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Wheremst
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3 yrs ago
What if *I* was the small creature all along?
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3 yrs ago
O . O staring
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5 yrs ago
OooooooOooOOOOooooooOOOOOooOoooooooOOooOOOOoooOo
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6 yrs ago
V.1.26 (House of Caecilius Iucundus); 4091: Whoever loves, let him flourish. Let him perish who knows not love. Let him perish twice over whoever forbids love.
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Most Recent Posts
Vyarin's brow creased, as he observed the interaction between their host the king and that green-coloured noble. Was he obligated to bring a gift? He patted his pockets, hoping by some miracle that something would materialize within them worthy to be presented before a man of such great station. Unfortunately, they were empty. Vyarin's gaze drifted down to the shashka at his belt. Perhaps . . . certainly not. He felt absurd for even considering the possibility. A man's sword was an extension of his own will. The boys of Prozdy grow up with wooden sword in hand, as if their right arms were simply longer than their left. Nonetheless, he would have to come up with something, lest he offend the king in his own home. Vyarin was done with offenses.
His eye drifted upwards to the walls, then the ceiling, hoping something hiding in the decorations would give him inspiration. His mind raced as he tried to recall everything he had brought with him in his bags and those of his men. Practical items, nothing he would give even an innkeeper's wife. Hardtack, dried meats and fruits, machetes for the more difficult portions of his long trail southward. Lamps that squeaked with rust, and clothes that no doubt would fit nobody in this entire chambre excepting perhaps those exotic green-skinned men some rows ahead of himself. Vyarin looked down at his fingers, comparing them to those around him. They were unadorned with rings and signets, and covered with callouses. No luck even should the king ask to shake his hand.
"Apology. Apology for . . . no item. To give. Apology for no item . . . to give," Vyarin muttered to himself, in the local tongue. He marked the pauses with a few curses in his own Prozdy speech. He was never much of a polyglot, and this language was harder to learn than most. Conjugations, prepositions, pronouns, they swirled about his head as he grabbed pieces of words and tried to cram them into a working sentence. What if the king should ask for him to answer? Vyarin's hands balled up into fists as he continued to rehearse to himself, staring quietly down at them. "Apology for no item to give . . . we Prozdy is no man of . . . lavishness . . ."
His eye drifted upwards to the walls, then the ceiling, hoping something hiding in the decorations would give him inspiration. His mind raced as he tried to recall everything he had brought with him in his bags and those of his men. Practical items, nothing he would give even an innkeeper's wife. Hardtack, dried meats and fruits, machetes for the more difficult portions of his long trail southward. Lamps that squeaked with rust, and clothes that no doubt would fit nobody in this entire chambre excepting perhaps those exotic green-skinned men some rows ahead of himself. Vyarin looked down at his fingers, comparing them to those around him. They were unadorned with rings and signets, and covered with callouses. No luck even should the king ask to shake his hand.
"Apology. Apology for . . . no item. To give. Apology for no item . . . to give," Vyarin muttered to himself, in the local tongue. He marked the pauses with a few curses in his own Prozdy speech. He was never much of a polyglot, and this language was harder to learn than most. Conjugations, prepositions, pronouns, they swirled about his head as he grabbed pieces of words and tried to cram them into a working sentence. What if the king should ask for him to answer? Vyarin's hands balled up into fists as he continued to rehearse to himself, staring quietly down at them. "Apology for no item to give . . . we Prozdy is no man of . . . lavishness . . ."
"Forward, forward!" Vyarin said, whispering loudly as he urged his horse onward. He was surrounded on all sides by carriages, magnificent coaches pulled with all manner of exotic beast. Slowly, he edged his horse through the procession, flitting between those great vehicles while his honour guard raced tiredly along behind him. Of his entire retinue, Vyarin was the only one with a horse. A gift from a baron in one of the neighbouring realms, a man with meagre land to his name but a heart large enough for his entire court. The horse was a magnificent specimen; stout and strong, and could go many leagues without stopping, much to the annoyance of the rest of the party. Vyarin was not concerned, however. These were the men of Prozdy, and their discipline was unmatched in all the League. It was Prozdy arms that won the great victory at the Battle of Zpina's Pass, driving the Overlords across the mountains and securing freedom. They could surely march on.
