Steve Mincraft. The dude breaks trees with his fists.
Bio
I'm Liv Savell, and here are some things I've written:
❖ Vassal (Call of Calamity Book I) ❖ Goddess (Call of Calamity Book II) ❖ Shepherd of Souls (Shepherd of Souls Book I) ❖ Death Seeker (Shepherd of Souls Book II) ❖ The Thistle Queen’s Thorns (Kindle Vella) ❖ The Last Contender (Song of the Lost Book I) ❖ Emissary to the Frost Wolf (Song of the Lost Book II) Available July 23rd 2024 ❖ Title Announcement Pending (Song of the Lost Book III) Available 2025
Osanna shoved through the city gate in a tide of bodies. Armored forms jostled her broken arm, elbowed her sides, and pushed her into other soldiers in their haste to answer the call. Many were wounded, and their screams tainted the night, the smell of blood and shit and vomit heavy in the air.
For a Black Rezaindian, death was usually a tidy thing. Osanna slipped open locked doors in the darkest hours, dealing in poison and quick-slit throats. She left bodies slumped over desks or in their cups or curled beneath a crimson blanket in their beds. The judgment of Echeran was swift but not cruel. By contrast, this war was filthy.
When she was finally through, Osanna stumbled through muddy streets until she found a wall to lean on, pressing her shoulders against cool stone, the squelch and slick of mud beneath her feet. Her hip throbbed with the trickle of blood she’d not been able to stem one-handed. Her collar and left arm ached unless they were jostled and then lit up with fiery pain. She needed care, needed to get to a mender.
The makeshift tents for the wounded smelled worse than the stampede of soldiers filtering through the gate. A miasma of pain and rot tainted the air like poison, and Osanna gagged as she was pushed into a cot. Time passed in strange leaps and jolts. The figure of a soft-faced boy in a giant’s armor swam beneath her eyelids, and the man in the cot nearest her died gasping, blood gurgling from his lips.
And then, the miasma began to lift. Two women moved through the tent, laying their hands on the ill. Osanna looked up into the eyes of a sharp-faced Yasoi lady, and her bones began to knit together.
M O R N I N G
“Osanna.”
Osanna opened her eyes to sun-lit canvas, the warmth of late morning heating Dame Sabine Dupont’s tent. The lady sat within arm’s reach, pulling a tunic down over pale skin and reaching up to tie back red hair. Osanna yawned and scrubbed at her face, trying to rub away the beginnings of a headache. Her mouth was parched.
“What are you doing that for?” Osanna couldn’t imagine that the Parrench army was leaving already. They needed time to recoup their losses and recover from their wounds, and there was the small matter of the Eskandr army outside the walls. She hooked a finger in the hem of Dame Sabine’s leggings, only to be swatted away.
“You need to dress too. The king has called for us both to meet him at the red table, though unfortunately not at the same time. It seems we’re needed for two different reprisals.”
“Whatever will I do without you around to sweep me off the battlefield?”
Sabine rolled her eyes. “I suggest you keep a better hold on your horse.”
Osanna groaned again and sank back into the bedroll. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance she made it back within the walls before they closed.”
“You might be surprised. Horses tend to return to the nearest source of food, and you lost her at the beginning of the battle. Now up, oh battler of Nashorns.”
“You still don’t believe me, then?”
“I’m starting to— begrudgingly. I overheard soldiers talking today about the little nun who took on the giant. Though you’re not that small. It’s still up in the air.”
“Hah hah.” Osanna pulled on her trousers and buttoned her sword belt over them. “I’ll show you little if you meet me on the sparring field.”
“I’d rather meet you back here if we don’t get shipped off today. Go, or you’ll be late."
T H E R E D T A B L E
Osanna met Arcel’s gaze as he looked briefly at her and glanced around the round table, her eyes lingering briefly on a pale girl with green hair and an older man in Rezaindian robes that she had not seen before. It wasn’t clear what his order was— Red, maybe? Unless he was here to care for the dead.
She listened to Arcel’s speech dutifully enough, but in the end, it did not matter much to her whether he sent her to steal into the Eskandr camps or to slip, wraith-like, through their halls. The archbishop had been clear—Osanna was to treat the king like a superior in the church, and it did not change much to have the order come from an abbot or a bishop or a monarch. It was the same job, and she’d always enjoyed doing it well.
From within, the bloodstone felt almost incomprehensibly vast, a hollow sphere of red stone, the edges of which blurred to indistinguishable blood-fog with distance. It was lit from outside so that she could only see the color now because of daylight. All those insufferable years in the dark of a tomb, she had seen nothing but black. It was silent now, though when the edges of the living world lay close to that of the dead, moans and voices slipped through.
