CorinTraven

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

@Renny Excited to see your post. I wonder how Sara and Sae will get on once they meet, it could be interesting.

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

Lady Sara & Lady Alycia

The only reason the duo were stopped in the first place was because Alycia had paused in her gait, pulling loose the clasped hands of the girls’ to point off through the huddled roofs, toward a sliver of what could only be the castle. In the darkness, one could hardly make out its vague shape, with no moon nor stars to guide the eye, and only a crisp sliver of highlight on the western wall to distinguish its blackness from the black sky beyond. Still, both girls paused, backs turned to the streets, and squinted and debated the possibility that it was truly the castle. After a quick debate, both settled that it could only be the castle, for there was nothing quite so giant so close, or else they would have noticed it in the earlier day.

In Terryn’s approach, he’d only see their silhouettes; a tall hill, and a short hill, any actual shape beyond that covered by the breadth of cloak. On closer inspection, Sara wore a dulled maroon, hued pink like the instead of a healthy mouth. Alycia, very typical to her usual dress, was cloaked in a light blue. As his hand dropped across the smaller girls shoulder, her immediate and only reaction, was to jolt into Sara, and turn with a gasp. Sara seemed far more livened by the intruder, a second hand to grip her sister above the elbow, and pulled on the girl like a overzealous game of tug-of-war, “Get off her!“ She shouted, a scream on-the-ready. But before she screamed, she recognized the old man, perhaps by voice, and her open mouth instead breathed a sigh of relief, rather than screamed bloody murder.

So relieved she was to find that it was only Terryn-…though, opposed to the alternative, perhaps only Terryn was a true relief- the girl couldn’t help by smile, a hand releasing her sister’s skinny bicep, and floating to the flat of her chest. The sudden rush of adrenaline had her breath drawing rapidly, but her gentle voice was soon to follow, realizing quickly that though Terryn was preferable to others, he’d be on the top of her list, alongside her father, on people she ought to avoid that night. But it was too late for avoidance, and so the girl kept her pretty smile, and hoped to The Monarch that he would deem the run-in too non-consequential to need Nikolas’ ears.

“We were just walking.” Sara answered innocently, Alycia surprisingly silent, perhaps still in a bit of shock. Her next words came sweetly, and it was a lie, but a lie they both knew- so more like a secret. “Boogeymen, here? Oh no, Mr. Hoffmann. I am sure this is the safest place in the city, I mean, with the Black Shields patrolling. We aren’t daft, we’d never wander too far. We must be perfectly safe!” She smiled all the same, and he’d know she was at least trying to be sincere. She was a sweet girl, a smart girl, smart enough to know better, but sweet all the same.

Alycia’s trance was broken soon after Sara’s words, and those bright blue eyes upturned to Terryn, framed by the red of her hair, “Boogeymans aren’t real, Mr. Hoffmann.” She stated in a no-nonsense fashion, shrugging her shoulders, and ducking like a pup held by the nap of its neck, “We’re in the city! All the real beasts are out in tha’ forests!” How wrong she was, but the girl nodded along like she really knew something, like she was some sort of expert. He’d find that the girl was constantly staring at him, having no concept of shame or etiquette, and ever since she’d first met him, as a toddler hardly able to walk, she had been in complete muse of his face. It was more likely than not, she really wanted to ask what happened to his eyes, or about the dots, or about any number of scars damaging his visage. Nikolas might have raised his daughters unorthodoxly, but he had not raised rude girls. Alycia’s staring could be considered rude, but she was a young, curious child, and most seemed to excuse her lingering eyes. But she knew better than to ask questions to a man so close to her father. Nameless soldiers were different things entirely, the chances of them ever interacting with her father to the point where they could reveal what personal questions his daughter had asked were astronomical. If her Papa ever found out she’d asked Terryn about his eyes, or dots, or scars, she’d be whooped. Nikolas was usually a forgiving man, especially to his daughters, but he was not a man who excused rudeness. Alycia knew that, and so she remained silent, wondering how Terryn had lost his eye, but never daring to ask.

