life’s story, this might come as a surprise, as there are really only two ways her views on this could have formed: Either she would have rejected sexuality as a whole or at least developed a very complicated relation to it, as one may have expected, or sex would have been robbed of all magic to her and have become something completely pedestrian and normal. For Ciara, the latter has happened; she sees the act of sleeping with another as something utterly harmless, like having a drink together or playing some sort of game. She understands that her views are uncommon, but cannot bring herself to see it any other way, especially since she happens to have a voracious appetite in this regard. Combined with a poor grasp on finances, Ciara is likely to spend most of her earnings on empty pleasures, abusable substances, gambling and the like.
In spite of her rampant hedonism, she is very industrious when it comes to her work ethic. She takes tasks given to her very seriously and has an honest desire to do a good job without cutting any corners. She doesn’t take naps on guard duties, doesn’t relent on the pursuit of criminals until they’re all accounted for. She’s proactive when it comes to physical exercise and combat training. She visits sermons in the temple whenever she can. In more modern terms, she very much is the type of person to “work hard and play hard”.
Her outlook in life is positive and confident, at least concerning her own fate. She believes that, as long as she remains steadfast in her veneration of Ismyel, that her goddess will shield her and make her invulnerable. This belief, too, make her rather fearless in battle where the same principle holds true in her mind. So long as every sword stroke is as if from Ismyel’s own hand, striking down all those that she hates, then none would have the strength to overcome her. So far, at least, her faith has been rewarded.
Concerning other people, politics and the like, however, Ciara views the world with a healthy dose of skepticism and cynicism. The world is a rotten place for rotten people and she does not believe that much good can come from the works of man. There are exceptions to the rule, and she appreciates them, but for the most part she leans towards pessimism first and will assume the worst before assuming the best.
Ciara is an even-tempered person, not too quick to have mood swings but not incapable thereof either, who appears calm in most situations. However, her collected demeanor, which could come off as cold and distanced, is softened by a joyful and confident facial expression. As far as most people – including herself – would believe, these are indeed her true feelings. It would take someone who has themselves experienced great pain and loss in life to see past this shell and discern that this is merely one side of her being. She would like to believe that her old self, Lilian, is dead but it is really just dormant deep inside of her. A frightened young girl who mourns the innocence that was robbed from her and mourns for the person she has become. Sometimes, in the dead of night when no one is near and her thoughts are unshackled, she cries silent tears, sometimes not even understanding why they come out of her eyes.
**I’d like to mention that my descriptions of personality are never fully inclusive or final; they are to be understood as guidelines I set for myself, as the idea I had of my character at the time of conception. As such, it is not impossible for the character to reveal new facets not described above, or even contradict one or more of the above descriptions, within reason. Characters, after a while, become living things with a mind of their own, and sometimes they simply do things we have not accounted for.**
Equipment: General: • Straight Sword A very common and unremarkable – if well-made and well maintained – weapon found throughout the duchies. Ciara’s sword has a double-edged, straight blade that is about 75 cm (29.5 inch) long. A basic, unembellished cross guard rests in between the blade and the leather-bound grip of the classic one-and-a-half-hand variety.
• Buckler The buckler is a small, light, round shield primarily intended for man to man combat with bladed weapons. This one is made entirely of metal and is dominated by a convex boss in the center that aids in deflecting blows to the side. The entire shield measures some 30 cm (12 inch) in diameter. Due to its compact size it can easily be strapped to the sword’s scabbard to provide minimal hindrance in everyday life, unlike larger shields.
• Knife A simple and practical, single-edged knife with a blade length of 14 cm (5.5 inch) and a total length of 23 cm (9 inch). Designed to be a tool and not weapon.
• Oil Roughly half a liter of oil contained in an iron flask. Used to prevent rust on the blades and create torches.
• Whetstone A worn whetstone to keep blades sharp.
• Money Ciara’s initial wealth is a whole 16 Rodlins which she carries on her person.
Specifically when travelling: • Rations Travelling rations of long-lasting foods such as clean water, dried fruits and cured meats. Quantity depends on the length of the journey and number of companions.