The bloodstone was a necessity of Jaelle’s continued existence in the world unless she wanted to fade away, to lose her mind to the vast nothingness beyond. But that couldn’t keep her from hating it. Prison and lifeline in equal parts.
Time did not seem to pass quite the same while she hid within, so it was not long before the light around Jaelle changed—morning sun to a bright, phosphorescent glare. She relaxed. The cop that spoke to Eleanor at the crime scene made her more than a little uncomfortable, even invisible as she could be to mortal eyes. If she and Mal were inside somewhere, they had likely gotten away fine.
With a little bit of effort, Jaelle moved toward the edges of the bloodstone, the space of a few millimeters stretching ahead like miles. When she finally made it, she pressed her face to the inside of the stone, squinting at the fuzzy shapes of the world outside—sharp edges, bright lights, the softer forms of desk chairs.
The office?
Jaelle took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and imagined a door on the inside of the gem. It bloomed into existence, the same red hue as everything around it, but with a big, old-fashioned handle. Light leaked from the keyhole, white and green and promising entrance to the real world. She reached out and turned the handle. Leaving the bloodstone didn’t feel like much of anything, really—like stepping through an inanimate object. Then she was out, the world immeasurably brighter and full of color. It was a good thing she didn’t have physical eyes any longer, or the difference might have been uncomfortable.
She was in, of all places, Mal’s office. It was fine as far as offices went, she supposed. More carefully decorated than Mal’s house with impressive-looking magical objects and thick, dusty tombs lining the shelves. Disappointing. She had wanted to see something more interesting than Mal chanting to yet another rock in his collection.
“Mal, why are we here? Aren’t there like people to question? Clues to track down? Strange, hidden parts of New Orleans to uncover? I thought Primrose said something about witnesses at a gas station.”
Honestly, why he insisted on spending so much time at the same few places every day was beyond her. People these days were far too well-rooted. Never mind security! There was a whole world out there, and they could still touch it. Why waste that time in one place?
“What are you doing, anyway? Did the others come back too?”
I'm having to take an unexpected flight home due to a family emergency. Jaelle can accompany Mal out of sight if need be. I'm sorry to do this to you guys, and I'm looking forward to writing with you more when I return.
East of the beach, Osanna found a measure of peace tucked under the protective edge of an overturned wagon. She took a long draw from her waterskin, letting go of the magic hiding her now that she had a physical barrier, and started to draw. There was plenty to draw from—the thunder of the waves, the clash of steel, even the grunting effort of bodies. Arcane was little aid with the sky so dark, but that would only prove to her advantage when Osanna needed to hide again.
She closed her eyes. Here, protected, the battle felt far off, just a roar of noise and movement in the background. In this relative still, she began to pray, her lips moving in silent words to the Death God, words meant for no mortal ears. In her supplication, she found respite from anger and frustration and rest for her body after the exertion of the battle so far.
There was much to be thankful for. Osanna was alive, unharmed, and now, once more filled with what power she could command. It was time to stop playing soldier and start acting like the assassin she had spent her life training to be. The shadows were both her best defense and her weapon of choice. Now, she would use them.
Osanna slipped out of her makeshift shelter and into the night, drawing her cloak around her armor and the hood over her head to hide the glints of metal and skin. She would need to be conservative with what magic she had. The rain-slick forms of bodies still thrashed in bloody effort to the west, but much closer, Osanna watched a beam of light brighten Sir Rodric’s face before hitting his opponent in the chest. The mountain of a man kept his feet, and Rodric, by contrast, looked shaken. Osanna moved in to lend him aid.
Osanna slipped in behind the brute while his back was turned, but some minuscule noise must have given away her approach and without the covering of shadows, he easily repelled her first blow. Deftly, she dropped back, disappearing from sight as a knight charged in from the other side. She reevaluated the opponent, watching closely as he deflected the knight's arrows and sent them flying back towards him. This was not going to be a simple encounter.
“Esheran, empower me,” she whispered, moving around her opponent under the cover of night and magic. With him reeling from Rodric’s attack, she pressed the advantage, raising her sword to pierce through the eye open behind the slit in his helm. She felt no remorse for the death of this man. He would go to Echeran, be judged and kept.
The blade went in, but not as deeply as Osanna had intended, and the Nashorn shoved her away, roaring as she danced back out of harm’s way. Before she could catch her breath, before she could call for the magic to hide her or put some distance between herself and this beast, he attacked. Osanna threw up her sword to block the mighty blow, but it wouldn’t be enough—couldn’t be enough. She closed her eyes, knowing calm in her core, but the blow never came.