The elder girl’s face flushed with excitement, very glad Terryn had asked, “My father is allowing me to go.” It was obvious in the way she spoke, with an eagerness becoming of girls her age, that Sara was delighted by the very idea of the feast. It had her young mind entrapped, transfixed on the stories she had read and heard and only wished to be true. If only she knew how different the occasion would be compared to those stories, far less magical, far less charming, perhaps a bit boring. Who could fault a girl, a girl of fifteen years and with still so much to learn about the world, for expecting something grand? Romance was in her blood, for Sara herself was a very romantic character, with her books and paintings, all very lost in a world of beauty and pretend. It served, however, as a very sturdy shield against bitterness. She may not have been on the front lines, lying down her life, but Sara had encountered horrors all the same. For eight years, she'd followed the campaign trail, and she’d seen men die stomach curdling deaths, the sort of deaths that ought to have left the girl in tears, her impressionable mind mangled so young with the weight of mortality. To survive, seemingly no different than any other girl her age, Sara needed to be disillusioned, she needed to believe in those stories of fancy balls, and noble Princes, because if she did not, there was nothing for the girl to believe in at all besides the ever-looming knowledge that one day she would die, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

She was lucky for the stories, able to smile toward Terryn, the wonderstruck look on her face enough to express how thoroughly enchanted she was without saying a word.

“She made Papa let her.” Alycia chimed up to Terryn, grinning ear to ear, “He said no, but she cried, and so he said yes!” It was all very funny to her, the idea that her father caved so easily to her sisters demands.

Sara shot the little girl an annoyed expression, preferring to keep her bout of tears a secret because, frankly, she was ashamed of crying. It would seem more like a ploy to get what she wanted, something twisted and manipulative, when in all reality, Sara had not cried intentionally. It wasn’t her fault that crying had been the trick to change her father’s mind, she had not cried to change his mind-…though she was not oblivious that crying may have that effect, she had cried because she felt overwhelmingly cheated by him saying no. Sara didn’t dwell long on his original ‘no’, preferring not to think about it, instead she looked back toward Terryn, and slipped a hand beneath her hair, rubbing the back of her neck in reluctant admission, “I hardly-…made him. I did not force him, I did not trick him. I think he came to realize I’m not a child any longer- I‘m not Alycia,” The little redhead frowned up at her sister, soft lips drawing into a pout, “and so, he decided to allow me. I suppose this means you will be there, Mr. Hoffmann?” Her voice quirked in a question, though she hardly waited for an answer, “My father is not going, I am sure he’ll be eased to know a friend will be present. I daresay he may rub his palms raw in anxiety. He acts as if I am going to war.” A small, ‘hm’, akin to a short laugh, followed her words, listening again as Terryn warned her of the brothel.

Under his hand, Alycia winced again, her head tilted up at an almost comedic angle to regard him, looking off then in the way he gestured, and then back to him. “I know what a whorehouse is!” She asserted proudly. The worst part was it was likely the girl wasn’t lying, she lived amongst men who visited the whorehouse more than their own mother’s, and surely their exciting tales of sexual prowess surely had not escaped her sharp ear. Alycia loved all things taboo: swear words, dirty stories, and every bit of smut that flowed an ever constant river from young boys’ and men’s’ mouths. No matter how hard Nikolas tried, he could not protect the girl from it, there was too much profanity all around. So, instead, he hoped to teach her against use of such language, and how evil and ungodly the actions around her were. Still, she was an impressionable little girl, and so when she knew her father’s ear was deaf, Alycia liked to swear like a sailor, even if she had no clue what many of the words meant, or how to use them.

“Then what is it?” Sara asked suspiciously, curious of what, hopefully, misconstrued definition she’d been told.

“It’s the same thing as a brothel.”

“What’s a brothel?”

The younger girls eyes narrowed, but she shrugged, “I’unno, it’s a place.”

Giving Terryn a relieved smile, Sara looped her arm around her sisters shoulders, and rescued her from under his hand, “Yes, of course Mr. Hoffmann. Thank you for warning us. We were just walking, I hope we didn’t cause any trouble. We’ll head back right now.” Pulling her little sister close, Sara gave the man a smile, and Alycia beamed from below as well.

