Atalanta

O R I F L A M M E

L A P L A G E

Interacting with Hildr @jasbraq

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There came a time when no other opponents met Osanna's blade. The Eskandr fleet still sat before the beach, a conglomeration of ships as endless and uncountable as a flock of migrating birds. They dotted the water so thickly that Osanna could not see the darkening horizon through them, a wall of planking, masts, and sails. For all their number, no more Eskandr stepped foot on the rain-drenched beach.

Around her, the defenders of Parrence screamed their victory, lobbing bursts of flame and lightning at the enemy ships, though most fell short to fizzle in the waves. Somewhere to the north, the roar of a knight rallying troops came dimly to her ears, the words lost beneath the wet slap of rain against armor. Osanna raised a sand-sticky hand to wipe at the water in her eyes; her clothes and hardened leather armor were all dark, in places with water and others with blood. Her boots were sand-caked, and she'd taken a blow to the shoulder that ached dully above the usual discomfort of exertion after a fight.

Osanna's blood still sang with the heart-pounding exhilaration of pitting her skill against others in a competition to the death, but unease now crowded in among the edges. Too many of the beach's defenders were surging away to the north. Surely the warriors of Eskand were not yet finished with them here?

Behind her, everything was a chaos of bodies. Foot soldiers fought their way up the dunes in sprays of sand and rainwater, the light of the setting sun glinting off weapons and armor. Osanna could not see the lady knight nor any of the others that had charged in with her—they could just as easily be halfway to the Witchwood or one of the dark, indistinguishable bodies sprawled in the sand. She hoped for their sake that Aun-Echeran had stayed her hand and that she would see them again on the other side of this conflict.

There seemed to be no one left in charge on the sands, and overwhelmed by the tumult, Osanna fought for higher ground. The insanity only deepened. A knight or noble Osanna did not know came thundering in on horseback, leading a group of mounted warriors. He shouted for those still on the beach to hold firm, to prepare themselves even as another wave of Eskandr forces landed on the beach amid salt spray and a barrage of ill-timed arrows. They swarmed up the incline like ants or locusts, mixing into the Parrench soldiers until the groups looked the same but for the differences in their dress and armor.

Osanna flung herself back into the fray, squinting against flying sand and rainwater. Nightmare visages sprouted in oozing, vaporous black, turning the friendly forms around her into the shapes of strange, hellish creatures from the depth of some curse she did not understand. By comparison, the enemy only looked stronger, frightening and impossible in their extraordinary size.

Unlike before, when Osanna first charged the beach surrounded by good fighters and facing normal men, her heart thudded in her chest with fear. She knew, on some level, that these strange sights were likely the work of an enemy mage, but she could not help but shudder when an Eskandr berserker with shoulders nearly as broad as she was tall barreled toward her.

Osanna killed him all the same, staying low and taking each opening afforded her, though allies died in droves on every side. Even she, servant of the death god she might be, flinched at the wonton loss of life. Nowhere did they fall in such great numbers than around a woman adorned as a Drudgunzean soldier. Her pale face was blood-spattered, and her hair whipped about in its braid. The tides of war pushed Osanna towards her, and she grit her teeth in anticipation of the meeting.

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Hildr the Red

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Hildr remembered the words of Wulfric every time she swung. 'Do not attract too much attention.' 'I know this.' She thought to herself. 'But how can I not enjoy putting my strength to the test against these men….' Her face would contort into something looking much like boredom as she now was just going through the motions. That dirty knight was somewhere here; she just needed to find him.

It became harder not to taunt the knights as they felt one after another; most she only left wounded as there was no reason to kill people that posed no threat to her. Instead of using her signature second sword, she now just used her bare fist to incapacitate any that her blade did not clash with. "Was Parrence really this pathetic? I thought Hrothgar would only go for big game!" The Kressian yelled out while trying her best to go as low with her voice to sound somewhat manly.

Seeing a Quentic Drudgunzean knight wielding a zweihander made her show some form of excitement, rushing his way. "Oi! You!" The knight turned to meet this regular-looking knight preparing to swing. "Why would a scrawny weakling like you wield such a big sword." As the zweihander swung the disguised woman's way, a grin formed on her face as she did not even attempt to block it nor avoid it. To the shock of the knight, this shorter knight punched the blunt side of the blade into the ground. "Not a great looker either; perhaps a closed helmet might've been better for you."