When Osanna looked again, the Nashorn’s charge had ended in a black-crystal replica of her that shattered even as she watched, the fragments turning to smoke and then dissolving into so much air. Praise Echeran. She did not stop to taunt the Nashorn but let the night swallow her and danced away while he raged at the spot where she had once been.
Osanna needed a new plan. Her allies were being drawn away by more adversaries, and her technique of slowly weakening a larger opponent through blood loss was not applicable given the Nashorn’s armor. Thank Echeran, she had more than one trick up her sleeve. Instead of going again for a full-on attack, she opened the sealed container of poison darts at her hip and readied herself for a series of glancing blows aimed only at the joints and straps of the juggernaut’s armor. The darts rose like wasps behind her, silent for their lack of wings, and when she directed them at the opening she’d created at his shoulder, he bowled through them as though they were nothing.
Heat crackled along Osanna’s skin, and she was forced to drop her cloak of shadows, drawing frantically for more power from the battle and the waves. There was no time. Osanna was not a strong magic user, but the amount of Thunder that the Nashorn drew left a void in the energy of the night like a hole in the universe. It was the only warning she had before she flung herself away from the resulting blast, landing hard on her belly and pressing close to the damp earth. Wet seeped into the chinks in her armor, and she shivered even as heat scorched the air where she had been standing only moments before, singeing her back and shoulders. She panted for a beat, not entirely sure how it was possible that she was still alive.
There, just barely visible in the light of distant torches, Osanna could see the black of dart fletching against the giant’s shoulder. It worked! Now, to see if she could do it again. With the power she’d drawn, Osanna repeated her last attack against the Nashorn’s opposite shoulder, her last darts rising from her pouch.
T H E N A S H O R N
She had escaped. The Nashorn was beyond words. He howled and charged at her, but there were more of those darts: those accursed darts! She was accurate again too, and the little things were so hard to pick out in the haze of battle and all of its various energies until they hit. His other pauldron fell, and one of the straps holding his helmet on, but he stopped the final dart: the one that would've struck his opposite shoulder. For a moment, without his massive shoulder guards, the behemoth felt... just a little bit smaller, a little bit weaker. He felt - a wave of vertigo assaulted him, and he knew that something was wrong. That dart was poisoned. It had to have been poisoned. As panic set in, he felt for its insidious Essences and tried to smash every single one of them.
The Nashorn pounded away at the poison. He could feel it in his veins, in his muscles, in his head, and he hated it. Slowly, though, he won against it, and let out a roar of fury. He blinked, still not feeling completely his normal self, and began to gather energy for an attack to finish matters. The woman disappeared again before he could unleash his attack, shadow blows snaking out of the night to cut at his head and shoulders. She nicked the strap of his helm, but he lashed out with one manacled arm and kept her at bay.
O S A N N A
Osanna did not quite believe it when the Nashorn's gauntlet closed over her wrist. She was too fast for this—too clever. She did not get caught. With a punctuated shout, she lashed out at him with her free hand, but he grabbed it too, surprisingly fast, and panic finally began to set in, cold and squirming in her chest. The magic hiding her bled away, and she spat in his face, white foam bubbling on the juggernaut helm sitting loosely on his head. "I will not fear you!"
And then, the earth dropped away, the night blurring around her as the Nashorn swung Osanna over his head like a child having a tantrum. Frantically, she summoned Force energy, throwing it gracelessly against the ground to absorb the impact. The second time he slammed her into the earth, she was not fast enough. She heard her bones crack open in her forearm and collarbone before she felt them, and then the pain came like a wave, threatening to drown her senses. Tears streamed from her eyes, adding their moisture to the already muddy earth.
It wasn't over. Osanna screamed as the Nashorn yanked her up from the ground again, jagged bone tearing into flesh and tendon. She was going to die. The ground was rushing up to her, her body empty of power. She found the only thing she regretted was not sending the Nashorn to Echeran before her.
The impact never came. Water rushed up around Osanna, some other fighter's weapon now a cushion to her fall even as it soaked her armor and washed the sweat and dirt from her face in a rough torrent. The Nashorn staggered back, losing his grip, and Osanna was left splayed in the aftermath of the wave.
She was not whole, but she still had one good arm, and her sword had fallen between her and her quarry. A deadly, killing calm settled over her, clearing her head. Osanna would not die today.
And neither would she lose.
Osanna sucked in a breath, drew power, and tensed to spring, dashing across the ground in a head-long sprint. She grabbed her sword from the earth and whipped it up to attack the Nashorn, dancing away when he reached an arm up to block it. She would not be stupid enough to stay within his reach again.