“Thank you, Mista’ Hoffmann. Please don’t tell my Papa.” She spoke exactly what Sara was thinking, and the girl chastised her with a quick ‘Alycia!’, before leading Alycia around, and praying that she hadn’t just given Terryn that very idea. He didn’t seem the man who would care so much that he’d seek out their father, but he might, especially if they had annoyed him. He didn’t seem annoyed-…or any more annoyed than usual, and so Sara bid him a quick goodbye, and dragged the child back toward their tent, unsure how she should feel about the encounter, though part of her knew not to worry. They hadn’t done anything to upset Terryn with them, so why would he go out of his way to upset their father with them? It didn’t seem like his motivation, so Sara was able to find sleep easily, the brief encounter enough to exhaust her, and let her find rest.

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

Dorran's my favorite.

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

So...I edited the color of the eyes on Alycia's avatar.



And the saturation. I am content.

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

Lady Sara

“He has to let me.” Sara’s voice strained like a hound at the end of its leash, barking high and proud, with confidence; perhaps a forced confidence, but with confidence nonetheless. “He must.”

Alycia looked up to her elder sister, awed by her faith, but with a far more realistic outlook herself. “No he don’t. If he let’s you, I wanna’ go too, Sara. It’s not fair if you go and I don’t.”

The elder girls eyes narrowed, shaking her head as soon as the words breached her seven year old sister’s mouth, “No, no, no! You’re not going!” Her voice pitched in disbelief, “I am not watching you. Absolutely not. No way.”

“You won’t hafta’, Sara! Papa’ll watch me. I don’t want to be here ‘lone.” She pleaded back, brushing a hand against her freckled nose. “Please?”

“Father isn’t going.” Sara answered simply, turning away from the child to face a mirror, checking one last time that she was presentable.

From her spot cross-legged on the floor, Alycia began to laugh, “Now I know he ain’t gonna’ let you!”

Annoyed, Sara flicked her eyes from Alycia’s direction, smoothed her skirt, and made way for the tent-flap door. Behind her, she could hear Alycia calling after her, though much to her own relief, the child didn’t follow. The last thing she needed was for her to be pleading too. Alycia was a child, of seven years and her father had every right to keep her away. Sara, however, was nearly full grown, and it was time, past due time if you asked her, that she’d be allowed to go to such occasions; alone.

--

When Sara returned to the small tent shared by the two girls, her eyes had been watering, growing red and agitated, but she wore a smile all the same. With a handkerchief, she wiped her eyes clean, using her reflection to make sure everything was back in place. It’d take time for the swelling to go down, but Sara had time, and she looked toward her little sister with a Cheshire-grin. “He’s going to let me.”

“Then why are ya’ crying?” The girl asked, concern playing across her face.

She was answered with a small, guilty, smile. “Well, he wasn’t going to let me at first. He was quite adamant in being against it, but-…”

“What’s an ada-mant?” Her sister interjected, now smiling along with Sara, eager to hear how she’d persuaded their father.

“Adamant? Adamant is a word that means-…like, strong; unwilling to change.” Sara explained willingly, nodding along as she often forgot she was speaking with Alycia, who was still fairly green in the way of words.

“Oh,” was her only answer, before the child drifted to silence, a cue for Sara to finish.

“But, I changed his mind. I said ‘I‘ve spent my childhood on a battlefield, it is time I spend my womanhood at Court.’ And I-…I know I shouldn’t do this, and I scold you for doing it all the time, but this is very important to me, Lycia- I started crying. I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear, but I just started crying. So then he said I could go.” Her grin once more reemerged from that brief guilty look, “I’m to be escorted there, which is fair enough. Honestly, they might have thought me strange, a Lady come alone.”

Wonder filled the younger girls eyes, both happy, and jealous for her sister, “When I’m old a’nough, can I come with you too?”

Sara nodded eagerly, grinning full-on now as she floated toward her chest, waving for Alycia to follow, “Of course, but help me figure out what I should wear. I wish I had something new, but I suppose any of it will be new to them!”

--

Lady Alycia

Though it was evening, and both girls were better off in their beds, Sara could hardly catch a wink of sleep. Alycia too suffered from this restlessness, mostly because just as the younger girl closed her eyes and pulled the covers over her head, Sara whispered to her through the darkness. Then she was forced to sit up, sleepy eyed and groggy.

With only a dimmed and dying lantern to guide her eyes, Alycia stared over toward Sara, who sat up in her nightgown, brown hair like hay upon her head. Both her pale legs were crossed, and her hands rested in the hollow that was her lap. Something about her posture, how she leaned forward, how her grey eyes seemed overly wide- or was that just the reflection of the lamp playing tricks?- made Alycia realize there was only mischief to follow if she didn’t go back to sleep. But the girl was quite the fan of mischief, so she grinned widely, and sunk her bare feet to the floor, “What do ya’ wanna do, Sara?”