• Blankets A pair of comfortable wool blankets that can be used as a makeshift bed anywhere, providing relative warmth. Paired with a tent cloth to keep out the worst of the cold.
• Bandages Two rolls of fine linen bandages, thoroughly cleaned with alcohol in advance and best kept isolated from other supplies.
• Hand Axe Pragmatic axe with a total length of 40 cm (15.5 inch), made from a solid iron axe head and a wooden haft. Used to cut small to medium branches and chop them into pieces for campfires.
Approaching on bare, silent feet, Jillian tore Gerald out of his vengeful thoughts when she dropped her shirt on a nearby rock with a watery splat. She could only hope it would be dry enough to wear by the morning; at least it was somewhat windy. Next to the rock, she placed the sewn-together fabric that passed for shoes which were mercifully fashioned for her, though she hated wearing them all the same. A fresh breeze sent shivers down her spine and caused her arms to wrap protectively around her body. Spying her gloomy ally, the witch approached him with a certain stride and seated herself next to him on the stone he sat on.
“Don’t even think of protesting,” she began, pressing her shoulder against his. “I’m freezing my tits off.” Her eyes stared into the gentle campfire, longing for its warmth. For a while, she simply sat there in silence, soaking in what little heat she could and, eventually, also the stinging smell of his tea. Upon catching a whiff of it, she glanced at his cup and her tongue almost recoiled in memory of the taste.
“You sure seem to enjoy that vile brew.” She rubbed her arms and looked for eye contact. “Say, Gerald. We… have a lot of unsaid things between us right now. We’ll need time to get through all of it, I imagine. Time and trust. Both of these are hard gained, as it turns out.” Her voice was soft-spoken and gentle, both as a result of feeling tired and cold, as well as because of her desire to approach Gerald cautiously; less so in an effort to treat him tenderly, but in an attempt to avoid his cold-hearted rejections that he so enjoyed throwing in her face every so often.
“But, we do have a little bit of time as it stands. Is there… do you want to talk about something? Maybe understand each other more, or clear up some misunderstandings. It’s kind of hard to believe,” she chuckled briefly, “but we’re still practically strangers, Gerald. To me at least, it feels like it’s been a week.”
Yeah, Jill's understanding of the world beyond Rodoria is quite rudimentary. She's familiar with a handful of names here and there, could place them roughly accurately on a map, but otherwise knows only some horror stories from the Catolohne, whose culture she finds revolting (unsurprisingly, given she's a relatively emancipated woman). Contrasting Jill and Aemoten this way is kind of funny though, given her prejudices of him while he is far more liberal and accepting than she is. Point in case, she's even tolerant towards arranged marriages to an extent, given that the practice isn't horribly uncommon in higher circles and even her own sister was pressured into a convenient, rather than a passionate marriage. She's been raised to see lineage as an important value, and arranged marriage is an efficient method of ensuring the strength, purity and simply survival of these. A necessary evil, so to speak. Admittedly, though, I'm not 100% in the know of everything going on in the IC. Is there something particularly scandalous about this marriage between Zerul and Pelgaid that I'm not aware of? The description given by you two seems to paint the affair as something a little more extreme than what I'm imagining on a whim.
Jillian felt a tinge of pity for the great, winged creature when he expressed his feelings of sorrow over the loss he had felt this day. She could not even guess at his true age; hundreds at least, possibly thousands of years. An unfathomable time span for a mere human. Most of it he must have spent in the forest that she had just witnessed being turned into a wasteland. His home was gone, and so were all of its inhabitants save for Crone, if indeed she had always lived there. She doubted this. Loss on such a scale was difficult to accept and Jillian felt a degree of kinship with Renold. After all, she too had lost the things dear to her, even if in a less violent fashion, for the most part. Gerald too had known great loss, the only unknown here was Crone. She was old enough, certainly, to have been able to experience similar tragedies, if only by virtue of outliving the people dear to her. Everyone’s personal tragedy near this pond felt like a bonding link that tightened their alliance, if only by a little.