"Filthy Heathen, you will pay for that!" The knight, now angered from being shamed like that, had enough of playing with the other and began to swing blindly around the general area of the other knight. In attempts to block the swings the arming sword snapped, annoying Hildr enough to get tense. Dodging a couple of swings before finding an opening before ripping the blade of his hands… or rather using enough energy to rip the hand off his arm. Swinging the sword while still holding onto the blade caused the guard to cave in the knight's temple.

In his place, someone far smaller stood, a woman in simple half-plate and hardened leather. Her only weapons were a thin side sword and a long dagger, but she grinned with a sort of feral joy that Hildr knew. "I think it's about time someone put a stop to you. Aun-Echeran did not sanction your blade, though all the souls it reaps will be hers in the end." Her smile widened, and she lowered into a fighting stance, still amid the chaos.

"This one speaks! What a surprise to see a Quentic with enough pride to taunt others." The Drudgunzean laughed as she tried to get used to her newly acquired blade. "This one is a bit heavier than I'm used to, so you'll have to excuse my poor swordsmanship." Getting into a fighting stance, the knight's grin filled with excitement. "Don't think I will be easy to stop, little one."

The woman laughed again and switched her sword from her right hand to her left, completing the operation with surprising deftness despite the awkwardness of also holding a long knife. "Perhaps we should even the odds then? I wouldn't want to win too quickly." She still did not attack, evidently content to watch Hildr, amusement lifting her delicate, Parrench features.

"Even the odds? That doesn't sound likely for a Quentic dog to do. What slimy plan do you have in that head of yours?" The knight gritted her teeth in frustration. Did the other take her lightly? To be looked down upon. She's felled way bigger game than her. Who did she think she was? "Come at me then and see if you can win."

"Why? Are you too much of a coward to come at me? I thought the Drudgunzean were brave fighters, but maybe I'm wrong. I've certainly never had any trouble killing them before."

"Because you challenged me! That is why!" In a small fit of anger, she swung the zweihander into the ground, shaking the ground from the immense amount of energy.

The woman snorted, apparently only more amused by this display. "Perhaps. Perhaps I'm just trying to stall you. You're a lot less harmful here chatting with me than killing my friends." Still, the image of Hildr with her sword down and her guard exposed seemed to be too much of a draw for the small swordswoman. She stepped forward and, with a tiny, almost lazy flick of her wrist, cut loose the red cape clasped over Hildr's breastplate. Heavy with mud and rain, it slithered from her shoulders in a wet crumple.

"Fine by me. Fighting's been nothing but a bore anyway. Chatting like this has been a lot more entertaining than fighting these folk." A sigh left Hildr's mouth as the cape slowly fell off her. "I couldn't even be bothered to kill them, even though they will be asleep for a while."

"Well, if you can't be bothered to lift your sword, then killing you will be rather sadly easy. I must confess I was hoping for a bit more fun." This time, when the black-clad swordswoman moved, she drew blood, scoring a sharp line up Hildr's cheek before stepping back. What movements she made were small and controlled—finesse rather than force. She hardly stirred enough wind to ruffle her dark hair. "I'm afraid I do not have the luxury of avoiding this encounter. You see, I fight for the Pentad and their people. You will die, or I will. Do you know the Pentad? Or Echeran, keeper of the dead?"

"A cheap shot. Why not go for my neck? You could've just killed me right then and there." The woman looked rather annoyed when religion was brought up. "I really do not care for your faith, Quentic. I live by my will, and no god will influence that." Picking up the blade and getting into a fighting stance.

"Truthfully, it doesn't matter. You will meet him all the same. Fear not. In death, glory." The woman smiled again, her eyes on Hildr's sword. "Can you call anything a cheap shot if you do not defend yourself? Perhaps you hear Echeran's call even if you won't admit it. You should know the name of the one who will kill you." She bowed. "Osanna Lenoir."

"Hildr, my family's name is not of importance. Just know that cutting me has become an easy way for you to meet that Echareen or whatever you call them."

"Says the woman who will not meet my blade. Are all Drudgenzeans such wretched liars? Or are you an honorless dog even among a people who do not know who to fight for?"