The older girl stood too, stripping quickly from her nightgown, into the dress she’d been wearing hours ago, “I don’t know, but I don’t want to stay here. How about we take a quick walk, no trouble with that, hm?” It was unlike her to suggest something even so seemingly harmless. Sara was the good one. Their father said everyday he found a new grey hair, but that was always from Alycia, because Alycia was trouble. Sara was calm, and mannerly, but there was nothing calm about her excited behavior now. She needed to do something, something that might exhaust her, because otherwise, she was never getting to sleep.

Alycia changed quickly, having Sara button up the back of her dress, and she tied the lace of hers. Soon both sisters were matched identically in dresses and cloaks, one far taller than the other, but they appeared in their shroud just as much sisters any. Outside, they could hear the rain, let up a bit from the downpour of earlier, but still continuing with its steady beat against the canvas of their tent. Sara had no real destination in mind, nor an excuse for why they were out, but she strode through the pot-holed street with purpose. What purpose, she didn’t know, but only hoped that if they acted as if they belonged, no on would care to question the two of them.

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

Testing something out!






Woohooo, it worked.

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

Lady Alycia Medved

“My names Alycia and my papa’s Captain Medved! He’s your boss…probl‘y!”

Only seven years old, Alycia is just over 3’6”, and has a very typical physique for a girl her age, overly lanky and with a large head upon slender shoulders. The first thing most notice about the child is her bright red hair, a line of bangs obscuring her forehead, and lightly feathered by a gentle hand. She has blue eyes to boast, contrasting against the fiery orange of her head, cool and crisp behind pink eyelids. Freckles dot her girlish cheeks, along the curve of her nose, and the corner of her eyes. Her mouth, which is often open, blabbering away at speech, is small with a flawed set of small teeth within it. So far, the top of her first adult tooth pokes through the bottom row of teeth, otherwise, she comes with the rest of her baby teeth.

Alycia is very cute, and very accustom to acting cute to get what she wants. To many, she‘s a breath of fresh air, never seeming affected by the war surrounding them, and even on the worst of days, her chipper attitude continues. Usually, she‘s adorned in dresses, much akin to her sisters, but every so often she‘s allowed a pair of pants, the child finding mischief to tear out the knees, and cover herself in what everyone hopes is mud.

【Full Name】

Lady Alycia Medved

【Aliases】

The Officer’s Daughter, Lycia

【Age】

Seven

【Sex】

Female

【Sexuality】

N/A, small child

【Religion】

Monarchist

【Family】

Father: Lord-Captain Nikolas Medved
Mother: Lady Marcelle Medved (deceased)
Sister: Lady Sara Medved
Uncle: Lord Derick Medved of Tivembre
And a handful of nameless cousins

【Birthplace】

Her families small lordship of Tivembre, which lies in the forests of northern Grosswik

【Societal standing】

Nobility

【Former employment】

N/A

【Rank and role】

N/A

【Personality】

The best word to describe Alycia is naïve. Her naivety allows for the child to remain so effortlessly joyful while the world around her goes to shit. Even in the worst of times, the long marches where the child grows so painfully bored of traveling, she is able to lighten both her own and others’ spirits with easy conversation, and charm. Her charm comes in the form of smiles and action, twisting her hands around, dancing from foot to foot, and this restless happiness makes it hard for anyone to deny her. Especially Nikolas, who feels an insane amount of guilt for having to raise his daughters in an enviroment more fit for pigs.

Like many children her age, Alycia can grow quite temperamental. In such occasions, which are usually at the worst of times, the girl is not beyond stomping, pouting, screaming and crying. Such a fit has come from years of being spoiled. Wherever he can, Nikolas has given the girl what she wants, to help alleviate some of his guilt. And even the other men, many of which missing their own daughters at home, spoil the girl with gifts and treats, simply because her companies is entertaining.