“Then it is decided,” the Green declared after everyone had agreed to back down and rest for the remainder of this evening before taking off into the sky to hunt. Similarly, Renold and Crone each went their own way, leaving the witch to figure out what to do with the time given to her now. Originally – before the communion with the Grand Master – she had intended to wash by the pond, preferably using Renold as visual cover. Reminding herself of this, she once again felt thorough disgust towards her filthy clothing and greasy, ungroomed hair. She’d simply have to make do without the great dragon.
“I’ll try to get some of this filth off of me,” Jillian said, grasping at one of her sleeves in an effort to appraise just how badly worn her attire was, eyeing it with revulsion. “Assuming the water hasn’t been tainted now and makes me catch some kind of demon plague.”
“I better not catch you peeping, Glass,” she chidingly added over her shoulder while she was trotting off towards the pond, her gait somewhat sluggish and saggy.
Moments later, coming to a halt just at the water’s murky edge, Jillian cast one last look behind herself, seeing Gerald by the campfire, evidently paying no attention to her. Unsurprising; she had come to know him as a quiet and introverted type, more interested in their own thoughts and goals than the outside world. Maybe her impression was wrong, however, as she’d only known him for less than a day. He resembled Vincent in that regard, although the latter had been more impressionable and less willful than Gerald. Jillian wondered how the two would get along if they had had the chance to meet, as her shirt fell into the damp grass to her right.
“Kreshtaat, it’s cold!” she muttered to herself, clutching her meager arms around her emaciated chest. After a brief moment, she outstretched her right hand and traced a handful of symbols in the air while softly whispering under her breath. Within seconds, a bright orange flame burst from her palm, which she cradled near body. With the other hand she fumbled on her makeshift skirt until it too became loose and was dropped on the ground. Then she carefully dipped one of her feet in the water, finding it expectedly cold. All she could think of was a luxurious tub filled with steaming warm water. What she wouldn’t give to have one now. Clenching her teeth, she sunk one foot, then two into the water, feeling them sink into the soft earth below the surface. She could only hope not to step on anything revolting. When she was at about waist depth, she knelt down and made her brightly burning flame vanish. Submerging herself in the water, she began scrubbing her body, then later dipped her head and hair underwater and thoroughly rubbed through her scarlet mane.
Some fifteen minutes later she returned ashore, dripping wet, quivering body and chattering teeth. Only the biting wind listened to her incessant, mumbled cursing, foul words to lament a foul fate. She grabbed her shirt and submerged it into the pond next, kneading it as best she could in the murky waters. While doing so she was reminded of the unusual foreigner who had given it to her, as well as his colorful group of followers. What a disastrously awkward meeting that had been. Was he from Catohlone? Golerin? He threatened Jillian at sword point (even going so far as to train his bizarre war animal on her), wanting to judge her for her actions when he had no authority over her, and seemed to keep that other insufferable woman around for unknown purposes, though the witch could hazard a guess. It would fit the bill for a Catohlone. But maybe she was mistaken. The woman had shown some aptitude for magic of some sort – the kind of which Jillian had never seen, seemingly able to inflict orders on other people. She would have to ask Gerald or Crone about that, maybe they could explain to her what she’d witnessed. Could have been favored power of some kind.
When she was done, she wrapped the blanket that had previously been but a skirt around her entire body. The cloth was plentiful enough to allow her to decently cover herself from the breasts down to just under her knees in thanks to her modest height. Dangling the wet shirt in one of her hands, she slowly returned to camp, curious eyes spying about for her companions and what they might have been up to in the meantime.
I don't know the books but this actually sounds really cool! I'm definitely keeping my eye on this. Will there be more information if/when the OOC goes up? I'm wondering, for instance, how traction cities even came to exist and become a thing in the first place. Seems like too ambitious and advanced a project for a people that's been returned to a new technological dark age. Not to mention there will almost certainly be all kinds of little details-questions that come up sooner or later. A map would also be helpful; I realize it's based on Earth, but you did mention that some oceans have evaporated so the topography has probably changed significantly from what it is today.
As said though, this is absolutely interesting to me. Flavor-wise I'm probably leaning towards doing something water-oriented, maybe one of those floating cities you mentioned.