"I hate you! You intruder, you poisoner of peace! I hate everything you stand for and every overpowered fiend like you! I mark you as belonging to the God of Death, heathen, and I will take your life in his name!"
T H E N A S H O R N
The blade clanked off of his armor, but a new caution had wound its way into the giant. He had no armor to cover his shoulders, and most of the rest of it was filled with heavy water that still dripped and trickled from the gaps, exposing clearly where they lay. The woman screamed at him, then, in a language that he did not understand, the same way that many had screamed at him.
The Nashorn did not care. He had been a weapon since he could walk, and it had brought him all that he had, all that he was. He had been 'stupid' in the eyes of all since he had failed to speak as a child. Voices flung at him like weapons were nothing new, and he would break them with deeds instead of further words.
This stinging one was wet: covered in water and holding metal. He pulled from the charges in the air and unleashed them upon her to stop that flapping mouth and those stinging hands.
She was too quick, her small form twisting out of the way like a dancer or a hawk in flight. Laughter burbled from her lips, a sound that carried across the field despite the noise of battle. And she was coming for him again. She was quick, but not quick enough to entirely avoid his blow. The horn gracing the top of his helm scored a deep line across her injured shoulder, and her laughter turned to screams.
For a moment, The Nashorn gloried in his triumph, but then her sword thrust up like a bullet to slip beneath the edge of his helmet and skewer him in the neck. He rolled to the side, and it lanced through his armpit instead. Ligaments and tendons snapped, and he roared in pain. The arm hung limp, and he glowered at her. They were up towards where the cliffs began, now, and there was material enough for something different. Instead of doing the obvious, however, he drew from the sand itself, making blades of it: blades of his own.
He flashed at her, artless but unstoppable, each blow heavy enough to bring death if it landed. She dodged him, nimble as a snake, and lunged forward, taking off his helm with a well-aimed strike. Her eyes widened, and he knew why, knew what she saw. He could see the image of him change in her eyes, from steel giant to soft, boyish man, all blond hair and plump cheeks. He growled, and one of his blades found the flesh of her hip.
The woman gasped and stumbled back, clutching the wound. For once, she did not try to strike him again, only disappeared for a moment, her magic faltering as she stumbled back to the walls, and sharp horn blasts signaled the Parrench retreat. The Nashorn leaned back, glaring at the sky in anger and frustration before forcing himself onward despite more wounds than he had suffered in years. He had not defeated her, but he would still prove his worth that night.
-Osanna engages the Nashorn with allies who are eventually drawn away to fight other battles. -They fight until they’re both barely standing, and the retreat is called. -Osanna heads to the walls with a broken collar bone, broken arm, stab wound to the hip, and plenty of smaller cuts and bruises. -The Nashorn is left without much of his armor, bleeding from a stab wound to the shoulder and several smaller wounds, and without one of his eyes.
Malcador Ravenwood: "Somewhere between my best friend and an annoying brother I can't get rid of. Depends on the day, really."
Primrose Chastain: "Don't know her, but I don't like her either. It's not a fair judgment, but then again you can't get much further from the Roma lifestyle than an heiress born with a silver spoon in her mouth."
Fynn Laplace: "I love technology! Have you seen youtube? You can learn anything there! The day Flynn figures out how to let me interact with tech directly will be the second-best day of my unlife. That guy is great. Also, he's fun to mess with."
Eleanor Tregellan: "She's a friend that I have a lot of respect for. She's seen some crazy things, and she's still a good listener. I look up to her—despite the fact that I'm technically the oldest person here—, and find her attitude towards Mal absolutely hilarious. I know I can't like touch anything, but I want to prove that I'm useful."
Alyx Bellamy: "She's the new girl. It's always fun to see how The Sunday Group's neophytes react to the in-house spirit—you'd be surprised how many of these occult types are taken aback. I like all the music she makes just walking around the office, but find her germophobia absurd. Hand sanitizer didn't even exist when I died, and I was fine. Well, until I wasn't. LOL. But that, of course, had nothing to do with germs. It all started on a steaming day in Venice, Italy. It was too hot for one lover, never mind two, but who am I to say no? I snuck into..."
All of our characters have met before, and some have even known each other for a year or more. Even Primrose probably has a few opinions after a couple of months. Should we figure out what they think about each other and who gets along or doesn't before the rp?
My vote is New Orleans. Beignets and bearded oaks, historical buildings and sticky heat. Old magic and the yearly threat of flood by violent storms. It’s a crazy place.
Question 2
Mal and Jaelle have been working for the Sunday group off and on for a couple years.
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.
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.