The clattering of armour marked the appearance of Vyarin's confidante; the head of the honour guard and a distant cousin, known to Prozdy as Tellos "the Outlander". His face was reddened, in part by the exertion and in greater part by the intense sun.
"A match here would be fortuitous," he muttered, his tongue languid as a brook. He spoke the language of Prozdy, which no doubt would be foreign to any they would encounter in this palace. "If you could establish a personal union here, while your father secures the loyalty of the princes of Vlaga and Perozord, the combined power base could propel us to the forefront of continental politics. Prozdy may become the singular arbiter of power from the Zpina to the eastern sea."
"Please, not now. It is hot," said Vyarin, gritting his teeth. The thought of marriage was so distant when he had left his homeland behind. It was like a game to him. Suddenly, as he approached the opulent gates ahead, boxed in by fine carriages he could only marvel at from the outside, he felt the pull of his youth being sucked from under his feet.
"There is no better time," said Tellos, leaning a hand on the flank of the horse. It whinnied in response, lowering its head, surely feeling the heat even more than its rider. "All that we achieve contributes in some part to the game of state. At home, perhaps, you are Vyarin. Here, you are Kremazov."
"You make my eye hurt," Vyarin mumbled, reaching a hand to his bandages. Tellos shook his head slowly, as all the carriages stopped and the nobles within them stepped with shaky legs onto solid ground at last. Reaching up a hand, Tellos helped the young Prince of Princes down from his horse, and together they tied the creature up to a large tree. "It really is hot here, down in the south, unbearable nearly," he continued, breaking the minutes of silence between them. Tellos didn't feel the need to respond. He never did. The stone-faced man was not quite ten years Vyarin's elder, but a lifetime of standing by his father's side had made him nearly as strange.
"You go inside. First. We watch . . . outside. Item. Horse," Tellos had changed to the local tongue, of which they both were hardly fluent. It was a clear enough sign. When in foreign lands . . . Vyarin nodded. They spent their last few moments together rapidly going over a few common phrases of this strange land. "Enchanted to meet you." "I represent Prozdy and the princely clan of Kremazov." "Is this good to eat?" Finally, Tellos patted his cousin roughly on his shoulder, and left to bark orders at the rest of the guard. Vyarin steeled himself, straightening his posture and taking a deep breath. Recall solemnity. At last, he followed the crowd milling through the gates into the palace proper.
The clattering of armour marked the appearance of Vyarin's confidante; the head of the honour guard and a distant cousin, known to Prozdy as Tellos "the Outlander". His face was reddened, in part by the exertion and in greater part by the intense sun.
"A match here would be fortuitous," he muttered, his tongue languid as a brook. He spoke the language of Prozdy, which no doubt would be foreign to any they would encounter in this palace. "If you could establish a personal union here, while your father secures the loyalty of the princes of Vlaga and Perozord, the combined power base could propel us to the forefront of continental politics. Prozdy may become the singular arbiter of power from the Zpina to the eastern sea."
"Please, not now. It is hot," said Vyarin, gritting his teeth. The thought of marriage was so distant when he had left his homeland behind. It was like a game to him. Suddenly, as he approached the opulent gates ahead, boxed in by fine carriages he could only marvel at from the outside, he felt the pull of his youth being sucked from under his feet.
"There is no better time," said Tellos, leaning a hand on the flank of the horse. It whinnied in response, lowering its head, surely feeling the heat even more than its rider. "All that we achieve contributes in some part to the game of state. At home, perhaps, you are Vyarin. Here, you are Kremazov."
"You make my eye hurt," Vyarin mumbled, reaching a hand to his bandages. Tellos shook his head slowly, as all the carriages stopped and the nobles within them stepped with shaky legs onto solid ground at last. Reaching up a hand, Tellos helped the young Prince of Princes down from his horse, and together they tied the creature up to a large tree. "It really is hot here, down in the south, unbearable nearly," he continued, breaking the minutes of silence between them. Tellos didn't feel the need to respond. He never did. The stone-faced man was not quite ten years Vyarin's elder, but a lifetime of standing by his father's side had made him nearly as strange.