“I’d like to share your optimism,” Jillian sneered, “But I find it hard to believe that what happened at Gariel Downs was anything but the worst case. I have no reason to assume things will go better from here on out. But if this is the only plan we have, then that’ll do. I owe you a debt, after all.”
“Just wishing we could have gotten this over with before I promised my soul to our mutual acquaintance,” she grumbled, casting a brief but scornful glance at Crone.
To her mind, she owed every person assembled here her life. Gerald had replenished her woefully drained magical reserves multiple times, and that was not even mentioning his brave defense of her unconscious form which she was not aware of. Crone and Renold, meanwhile, had saved both of them from the ruined forest and the inferno devouring it. There would be no shortage of people who would speak ill of Jillian's character, but she had at least as much of a conscience to honor the debt she owed. To think that she ended up here, all wound up in this mess, just because she was looking for kin, for someone like her who chose their own path in life and was ousted for it.
Perhaps that was why black magic, necromancy and the like were banished? That their wielders inadvertently attracted misery and loss? Or was it because their wielders were crippled by a world dismissive of their courage and tolerance that they could not help but be forced into hardship? She had to believe that the latter was true and the former was not, for that was what life had taught her so far. But what was Gerald’s story, she wondered. How did he end up a vagabond practicing the forbidden arts? Was it because of the Withering? Unlikely, considering the disease would have killed him long before he would have learned how to suppress it. A side benefit then. What was it that the Grand Master had said? Something about saving his late wife and unborn child, if he had become a necromancer sooner? Could they be the reason he risked so much to become a necromancer? He could not seriously be thinking of bringing them back, could he? So much time must have passed by now; there would be precious little left of them. At least, it would explain his bitterness. Jillian knew she gave up much in life, but she was happy in that instant that she did not have to see her own child die, if she had one, though she did lose her lover, superficial as feelings might have been.
What a sad world they lived in.
“So,” Jillian began, speaking softly as the onset of fatigue ate away at her, “I suppose everything’s clear then? We have a lot to do tomorrow, so I’m thinking we should use what little time we have left today to ease up a bit and catch some rest.”
“At least, I could use some,” she added with an impassionate shrug.
@ScreenAcne is probably right. If I stick to what I proposed earlier, that tone and function of the RP are at the basis, then that's pretty much the next step. Tally up everyone's preferences, put it together, and then either come to a compromise or discard the least favored options.
As for what I'm looking for, essentially this:
Tone: I tend to like grim, gritty and real-like settings. With real-like I mean things that are not, in fact, realistic, but close enough to appear as such and do not break my immersion thus. I also mean settings that, even if they don't follow the rules of our universe, follow the rules of their universe and never contradict themselves.
Function: Seems like more people are interested in doing story-first as opposed to game-first, and that's cool by me. Not that I'd be averse to playing, essentially, a forum board game if it came to that.
A chance to play a sci-fi race that I've had lying around for years now q_q
Rules: Really comes down to how much trust the GM invests in the lot of us. A tried and true option when it comes to "too" powerful techs: If it is desired as part of the story, let the GM control it. That way it's in objectively safe hands that we should be able to trust.
As I see it, these bans and rules (in a story-first RP) boil down to a question of trust. With great power comes great responsibility and all that. Can we trust a player we don't know with the scientific power to wipe out systems and travel between galaxies and timelines etc? In a scenario where you have a 100% trust attitude towards everyone else, you'd need no rules. You would trust that, whichever element the other person chose, will only improve the story, not detract from it. Ideally they have also made this choice to reinforce the theme and tone of the story, which was agreed upon in advance (example: all-devouring nanobots in a fatalistic and hopeless future). Such a scenario is highly unlikely though; essentially, I just described writing without other people, doing it yourself. So if we accept that restrictions on power levels are essentially a gauge of how skeptical you are of your players' ability to write responsibly then... well, then that's what we're looking at. I swear I had a point here somewhere D: Maybe it's a neat, new perspective to view the argument from.
Edit: Also, what Polybius just said, basically. Any element can work in a story, so long as everyone involved is mature enough not to ruin it, as catchamber put it. But if you're with a lot of people you don't know and you don't want to risk it, or you're skeptical because you had one too many powergamers, then setting defined limits is probably the way to go.
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