A natural parrot, Alycia copies others, out of curiosity more than mockery. She is bold and fearless when it comes to men, even the meanest mugs hardly give her pass. She likes to know stories, and she often asks with little fear of repercussion. Very few would correct the Captain‘s daughter, and even fewer would do harm to her, with the Captain, and countless others who see her more as a mascot than a nuisance at all. He would be a very unpopular man, the man who hurt Alycia, and with her sharp memory, he’d not make it very far afterwards.

【History】

Much of Alycia‘s true story, she does not know. She does not know that she is born out of wedlock, she does not know that her Papa is not truly her father, she does not know any of the terrible things that could have happened, had Nikolas been a different man. So instead of a tragedy, a story of a bastard girl and her dead Mother, Alycia instead lives a much happier life, raised in war, but far happier than it might have been.

The true story of Alycia‘s birth is known by none, except perhaps, her true father, if he even knows she exists. But Alycia knows only her ‘fake’ story, even if it is real to her. It’s a simple story, not easy to forget, and it only takes a few words to recite: Her mother went into labor. She died. Alycia lived. Despite that, Papa nor Sara blamed the girl for her mother‘s death, and so neither did Alycia, because she was too young to understand what had happened, and when she had raised fears that she was a murderer, Papa soothed them down as quickly as they rose. In her mind, she was the daughter of Nikolas and Marcelle Medved. There were rumors that she was not, but Alycia was too young to understand them. Nikolas was her Papa, and Marcelle was his wife, who else‘s child could she be? Her story is a parallel to Sara’s.

【Dreams, short term goals, and fears.】

Her larger goals in life are yet undiscovered, but her fears, there are plenty. She fears the dark, storms, and getting lost. She fears large dogs, forest beasts, and monsters that hide in shadows. The child fears the imaginary dangers, but rarely strays from the real dangers that surround her. More than once, she‘d been found too close to trebuchet, playing along the arm which had every ability to suddenly swing forward, and send the girl fifty feet into the air, and then crashing into the ground. Soldier-life fascinated the girl, and she often prods too deep in her question asking, asking the curious, foolish things, children ask, to men who would rather not answer. If any dream, she has confessed a want to be like her father, not truly understanding the implications of such.

【Skills】

Alycia‘s skill set is still acquiring, and she has many years to perfect what little skills she has. Though, one might be the ability to win over her betters with cute smiles and ploys. She‘s sharper than most think, and listens-… and more importantly, repeats, nearly everything she hears. As of now, she is learning to read and write, though a skill she takes real pride in is her ability to swim, or, uhm, at least not-drown.

【Martial prowess】

Alycia is about as useless as they come. Though she‘s a little spitfire, sure to kick and fight anyone, she‘s also forty pounds soaking wet, and does as much damage as one might suspect. The worst she might inflict is a bruise, but otherwise, the child is harmless.

【Weaponry】

Sticks and Stones.

Lord-Captain Nikolas Medved

“She is my blood. I protect my blood.”

See above

【Full Name】

Lord-Captain Nikolas Medved

【Aliases】

Father, Papa, Nik

【Age】

40

【Sex】

Male

【Sexuality】

Straight, but abstained since wife’s death.

【Religion】

Monarchist

【Family】

Wife: Lady Marcelle Medved (deceased)
Daughters: Lady Sara Medved and Lady Alycia Medved
Brother: Lord Derick Medved of Tivembre
And a handful of nameless nieces and nephews

【Birthplace】

His families small lordship of Tivembre, which lies in the forests of northern Grosswik

【Societal standing】

Nobility, however much of his notability comes from his role as a Captain in the King’s Armies.

【Former employment】

Nikolas has been an officer within various divisions of the King‘s Armies.

【Rank and role】

Nikolas is a Captain within the Black Shields, and he commands soldiers in wartime objectives.

【Personality】

He is a very calm, tranquil, but pragmatic man, well-liked and respected by many because, despite being a noble, he seems to care little for noble titles. He’s a good man, a fair man, though not without his flaws. Cross him, and Nikolas is prone to grow angry. The worst way to anger the man would involve his daughters, or insult upon his wife. His loyalty lies first with his blood, than to the crown. Nikolas is very opposite to his brother Derick, who enjoys the boons of nobility more than the Captain. Though Nikolas knows Alycia is not his, he refuses to acknowledge outside claims of his wife’s infidelity. Perhaps the man is truly in denial, or perhaps he is simply a forgiving man, and has learned to love the daughter of another. Either way, Nikolas is caring toward both his daughters, and expresses his extreme guilt in the way they must live, by giving them whatever they may want. His birthright and war have made Nikolas a very rich man, richer than many may assume, as he rarely spends his acquired wealth. To the outsider, Nikolas is a clean cut, rather lack-luster man, and even to those close to him, much of his life is painted in shades of grey. He‘s neither overly friendly, nor mean, and holds himself at esteem, without degrading those below him.