Jaelle’s opinions on…
Malcador Ravenwood: "Somewhere between my best friend and an annoying brother I can't get rid of. Depends on the day, really."
Primrose Chastain: "Don't know her, but I don't like her either. It's not a fair judgment, but then again you can't get much further from the Roma lifestyle than an heiress born with a silver spoon in her mouth."
Fynn Laplace: "I love technology! Have you seen youtube? You can learn anything there! The day Flynn figures out how to let me interact with tech directly will be the second-best day of my unlife. That guy is great. Also, he's fun to mess with."
Eleanor Tregellan: "She's a friend that I have a lot of respect for. She's seen some crazy things, and she's still a good listener. I look up to her—despite the fact that I'm technically the oldest person here—, and find her attitude towards Mal absolutely hilarious. I know I can't like touch anything, but I want to prove that I'm useful."
Alyx Bellamy: "She's the new girl. It's always fun to see how The Sunday Group's neophytes react to the in-house spirit—you'd be surprised how many of these occult types are taken aback. I like all the music she makes just walking around the office, but find her germophobia absurd. Hand sanitizer didn't even exist when I died, and I was fine. Well, until I wasn't. LOL. But that, of course, had nothing to do with germs. It all started on a steaming day in Venice, Italy. It was too hot for one lover, never mind two, but who am I to say no? I snuck into..."
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.
Hildr the Red
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."
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.
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.
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.
I'm Liv Savell, and here are some things I've written:
❖ [i][url= https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B08QNGQFGW/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?ie=UTF8&qid=&sr=]Vassal[/url][/i] (Call of Calamity Book I)
❖ [i][url= https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B08ZFR15ZR?ref_=dbs_m_mng_wim_calw_tkin_1&storeType=ebooks]Goddess[/url][/i] (Call of Calamity Book II)
❖ [i][url= https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B09851R5JC/ref=dbs_a_def_awm_bibl_vppi_i0]Shepherd of Souls[/url][/i] (Shepherd of Souls Book I)
❖ [i][url= https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B09KMNBKN9?ref_=dbs_m_mng_wim_calw_tkin_1&storeType=ebooks]Death Seeker[/url][/i] (Shepherd of Souls Book II)
❖ [i][url= https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0969M7KG8]The Thistle Queen’s Thorns[/url][/i] (Kindle Vella)
❖ [i][url=https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0BNK4VPNF]The Last Contender[/url][/i] (Song of the Lost Book I)
❖ [I]Emissary to the Frost Wolf[/i] (Song of the Lost Book II) Available July 23rd 2024
❖ [I]Title Announcement Pending[/i] (Song of the Lost Book III) Available 2025
❖ Co-Author: [@Sterling] ❖
❖ Website: [url]lsfables.com[/url] ❖
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">I'm Liv Savell, and here are some things I've written:<br><br>❖ <span class="bb-i"><a target="_blank" rel="nofollow noopener" href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B08QNGQFGW/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?ie=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Vassal</a></span> (Call of Calamity Book I)<br>❖ <span class="bb-i"><a target="_blank" rel="nofollow noopener" href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B08ZFR15ZR?ref_=dbs_m_mng_wim_calw_tkin_1&storeType=ebooks">Goddess</a></span> (Call of Calamity Book II)<br>❖ <span class="bb-i"><a target="_blank" rel="nofollow noopener" href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B09851R5JC/ref=dbs_a_def_awm_bibl_vppi_i0">Shepherd of Souls</a></span> (Shepherd of Souls Book I) <br>❖ <span class="bb-i"><a target="_blank" rel="nofollow noopener" href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B09KMNBKN9?ref_=dbs_m_mng_wim_calw_tkin_1&storeType=ebooks">Death Seeker</a></span> (Shepherd of Souls Book II) <br>❖ <span class="bb-i"><a target="_blank" rel="nofollow noopener" href="https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B0969M7KG8">The Thistle Queen’s Thorns</a></span> (Kindle Vella)<br>❖ <span class="bb-i"><a target="_blank" rel="nofollow noopener" href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0BNK4VPNF">The Last Contender</a></span> (Song of the Lost Book I) <br>❖ <span class="bb-i">Emissary to the Frost Wolf</span> (Song of the Lost Book II) Available July 23rd 2024<br>❖ <span class="bb-i">Title Announcement Pending</span> (Song of the Lost Book III) Available 2025<br><br>❖ Co-Author: <a class="bb-mention" href="/users/sterling">@Sterling</a> ❖<br>❖ Website: <a target="_blank" rel="nofollow noopener" href="http://lsfables.com">lsfables.com</a> ❖<br></div>
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