"You go inside. First. We watch . . . outside. Item. Horse," Tellos had changed to the local tongue, of which they both were hardly fluent. It was a clear enough sign. When in foreign lands . . . Vyarin nodded. They spent their last few moments together rapidly going over a few common phrases of this strange land. "Enchanted to meet you." "I represent Prozdy and the princely clan of Kremazov." "Is this good to eat?" Finally, Tellos patted his cousin roughly on his shoulder, and left to bark orders at the rest of the guard. Vyarin steeled himself, straightening his posture and taking a deep breath. Recall solemnity. At last, he followed the crowd milling through the gates into the palace proper.
character sheet
name: Vyarin Kremazov
appearance: Tall and incredibly built, Vyarin is the model of a warrior. Indeed, his form is the sort that would take up an entire doorway he would happen to pass through. In accordance with the religious reforms of half a century past, he keeps his blond hair shaved down to fuzz. His face is similarly shaved. However, most notable about him is the rag that obscures his left eye, wrapped around his head, that conceals the gaping remains of his eye.
age: 19
bio: Vyarin was born to a most impressive pedigree. His father, the famed Zarrir "Usurper-of-Tyrants", had recently before Vyarin's birth led a successful rebellion against the so-called "Western Overlords" from across the Zpina mountain range. The Western Overlords' memory has been intentionally lost, with Zarrir having ordered all record of them destroyed and declaring that any who speak of them in his court have their tongues cut out. Thus, Vyarin's birth, coinciding rather neatly with the liberation, was considered highly auspicious by many. His name, "Vyarin", even means "of freedom" or "freeborn" in the now-dead Old Prozdy language. On his birth, Vyarin was given the courtesy titles of "Prince of Princes" (a title shared by his father), and "First Lord of the League". The League of which the second title represents is the nominally equal partnership of the great many rulers and nobles who had risen up alongside Prozdy against the Western Overlords, but in reality serve as effective vassals to Prozdy.
Vyarin grew up among the militant court of his father. In the Prozdy culture, strength and stoicism were the highest virtues, and nobles who shied away from military pursuits were considered illegitimate to rule. Thus, Vyarin was given a rigorous education in fighting with a great variety of weapons, strategy and tactics, and a number of traditional sports. Thus, he grew up strong, accustomed to physical strain and resistant to the fear of death. At least, that was the visage he put on for the court to see. In truth, he found he tired often of the singleminded pursuit of conflict and victory that Prozdy society seemed to worship, and found he was rather curious regarding a great many subjects not taught to him. However, there wasn't much to be done about that. His father Zarrir was an iron-fisted ruler, grim and incredibly competent, and would likely stand for no deviation on his son's part.
It was on Vyarin's coming-of-age day that his life changed rather oddly. During the celebrations, one of the princes of the League inadvertently insulted Vyarin before all the attendees. Zarrir, in a fit of rage, demanded that Vyarin and the prince duel with shashka to the death before the entire crowd. Neither were particularly interested in fighting this duel, and the prince offered to apologize, Zarrir's command was absolute, declaring that should either refuse this duel, they would be declared cowards and stripped of all honours. Eventually, after some heavy debate, a compromise was declared in which the two would fight only to first blood. The duel commenced, and ended when Vyarin fell forward, screaming and clutching at the left side of his face. Quickly, doctors were called, but the surgery was brutal, and perhaps did more damage to his eye than even the blade. Eventually, it was declared that Vyarin was blind in one eye. Zarrir, fearing for his son's life and his own court's stability, sent Vyarin away on the premise that he find a spouse.
role in the story: Prince and suitor
name: Vyarin Kremazov
appearance: Tall and incredibly built, Vyarin is the model of a warrior. Indeed, his form is the sort that would take up an entire doorway he would happen to pass through. In accordance with the religious reforms of half a century past, he keeps his blond hair shaved down to fuzz. His face is similarly shaved. However, most notable about him is the rag that obscures his left eye, wrapped around his head, that conceals the gaping remains of his eye.
age: 19
bio: Vyarin was born to a most impressive pedigree. His father, the famed Zarrir "Usurper-of-Tyrants", had recently before Vyarin's birth led a successful rebellion against the so-called "Western Overlords" from across the Zpina mountain range. The Western Overlords' memory has been intentionally lost, with Zarrir having ordered all record of them destroyed and declaring that any who speak of them in his court have their tongues cut out. Thus, Vyarin's birth, coinciding rather neatly with the liberation, was considered highly auspicious by many. His name, "Vyarin", even means "of freedom" or "freeborn" in the now-dead Old Prozdy language. On his birth, Vyarin was given the courtesy titles of "Prince of Princes" (a title shared by his father), and "First Lord of the League". The League of which the second title represents is the nominally equal partnership of the great many rulers and nobles who had risen up alongside Prozdy against the Western Overlords, but in reality serve as effective vassals to Prozdy.