【History】

See Sara’s History

【Dreams, short term goals, and fears.】

To keep his daughters safe, and to one day become a Commander of the King‘s Armies.

【Skills】

Nikolas is a tried officer, and knows many tactics of war. As for sparring, as a young man, the sport was far more exciting. Now, Nikolas prefers to watch others spar, though he continues his own training when there is time. Most of Nikolas’ skills deal with war, and so outside of this setting, on his brief run-ins with ’noble’ life, Nikolas is quiet and submissive. His skills as a rider are esteemed, and there are tails of when the man was younger, how he would lead cavalry into enemy lines, and always break them. As well, he used to compete in jousting competitions, and even went to unseat the standing champion.

【Martial prowess】

Nikolas knows traditional swordsmanship, which begins with fencing, but the man is most comfortable with a lance. When in battle, he remains on horseback, now equipped with a long sword, and has sense retired his charging days.

【Combat style】

Nikolas’ skill is fairly chivalrous, trained as a boy to follow the code of chivalry. However, to slay a man on foot while you are on horseback is far from completely chivalrous, but war had its fatalities, and Nikolas counts the chivalrous man as one of them. However, he is not the man to stab a man in the back, nor set a village aflame in times of war. He fights for his life, and has survived because of that raw need for survival.

【Weaponry】

Sword and Shield. Once upon a time, a Lance.

【Armor】

He wears light chain mail, with a plate chest. Usually, he‘s dressed in a sharp, black officers uniform, but when it comes to battle, the man dons his plate. The last thing he needs is for a stray arrow to pierce his chest when it could be otherwise protected.

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

Depressing but intriguing is my middle name...

No I'm serious, my parents freaking suck at names.

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

Lady Sara Medved

“I‘ve spent my childhood on a battlefield, it is time I spend my womanhood at Court.”

Sara stands at a slight 5’2”, but with years to mature into her full height, making her very average amongst peers. However, she is not often amongst peers, and thus her height is made more noticeable. She’s skinny, with a dancers physique, lacking both maturity in height, as well as shape. Her face is rather average, not overtly gorgeous, but with a potential for beauty woven throughout. Both eyes are a light grey, mirror to her father’s. Within an encampment, with men away from woman and wife for months, she draws stares, a forbidden fruit, prettier than most whores, at least the ones they could afford, but to even think of such an act could send the Captain wild. Her brown hair hangs down to the bottom of her ribcage, and holds only the slightest wave to its volume.

Sara keeps herself well-kept when she can. On a retreat, or in times of true danger, her appearance may lack, but usually, she is as prim and proper as one might expect. She dresses in warm colors, nicer than the peasantry, but not nearly as ornate as most nobility. Her gowns are usually simple, though with fine embroidery, and pattern to appease the eye. Her modesty would distance her from the harem, but the color and style would also separate her from the cooks and wives. This makes Sara easily distinguishable from other ladies, and a known face to many.

【Full Name】

Lady Sara Medved

【Aliases】

The Officer‘s Daughter

【Age】

Fifteen

【Sex】

Female

【Sexuality】

Straight

【Religion】

Monarchist

【Family】

Father: Lord-Captain Nikolas Medved
Mother: Lady Marcelle Medved (deceased)
Sister: Lady Alycia Medved
Uncle: Lord Derick Medved of Tivembre
And a handful of nameless cousins

【Birthplace】

Her families small lordship of Tivembre, which lies in the forests of northern Grosswik

【Societal standing】

Nobility

【Former employment】

N/A

【Rank and role】

N/A

【Personality】

Sara is an intelligent, but overall, soft-spoken woman. She is much like her father in those regards, with an aura of tranquility surrounding her. It is very rare to catch the girl in a moment of heated emotion, though when it rains, it pours. Unlike her father, however, her calmness does not act veil to a nasty streak of anger. Instead, she is far more prone to fits of extreme sadness, than those of heated argument. Some might describe Sara as a dreamer, with a value for the arts not often appreciated by many her age, and a wonderlust about her. Usually, the girl is smiling, and her fair attitude and appearance make her well-liked to many.