That was enough for the knight to give a physical response by swinging the blade loosely at the other's direction, no longer concerned about hitting friend or foe. "That was your final warning."

Instead of answering, Osanna sidestepped the lazy swing and left another shallow cut on the outside of Hildr's thigh. "I'm not playing, Drudgunzean. Fight me or take the coward's path!"

Feeling the cut on her thigh, she threw a swift jab at the other's shoulder, not content with the swing speed of the zweihander. "Filthy sly bastard!"

Osanna leaped back, knocking the tip of Hildr's sword away, and disappeared. Around them, the rain was still falling in sheets, the clash and tumult of bodies churning the sand. Somewhere far off, a rumble started that grew and grew until the ground shook beneath them. Osanna flickered back into existence on Hildr's other side, her sword darting at Hildr's unarmored bicep. "Why, thank you," she quipped. "That's most accurate, though I can't say for certain if my parents were married or not."

The woman yelled with a force strong enough to resonate throughout the battlefield. Along with said yell came a blast of pure kinetic energy blowing away everything in its way. "You're pissing me off!"

When Hildr looked around again, Osanna was gone, though the ringing of her laughter still flickered around her ears. "Hide behind your magic then, coward. Echeran will still take you in the end."

---

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Osanna pulled herself up from the sand, cloaked in bent light so that no others could see her in the dark and storm of the battle. Yards away, Hildr still stood, force pouring off her like lava out of a volcano, irritable and uncontrolled. Not for the first time in her life, Osanna cursed the trick of fate that left some people with more magic than their bodies could possibly contain and others with little or none. She found they rarely seemed to deserve it. Hildr was unfocused, believed in nothing, and had not Osanna's skill with the blade, and yet, so long as magic surged through the Drudgunzean's veins, Osanna would never be able to openly best her.

Such was the will of the Pentad.

Osanna gritted her teeth and turned away, darting between writhing forms of fighters even as her skin began to warm, and the first vestiges of fever began to make her limbs shake. She had used her body's limit of power already. She would have to rely solely on her wits and skill the rest of the battle. She just hoped that the distraction had been enough, that she'd saved a few lives by keeping Hildr occupied. With any luck, some spell caster on their side would notice the force blast and head over to stop her. Osanna had done all she could.

It was enough to make her wonder what she was doing in this mess. Osanna knew how to fight, but in the open, against warriors like Hildr and Hrothgar and his elite, she could do little. Perhaps she should have approached this like an assassin from the beginning, staying hidden and taking out enemies with a mixture of poison and sharp blades. It was too late now. Osanna's pride had led her to throw herself into battle directly, and now she was wrung dry. Was this what the Archbishop had wanted? She could not tell. At least, so far, Echeran had spared her to fight another day.

The Sunday Group

Girl Lost in Time

Name: Jaelle Codona

Age: Died at 29

Appearance:

In Life

In life, Jaelle was a small, warm-skinned woman with a mass of black, wavy hair, light brown-gold eyes and strong features. Today, she often looks much the same, but more washed out, the gold of her jewelry and the vibrancy of her skirt and scarves lost.

Appearance is fairly fluid for a spirit, so often her appearance will reflect her mood or the current needs of the group. She's doing a new thing lately by trying out different styles of clothes.

Concept: The undead spirit of a Romani fortune teller bound to a bloodstone.

Roughly four years ago, Malcador Ravenwood (played by @POOHEAD189) found a stone mounted atop a staff in the bottom of an old tomb. It was a fortuitous find really—an excellent conduit, cleverly made and just as elegant as anyone could wish. Imagine his surprise, then, we he found Jaelle bound to it. The two of them discovered the Sunday Group a couple years ago and have been aiding them off and on.

Personality: Bubbly | Extrovert | Liar | Storyteller | Dramatic | Curious | Untrusting | Restless | Impatient

Powers/skills:

Incorporeal: Jaelle is incorporeal, so she can walk through walls/floors, change her appearance, and choose whether or not to be audible or visible. She cannot affect the physical world.