Vyarin grew up among the militant court of his father. In the Prozdy culture, strength and stoicism were the highest virtues, and nobles who shied away from military pursuits were considered illegitimate to rule. Thus, Vyarin was given a rigorous education in fighting with a great variety of weapons, strategy and tactics, and a number of traditional sports. Thus, he grew up strong, accustomed to physical strain and resistant to the fear of death. At least, that was the visage he put on for the court to see. In truth, he found he tired often of the singleminded pursuit of conflict and victory that Prozdy society seemed to worship, and found he was rather curious regarding a great many subjects not taught to him. However, there wasn't much to be done about that. His father Zarrir was an iron-fisted ruler, grim and incredibly competent, and would likely stand for no deviation on his son's part.
It was on Vyarin's coming-of-age day that his life changed rather oddly. During the celebrations, one of the princes of the League inadvertently insulted Vyarin before all the attendees. Zarrir, in a fit of rage, demanded that Vyarin and the prince duel with shashka to the death before the entire crowd. Neither were particularly interested in fighting this duel, and the prince offered to apologize, Zarrir's command was absolute, declaring that should either refuse this duel, they would be declared cowards and stripped of all honours. Eventually, after some heavy debate, a compromise was declared in which the two would fight only to first blood. The duel commenced, and ended when Vyarin fell forward, screaming and clutching at the left side of his face. Quickly, doctors were called, but the surgery was brutal, and perhaps did more damage to his eye than even the blade. Eventually, it was declared that Vyarin was blind in one eye. Zarrir, fearing for his son's life and his own court's stability, sent Vyarin away on the premise that he find a spouse.
role in the story: Prince and suitor
Alright, thank you.
@Vampiretwilight Was my character accepted?
character sheet
name: Vyarin Kremazov
appearance: Tall and incredibly built, Vyarin is the model of a warrior. Indeed, his form is the sort that would take up an entire doorway he would happen to pass through. In accordance with the religious reforms of half a century past, he keeps his blond hair shaved down to fuzz. His face is similarly shaved. However, most notable about him is the rag that obscures his left eye, wrapped around his head, that conceals the gaping remains of his eye.
age: 19
bio: Vyarin was born to a most impressive pedigree. His father, the famed Zarrir "Usurper-of-Tyrants", had recently before Vyarin's birth led a successful rebellion against the so-called "Western Overlords" from across the Zpina mountain range. The Western Overlords' memory has been intentionally lost, with Zarrir having ordered all record of them destroyed and declaring that any who speak of them in his court have their tongues cut out. Thus, Vyarin's birth, coinciding rather neatly with the liberation, was considered highly auspicious by many. His name, "Vyarin", even means "of freedom" or "freeborn" in the now-dead Old Prozdy language. On his birth, Vyarin was given the courtesy titles of "Prince of Princes" (a title shared by his father), and "First Lord of the League". The League of which the second title represents is the nominally equal partnership of the great many rulers and nobles who had risen up alongside Prozdy against the Western Overlords, but in reality serve as effective vassals to Prozdy.
Vyarin grew up among the militant court of his father. In the Prozdy culture, strength and stoicism were the highest virtues, and nobles who shied away from military pursuits were considered illegitimate to rule. Thus, Vyarin was given a rigorous education in fighting with a great variety of weapons, strategy and tactics, and a number of traditional sports. Thus, he grew up strong, accustomed to physical strain and resistant to the fear of death. At least, that was the visage he put on for the court to see. In truth, he found he tired often of the singleminded pursuit of conflict and victory that Prozdy society seemed to worship, and found he was rather curious regarding a great many subjects not taught to him. However, there wasn't much to be done about that. His father Zarrir was an iron-fisted ruler, grim and incredibly competent, and would likely stand for no deviation on his son's part.