【History】

The first half of Sara‘s life in a mundane one, more blessed than a serf girl, but still holding dreams of becoming a Princess as she roamed the halls of her Uncle’s castle. In her young mind, he was the King, and often, her Uncle Derick would confirm these suspicions by calling her Princess. Such disillusion might have continued, had her mother not gotten pregnant when she was eight. Her mother‘s pregnancy was a happy thing for Sara, her father come home for what seemed like forever, having spent much of her childhood away. Everything seemed too good for the girl, and perhaps it had been, because the goodness did not last.

Instead, her mother had died. In her place, a tiny, screaming sister remained, and Sara vowed to never love the creature, the villain who’s life was paid for in her mother’s blood. That vow was broken in the weeks to come, her father telling the girl to pack her things, and for the first time, leave her home with him. It was just the three of them, there were guards and a nursemaid, but in the fog of an eight year olds mind, it was only the three of them, all huddled on one saddle, with her Papa holding the babe, and Sara holding her Papa from behind. It rained so much in those months, the months of early spring, and at every stop, they were warned not to travel farther: it was too dangerous for the baby, they’d say. Her Papa did not care, and bundled his children tighter, once he’d wrapped the shawl around Sara so tightly she could hardly move, but the rain still soaked through, and by the end of their journey, all had terrible coughs.

They reached camp still with these coughs, Sara left alone with the small, coughing baby, sitting for once in a warm, dry tent, in warm, dry clothes, yet they still coughed. It was her first time alone with her sister, father whisked away as soon as they arrived, and she sat with the girl, feeling warm and comfortable. The pain in her chest continued, and she wondered if the baby felt that same pain, if the baby had felt the pain of losing her mother, and if the baby had screamed and cried so much because of what a terrible mistake she had made. Surely, the girl felt as terrible as Sara did, she too had lost a mother, yet she did not even get to meet the woman. It was hard to hate a thing that coughed so sadly, and felt so warm in her skinny arms. So Sara instead resolved to end her hatred, and instead love this committer-of-matricide.

Years passed, and Sara only briefly returned to the keep of her uncle. Instead she banded along with her father and explored the world, perhaps the ugliest parts of the world, but the world nonetheless. She grew to act as Mother for her sister, a caretaker of a young child because her father was far too busy to coddle a toddler, or see to that the girl learned right from wrong. There was plenty of wrong around them, and so it was Sara‘s job to sort through it all, and given a caretaker role at such an early age helped to put her wise beyond her years. Wherever Nikolas went, the girl followed, and so began her life not as a Princess, but as the Officer‘s daughter.

【Dreams, short term goals, and fears.】

Sara dreams to one day be a Lady of the Court; to one day find a husband, and a home more absolute than a tent. She is still just a girl, and wants after romance as any other, still, part of her knows she‘d be as content as simply a wife to a noble, as she was a daughter to an officer. Instead, she wishes to lead a life of purpose, of influence and reverence typically held only by men. At fifteen, she’s still unsure of where life will lead her, but insists on greatness. She fears death as much as any other, especially the deaths of her Father.

【Skills】

Sara is proficient beyond her years with words, and relies heavily on reading, writing, and the arts to fill the constant void of boredom war creates for the girl. Drawing and painting are skills she has acquired and refined. Compared to other women, she is well learned, and her knowledge on the ways of war, and world events as a whole is own startlingly current. Sara is neither content with sitting at home, a pretty wife to some noble, nor sitting at a battlefield, unable to do anything productive. In private, she offers informal advise to her father, and takes pride in his trust in her. Her influence over her father could be considered a skill, given that he is a man who trusts very few, and his ear holds power over others.

【Martial prowess】

Sara’s defense relies heavily on the fortitude of those around her. She’s grown up around violence, though the girl has never been apart of such. Upon attack, she might throw a punch, a kick, a bite, but holds little prowess with blade or bow. Still, Nikolas guards both his daughters zealously, and so she has never been in a situation where she has needed to defend herself.

【Weaponry】

Sharp words.

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

Would you like three, or one character sheet?