Pathway: While lending her soul to the bloodstone, it's weilder (a magic user) can cross into the spirit realm and converse with its denizens. Jaelle cannot cross over on her own because she is bound to the mortal plane, and cannot be forced into the stone, though a particularly rude person could threaten to break it and destroy her. She can go no further than 100 meters from the gem without experiencing pain and the threat of insanity.

Of a Different Time: Jaelle has all the skills of a young woman born to the Roma people in the past (she is never quite clear about exactly when shes from but Mal is pretty certain she was bound to the bloodstone no more than 150-200 years ago). She sings, dances, tells fortunes through palm and tarot. She was once a deft seamstress, cook, and pickpocket. Jaelle speaks Romani, German, and more recently, English. She doesn’t understand technology or much modern culture, but Netflix and the internet are helping.

Things Your Character Wants to Happen (probably wont):

To binge Netflix without having to go get someone to push the “Still Watching?” button. To touch the world again. To touch people again. To travel more. (Curse the sedentary nature of modern society!!)

Things You as a Writer Wants to Happen (Maybe will):

Character development arcs!

1: Trust. Janelle eventually reaches the point where she either has to or wants to tell the truth about how she ended up in the bloodstone. At first, every character who asks gets a different wild tale, all of which seem to include daring escapes and stunning sexual conquests.

2: Loss of Self. Unbound from bodies and the physical world, spirits cease to think and feel in the same manner as they did while alive, something Jaelle has seen during infrequent journeys into the spirit realm with the mage. She fears losing herself, and signs are starting to show... Does she make peace? Find away around the slip into insanity?

3: Family. The Romani are often nomadic peoples who don't have much governmental structure. Their typical until is a family, and Jaelle is just one Roma woman out of time and place. There's space for a surrogate family in her undeath.

Paranormal Detectives

O R I F L A M M E

C A P R E D A M E

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The fleet from Eskand materialized out of mist like breath or thought so that they did not arrive but simply appeared, god-driven. The maws of many-toothed ship heads loomed like mythical beasts reared back as to unleash torrents of flame, and the ropes holding closed the great furl of their sails snapped in a salt-tainted breeze.

Osanna’s mouth tasted of salt as well, dry with trepidation as four knights led by a man of Oraphe and one of the horsemen of the steppe rode back to join the main force at Cap Redame. Far ahead of her, in this shifting sea of creaking leather and rustling mail, they spoke to the soldiers, and their message was relayed back in a series of grunts and shouted orders. Take up defensive positions. Prepare to harry the Eskandr.

At the Rezaindian Convent in Chiroux, Osanna had been taught the ways of fighting. She knew how to draw a bow, how to heft a spear, how to wield a mace, and of course, always, from the time when she had begun as a child in stolen secret moments at night, there was the sword.

None of this had prepared her for open battle. She was a creature of the night, of silence, shadows, and slit throats.

This— This was madness.

With an avalanche of hooves, the force at the Cap Redame thundered forward, magic hissing to life around her as practitioners drew on their schools. The longships were just an arrow’s throw away, separated from the Parrench defenders by a thin line of rock cliffs and a stretch of wind-torn water. Despite their higher ground, the ships seemed to loom over them, large and unearthly.

Osanna drew back the string of the bow, timing her shot with the steps of her mare and the beating of her heart. It flew with dozens of other missiles, both magical and mundane, a barrage of steel and energy that must fell any opposing force. Osanna almost thought it would as the great ship positioned before them reeled in the water, slowing as fire bloomed over its deck, lighting along the mast like a torch for the Pentad. Osanna drew again, the arrow going wild as Shade tossed her mane, then drew again and struck true, just one among a clawed, roaring mass. Another ship careened away, and then a third.

If this was madness, then let her be mad. A wild, new exaltation filled her even as the first few drops of rain darkened Shade's gray hide. ”Echeran empower me in this fight against the heathen Eskandr. Let them fall to bloody deaths amid salt and fire and their souls become an offering to the Bringer of War. Should I fall... In death, glory.” Osanna shot another arrow, and then the reprisal came.

The first blast struck to Osanna’s right—lightning hot enough to singe her skin yards away. A shower of dirt and stone followed it, pelting her through her leathers and the thin opening in her helm. In the aftermath, her helmet rang with it, and no other sound managed to penetrate, the world falling to sudden, buzzing silence.