It was on Vyarin's coming-of-age day that his life changed rather oddly. During the celebrations, one of the princes of the League inadvertently insulted Vyarin before all the attendees. Zarrir, in a fit of rage, demanded that Vyarin and the prince duel with shashka to the death before the entire crowd. Neither were particularly interested in fighting this duel, and the prince offered to apologize, Zarrir's command was absolute, declaring that should either refuse this duel, they would be declared cowards and stripped of all honours. Eventually, after some heavy debate, a compromise was declared in which the two would fight only to first blood. The duel commenced, and ended when Vyarin fell forward, screaming and clutching at the left side of his face. Quickly, doctors were called, but the surgery was brutal, and perhaps did more damage to his eye than even the blade. Eventually, it was declared that Vyarin was blind in one eye. Zarrir, fearing for his son's life and his own court's stability, sent Vyarin away on the premise that he find a spouse.
role in the story: Prince and suitor
name: Vyarin Kremazov
appearance: Tall and incredibly built, Vyarin is the model of a warrior. Indeed, his form is the sort that would take up an entire doorway he would happen to pass through. In accordance with the religious reforms of half a century past, he keeps his blond hair shaved down to fuzz. His face is similarly shaved. However, most notable about him is the rag that obscures his left eye, wrapped around his head, that conceals the gaping remains of his eye.
age: 19
bio: Vyarin was born to a most impressive pedigree. His father, the famed Zarrir "Usurper-of-Tyrants", had recently before Vyarin's birth led a successful rebellion against the so-called "Western Overlords" from across the Zpina mountain range. The Western Overlords' memory has been intentionally lost, with Zarrir having ordered all record of them destroyed and declaring that any who speak of them in his court have their tongues cut out. Thus, Vyarin's birth, coinciding rather neatly with the liberation, was considered highly auspicious by many. His name, "Vyarin", even means "of freedom" or "freeborn" in the now-dead Old Prozdy language. On his birth, Vyarin was given the courtesy titles of "Prince of Princes" (a title shared by his father), and "First Lord of the League". The League of which the second title represents is the nominally equal partnership of the great many rulers and nobles who had risen up alongside Prozdy against the Western Overlords, but in reality serve as effective vassals to Prozdy.
Vyarin grew up among the militant court of his father. In the Prozdy culture, strength and stoicism were the highest virtues, and nobles who shied away from military pursuits were considered illegitimate to rule. Thus, Vyarin was given a rigorous education in fighting with a great variety of weapons, strategy and tactics, and a number of traditional sports. Thus, he grew up strong, accustomed to physical strain and resistant to the fear of death. At least, that was the visage he put on for the court to see. In truth, he found he tired often of the singleminded pursuit of conflict and victory that Prozdy society seemed to worship, and found he was rather curious regarding a great many subjects not taught to him. However, there wasn't much to be done about that. His father Zarrir was an iron-fisted ruler, grim and incredibly competent, and would likely stand for no deviation on his son's part.
It was on Vyarin's coming-of-age day that his life changed rather oddly. During the celebrations, one of the princes of the League inadvertently insulted Vyarin before all the attendees. Zarrir, in a fit of rage, demanded that Vyarin and the prince duel with shashka to the death before the entire crowd. Neither were particularly interested in fighting this duel, and the prince offered to apologize, Zarrir's command was absolute, declaring that should either refuse this duel, they would be declared cowards and stripped of all honours. Eventually, after some heavy debate, a compromise was declared in which the two would fight only to first blood. The duel commenced, and ended when Vyarin fell forward, screaming and clutching at the left side of his face. Quickly, doctors were called, but the surgery was brutal, and perhaps did more damage to his eye than even the blade. Eventually, it was declared that Vyarin was blind in one eye. Zarrir, fearing for his son's life and his own court's stability, sent Vyarin away on the premise that he find a spouse.
role in the story: Prince and suitor
@Vampiretwilight Do you have a sheet template we can work on while we wait for the OOC page to be set up?
I like flag 3 best
I'd be down to put in a prince character.
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