Shade reared, and Osanna fell from the saddle into churned earth, boots and hooves coming down in a frenzied panic around her. The ground shook. Shade side-stepped and snapped Osanna’s borrowed bow in two. The heavens split again, heat like no fire she had ever known leaving great, spidering scorch marks across the land even as it toppled man and beast alike.

All around her, the defense of Cap Redame was breaking, space opening up as knights and soldiers wheeled their horses around to flee. Osanna hauled herself to her feet, bruised but whole, and reached for her horse only to find the gray galloping back towards camp, Osanna’s saddle fallen haphazardly to the side as the girth tore partially open.

There was nothing else for it. Osanna ran.

Earth sprayed up behind her, the air miasmic with smoke and rain. The muscles of her belly stretched, her thighs reaching up in a full sprint. A passing warrior on a big, bay warhorse held out a hand and half-hefted Osanna up, her armor splattered with dirt and gore, and Osanna scrambled for a hold around her waist.

For several moments, there was nothing but the rhythm of horse hooves, Osanna bouncing against the rump without the benefit of a saddle. A dark braid fluttered beneath the rim of the knight’s helm, sending strands whipping across her face, and the crashes of rock and splintering wood continued behind them.

“You up for more?” The woman’s voice was half torn from her lips by the wind, and Osanna just laughed in response. More of what? The bombardment?

They joined a party of fleeing defenders from the Cap as they came upon a stretch of beach to the north where a number of enemy boats were just nosing up to the sand. It was beginning to rain, a cleansing patter that soaked through Osanna’s leathers and obscured the thin stretch of land she could see through the slit in her helm. She tore it off her head and left it in the mud behind them; she would be able to see better without it.

The small group of defenders slowed to regroup. There were so many less than there had been, a ragtag assortment of lesser knights and soldiers. They weren’t the only such party that Osanna could see, but they were the closest to the beach—if beach was even the word for it any longer given the strange pools, trees, and protrusions now dotting the sand. Osanna braced herself against the lady knight’s shoulder and swung off the horse.

It was calm, just for a moment. Osanna had a breath to find herself, and she leaned back, letting the rain splatter across her face before drawing her sword.

“Are you ready?”

Osanna grinned up at the knight and made the sign of Echeran with her sword hand, drawing her dagger with her left. “Find me after?”

The knight just laughed, and then they were charging again, spilling out onto the sand like an inkblot over fresh paper. They hit the first Eskandr to jump off their boats in a tide of bodies, Osanna flicking between them, her sword leaping into the nooks offered by armor.

A big, fur-cloak warrior ran in with a longsword, attempting to cut her in two, bringing his blade down in a heavy-handed sweep. Osanna just side-stepped slightly, letting his weapon slide down the length of her raised sword even as she thrust her dagger through his throat. The next was more cautious, standing back with his blade raised in a guard. Osanna sheathed her dagger and gripped the edge of her sword in her left hand, shoving aside her opponent’s weapon and sliding the honed tip through his throat in one smooth motion. She took up a shield dropped by a fallen Parrench soldier and took the brunt of a heavy bash from another Eskandr, reaching around to hamstring his unguarded left leg. When he fell, she put her sword tip through his eye.

All around her was a chaos of blood-mad bodies, but this sort of battle made sense. It was a sword in her hand, a touch of Force in her veins. Dancing in the rain.

O R I F L A M M E

Osanna, like any educated user of the Arcane, knew that darkness did not exist in the way that heat or electricity did. It could not be touched or called forth or created. It was only an emptiness, a lack of sense left behind in the wake of flames or sunshine, an absence of light the way silence is an absence of sound. And yet, as Osanna pulled darkness over herself like a second cloak, she was half-sure she could feel it, cold and silken against her bare cheeks and the backs of her palms.

In broad daylight, the spell would not have completely hidden Osanna. She would appear faded— a ghostly after image of a woman dark leathers, a black hood pulled up over her head. Now, in the middle of a cloudy night, perched in the deep shadow of a noble’s estate, she was invisible so long as she avoided torchlight.

The home of Jaquet Asselin was an old, finely built construction of cream stone with an enormous main building and a south-facing wing complete with a windowed tower, its rough facade boasting rich, red pendants only a little frayed at their ends. The grounds were simply adorned, plants and bushes kept well away from the walls to give passing guards a clear view, their torches spilling light over close-cropped grasses. The reaching fingers of light never touched Osanna where she sat crouched in the loam, her breaths full of the smells of dew-touched earth and smoke, and she smiled as she watched them leave, drawing droplets of power from the fire they carried.

When the night was empty once more, Osanna stood, slipping wraith-like along the side of the south wing until she came to the tower. The protrusion of the tower stone from the wall created a pocket of deeper cover, the darkness so complete that Osanna searched for toe and finger holds more by touch than sight as she began to slowly work her way up. It was a cool evening, wind stirring the long train of her cloak, but not cold enough for ice to be a concern, and the rough stone provided enough leverage that Osanna did not even have to expend Force magic to aid herself up— a good thing too. Tonight’s supplicant was a magic-user, and it was always best to go in with as many tricks as possible when facing a stronger opponent.

Near the top, Osanna moved, spider-like from the corner around to the front of the tower where a window sat latched against the chill. Flickering light from a single lard candle filtered from it, weak and tenuous against the night. She pressed her forehead to the glass, peering between the iron frame that held the individual pieces in place. It was just translucent enough to give an impression of the room— chairs, bookshelves, and a tall desk with what appeared to be a human sitting with their back to her. Excellent. The household servants had been correct.

With a tiny amount of telekinesis , Osanna flicked open the window’s latch and slid it open just an inch, a breath of warm air and the scents of paper and mulled wine rushing out to meet her. She perched in complete stillness for fifteen heartbeats, relaxing when she heard the shuffling of parchment within. Osanna drew a small, hard leather tube from a pouch at her waist and pulled it open with only a little resistance from the two pieces. Carefully she shook a single small dart onto the windowsill, leaning close to assure herself that it was dipped in white wax even as her other arm trembled from the effort of holding her in place. Another morsel of telekinesis was enough to wish the paralyzer into the room and the neck of the figure sitting behind the desk, but Osanna didn’t relax until she heard him slump.

There was no knowing why Jaquet Asselin needed to be killed. Such moral quandaries were best left to those higher within the church—bishops and archbishops and the occasional abbot or abbess. Osanna was merely a clever knife in Echeran’s hands. A blade very apt at blood-letting.

She slipped, shadow-silent into the room, taking in the friendly disarray of parchment, books, and scrolls. A quill still rested in the hand of the still-breathing man at the desk, its black-tipped feather resting gently against a signet ring on Jaquet Asselin’s middle finger. Voices came distantly from the hall, but those that passed knew better than to disturb the estate’s master. The door stayed firmly closed.

Osanna drew her long knife, pausing long enough to slip off the man’s ring before she carved open his neck, spilling a river of crimson gore over the beautiful hardwood desk. The poison kept him quiet— Osanna did not even know if he was aware until it all ended. “Safe passage, blessed of Echeran. May you find peace in the Pentad’s embrace.”

The only thing to Osanna left for those who found the corpse was a hand print in dead man’s blood

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“It’s finished, your grace.”

Osanna slipped cheerfully into the private office of the Archbishop of Relouse on a beautiful Stresian morning, her hair newly braided with a few small, white wildflowers and free of her dark cloak. There was a songbird at the window, and the smell of fragrant tea wafted up from the archbishop’s teacup.

“Oh?” The archbishop looked up from his morning reading of the Menanne to take her in. He hadn’t been expecting her this morning, and as they had not yet formally met, he would not know why she’d come. Neither did he look particularly put off, probably assuming that she’d been let up by those meant to protect him.

To remedy his confusion, Osanna laid the signet ring of Jaquet Asselin on the desk before him, stepping into a patch of sunlight coming through an open window, and basking in the warmth. This was a young man for an archbishop, she thought, and he took his time examining the ring before looking up at her again.

“Osanna Le’Noir, I presume?”

“Yes, your grace.” She smiled at him winningly and gave a little bow.

“I believe your abbess told you that your purpose here would be two-fold. One, to act for Aun-Echeran, and the other… Did she tell you what it was? I must confess you are not what I was expecting.”

“I find that I rarely am.” Osanna had only been told only that this would be a task that might take months or even years. It was a long time to be away from home for sure, but she found herself enthused by the prospect. Was she being sent to Eskand to make a difference in the coming war? “But no. She did not tell me.”

“There is a war brewing in Parrence, Osanna. Even now Eskandr ships make their way to our coastline, and the Church will stand with King Arcel against the onslaught. Monasteries and convents all over Parrence are sending money, supplies, food, and warriors. Your convent has chosen to send you.” Osanna couldn’t tell if he was impressed with this offering or not. “King Arcel has already received word of your addition to his force. You will travel there and lend them your strength, and should King Arcel ask you to use your skills, you will treat each request as though they came from Aun-Echeran herself.”

---

There was a rumor circulating camp of a welcoming force to harry the Eskandr as they sailed to the cape, and as Osanna had no better task to occupy her time, she left the fires of the Red Rezaindians she had recently befriended and set about finding her horse and a bow unless some other distraction came along first…

The Shattered Realms

Interested!

O R I F L A M M E

@Force and Fury

I think I fixed the hex code. I ended up having to separate it into two lines, but it’s legible now even on mobile.

The Hunt

Bump

O R I F L A M M E

Osanna

Osanna Lenoir__ _ _ _ _

22|F E M A L E|R E Z A I N D I A N O R D E R|__ _ _ _

|F O R C E & A R C A N E|I N F I L T R A T O R__ _ _ _

C H A R A C T E R I S T I C S__ _ _ _ _

Osanna is of average height and build, though her arms, back, and legs are corded after a decade of dedicated training in the sword and stealth. She has brown hair just longer than shoulder-length, light brown eyes, and full lips. There is a tattoo of a skull on her left hip.

She is affable and educated enough to move between most social circles. She is inquisitive by nature, intelligent, and often shows a dark sense of humor. Her motivation is entirely based on the Rezaindian Order. She is no rebel. She believes in her God, in her calling, in her superiors. For those interested in a more nuanced or contrasting worldview, she may come across as dull, but she is nothing if not dedicated.

Osanna sees herself as a tool to be used by the hand of her God and is motivated first and foremost by performing that duty well. She is not inhuman, however, and feels a desire to be liked by her peers. She covets close relationships but is not ill-contented with her life.

B A C K G R O U N D__ _ _ _ _

| From Osanna’s Journal |

Our order is not filled with those of noble blood. It is rarely touched, even, by the wealthy, though our Abbotts and Bishops, perhaps, hold that lofty station. We are the extra children, the unwanted, the last-born to homes rife with mouths to feed. We are the sons and daughters of Parrece’s lowliest scoundrels and criminals.

And still, Echeran takes us.

I was no different. Left at the Convent at Chiroux as a babe, I was accepted into the order as all donations are—clothed in the shades of the Echeran and given a purpose.

For years, that purpose was simple— to clean and mend cloth and tend fires. I learned to read from the Menanne, to sing praises to the Gods, to say my prayers first to Echeran and then to the others of the Pentad. The nuns taught me the geography of our world, basic arithmetic, the Avincian tongue, and the ways of caring for the dead.

All the children of the convent were taught such until we reached the age of twelve when we were given to the suborders. I was slotted to wear the Grey, to spend my life in the careful preparation of the dead and their mourning so that they might pass safely into the care of Echeran’s hands. But— Echeran spare me— I was not happy with that calling. My entire life, I had watched the Reds, the strong-armed women in their rich, crimson capes and real steel strapped to their sides. There were a handful or two who lived regularly in our convent, and I am only a little ashamed to say that I idolized them.

I watched their training with avid interest, taking rough chores in the stable or gardens to be closer to their labors. Their shadows were more familiar to me than my own as I made myself one of them, listening to their talk, their laughter. At night, when the rest of the convent slept, I slipped into the rooms where they kept their practice weapons and drilled the forms I had learned from watching them practice in the day.

In all this time, it did not occur to me to take what I learned to my superiors, to show them that I deserved the place that I longed for. I was always a guarded, quiet thing, so it was nearly a full year into my training with the Grey Rezaindians of our order that I was caught with a borrowed sword in my hand in the shadowed recesses of our convent’s land.

I was terrified. As a biddable child, I was never much in trouble, and the seriousness with which the red-cloaked sister hauled me to our convent’s upper floors had my head spinning with imagined tortures. Would they kill me? Take away my chance of becoming a nun? Or worst of all, banish me from my home and the protection of the convent?

Instead, I was taken before the abbess and a woman in black who I knew to be of prominence in the convent. I was not sure of her order. They and the Red Rezaindian who had discovered my transgression asked many questions about the length and nature of my nightly training sessions, how long they had gone on, and to what level of skill I had reached. I answered truthfully, too frightened to do anything else, and when I told them that I had done it out of respect and awe of the red-cloaked sisters, the abbess smiled. She told me that I had done well, that my skills would serve Echeran. She told me that my blade would kill for our order.

And so it has.

My training began in earnest then— at night much of the time, though I have never known for sure if it was because of the secrecy of the Black Rezaindians or because my teachers preferred the dark hours to the light. My natural abilities with stealth were given direction, my knowledge of languages expanded, and an understanding of poisons and antidotes drilled into my mind. I was given regular training with the red sisters, though I then understood I would never be one of them. My mornings were spent in meditation, my afternoons in study of The Gift.

Then, when it became time to pay back the order for all it had given me, I began to kill, and to kill well. I accepted requests from my abbess passed, often, from above even her head. When I proved successful, I was moved wherever I was needed, given contracts both close to home and far afield. I have ever been one of many. A tool to be wielded. A knife in the dark.

Such has been my life for years, and so would it have continued if not for the call to Relouse from King Arcel of Parrence…

I N V E N T O R Y__ _ _ _ _

❖ A long, thin-bladed side sword. It has a simple, worn leather hilt, and the blade is real steel.
❖ A long knife for parrying
❖ Two well-balanced throwing knives
❖ A collection of powdered poisons and antidotes
❖ A set of hollow darts (no blowing necessary)
❖ Sturdy leather boots, a few changes of simple, dark garb
❖ Boiled leather cuirass, bracers,and greaves
❖ Long black cloak wide enough to serve as a blanket
❖ The Necessities: Travel Rations, Bedroll, Sewing Needles, Thread, Rope
❖ A stolid grey mare named Shade

T H E G I F T__ _ _ _ _

Five Wheels Rating: 2

In general, Osanna's magical ability is small. It is her cleverness that makes it so useful.

Favoured School: Force

Osanna primarily uses Force magic to augment her impressive abilities with swords, and to a lesser extent, knives. This is her main offensive magical ability, though there have been instances in which a small amount of telekinesis allowed her to down an enemy— throwing sand into eyes or manipulating a poisoned dart for instance. She does not have the capacity to levitate herself or other large objects, but will occasionally give herself a push to leap a little farther, move a little faster, or hit a little harder.

Secondary School: Arcane

Osanna primarily uses the Arcane school to draw power and to hide when she needs to get away quickly. The sisters of her convent taught her to bend light around herself and disappear into shadows, though she is not powerful enough to disappear completely in bright light. Once or twice, it has been helpful to flash a little light into the eyes of an opponent or make a glow to see by in the pitch dark.

S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S__ _ _ _ _

❖ Sword Mastery
❖ Stealth
❖ Knowledge of Poisons and Antidotes
❖ Intelligence

W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S__ _ _ _ _

❖ Low Magical Capacity
❖ Poor Defence (relies on hiding and subversion)
❖ Poor understanding of lands and people outside of Parrence
❖ Poor Mounted Combat ability

D I C E S T A T S__ _ _ _ _

-Can flip a coin (roll d2) to gain a stealth attack or defense bonus (+2).

— Osanna gets to roll 1d3 for her stealth bonus (+2) instead of a coin flip. In low visibility (fog, rain, shadow, night, smoke, etc), odd numbers grant the buff (a 66% chance). In good visibility or bright light, evens give the buff (33% chance)

-May choose to roll with 5d3 if her attack involves multiple impact points. (d20 for one large impact point.)

-When stealthed successfully, cannot suffer a catastrophic wound.

— Successfully poisoning enemies grants some form of dice control. OR A flat bonus on rolls involving poisoned attacks, but she only gets so many per engagement. (To be refined.)

C O L O U R C O D E & O T H E R__ _ _ _ _

❖ hex code

⫸ New World Order ⫷

Interested!