Everything I learnt about NFTs have been non-consensual
2
likes
5 yrs ago
while(inDream=true) {otaku.salary()+=}
5 yrs ago
I don't know who this Boltzmann fella is but he owes me a physics test and a whole lotta trouble
5 yrs ago
Can someone please explain why my discords are on fire about this forum right now? I just woke up and I don't have enough coffee to read a bazillion status updates
The Demonbreaker simply shrugging off Lein's attacks were disappointing, but an unsurprising confirmation of the necromancer's boast. It barely even reacted to arrows, barely reacting to even attacks that slipped through the plating. But as strong as that Cazt ghoul was, it was hardly the problem. They had the numbers, and the mace alone did significant damage to the plate armor. Not a whole lot, but still something noticeable. And with backup already arriving and no other way to escape apart from the exit they had just come through,
No, the real problem was two-fold. The first was that this necromancer still holding the hostage. That Nem girl, however Lein disagreed with the decision of coming down into the necromancer's den to simply rescue the assassin's sister, remained their objective. If the necromancer was to recognize the dire situation past his apparent ego, he could always threaten the hostage and force a stand-down of at least the honorable among them. Not good.
The second was the crux of the problem - that they did not know what the problem was. He could put a little less faith into the conspiratorial capabilities of his enemies, but Lein couldn't help but wonder if there was a larger trick at play. The lightning witch was aligned with the necromancer. Perhaps the man with the axe, and the large ghoul as well. But what was up with this 'demon'? Clearly, the necromancer was neither aware nor was happy to see the demon girl. If Serenity was right, that meant neither the vampire nor the man behind the tentacle monstrosity was on his side. And she was clearly disinterested in helping out. So why stall for time for the necromancer, without his knowledge, and not help him when it truly counted? And was the necromancer this stupid to corner himself in the mausoleum against an inevitable army of knights?
Were they playing against the necromancer or someone else?
Lein took half a step to avoid a stumbling blow from a ghoul, looking past the foul militia to keep an eye trained on both the necromancer and the lightning witch. He struggled to connect the dots while having to juggle the immediate danger of the slashing steel that threatened to cut his head loose, and the inevitable danger that Lein could barely make out the outlines. An arrow nailed the skeleton's rotting knee to the ground, Lein ducking past the mace as tumbled to the ground and swinging out further into the chamber. He was in a wide angle now, putting him far from his hardier companions. Dangerous for him, but it kept him out of the way. Out of attention.
If Lein couldn't sort out what was going on, the easiest solution was simply to cut the players down. From behind the wall of skeletons that churned in front of him, Lein hurled a bag of flour in the direction of the witch and the necromancer's barrier, following each of them up with an arrow to cut the bundle loose just before impact. Screen them off - keep them from noticing the deck getting stacked.
Lein had spent his fair time around the castle libraries, in part to shift books for the ever talkative archivist in exchange for information and in part to shift in a couple boxes that did the archivist was not aware of. Never sat down to read any of the boring things, lest his mind blow itself out from the proximal boredom it oozed. But it was hard to miss the breathless importance that the archivist spoke of this 'Erich Cazt'. And seeing the paladin wield the Cazt crest against the terse Captain was all the clues he needed to piece together that what the Knights were facing was the legendary Demonbreaker, whose name writ itself upon the collective memory of Aimlenn beyond living memory and was spoken beyond compare.
And so, so utterly shrunken, a desiccated corpse completely and pathetically helpless in warding against being twisted into an inscrutable whim. Just why the hell did these nobles struggle so bloody hard to be preserved for all eternity, if all it offered to the living was nought but trouble? This 'Hero' in front of him was just a gilded pile of bones, a bit actor reenacting its glory days past the curtain call. Time and again, Lein was somehow propped up to resolve the insanity of these overstayed intruders.
Serenity, as she did so consistently, spouted a couple orders at Lein before rushing off. "Serenity, I -" It was a warning that would be undelivered, and on hindsight, the bull-headed Serenity would certainly forgo heeding. Least she didn't get run through in her charge, whatever strange stunt she was turning - a cold comfort, but they weren't caught on the flatfoot on the get-go. And five against three was still a better odds, especially if the necromancer was tied up animating the Hero and handling the hostage. They'll just have to handle this a little more deftly.
The mausoleum wasn't stable, the ceiling shuddering from just the undead's physical swing. But having no magi of their own, a collapse would certainly favor the necromancer and his co-conspirators' survival. Was there a way to only partially collapse the ceiling? Or perhaps, get up close to the conspirators so they are forced to shield both the Knights as well as themselves? If the translucent film bisecting the room was indication, there was already a barrier that stopped Lein from simply landing a shot straight between the eyes. That, and the necromancer was sure to try something with the nem if the tides did turn. That barrier had to come down on their terms. But how?
For now, they'd have to deal with this Erich. There was little space to work with, and without his usual bow there would be little chance to punch through that armor. Lein gingerly maneuvered close into a flanking angle, hanging just outside of lunging distance and placing potshots at the shoulder joints. Jam it open, or failing that, a distraction. He'll just have to rely on his compatriots to handle brunt of the forceful side. C'mon. Think. There's a trick to this.
Location: Hraesleg Base Camp Interactions:@Conscripts
"...yes, of course. It makes perfect sense that the plumes are not as well developed were it to not face the harsh updrafts of the mountain..." Melanie mumbled, face buried in the notebook and quill again in hand, fiercely inscribing all that she had gathered of Shortclaw. A shame she didn't have the opportunity, but what little she did see inflamed her curiosity well enough on its own. A griffin! Of all beasts! And a magnificent specimen too, anyone would be taken by its grandeur.
Melanie seemed completely unaware that an arrow landed next to her, continuing to mumble fragments of sentences that sprung in its nascence out of her mouth. Stray pages freed themselves from Melanie's notebook and dejectedly floated to the ground, folding itself and its rejected contents into nothing. "...but the veracity of the dwarven records of the early sightings of the griffin has long since been tested by - GAH!"
Melanie looked up, momentarily confused and slightly annoyed at whatever thing derailed her note taking, before she acknowledged that it was another elf talking to her. Hraesleg Lions armor? Heavens alive, Melanie had let herself go again. What should someone think of her profession should they find such a disheveled looking maniac? Posthaste, she flicked out a brush and vigorously brushed out the dust from her hair to its natural flow, flattened out her robes and smiled at Irian in a precise and practiced manner, forgoing any acknowledgement of context. "My name is Melanie Theria Layaneth, naturalist and archivist of all curios, pleased to meet you!"
There was a pause as Melanie fumbled her way back to try and recall what she missed. Why was he talking to her? This wasn't the forums, she wasn't going to get thrown out for pestering passerbys with questions. Something about...something about spying? Objectionable choice of words, but quite accurate. "Yes, I am indeed gathering information about the Hraesleg Lions!" Melanie said cheerily. "There are quite a lot of rumors surrounding this detachment, and I simply had to see for myself. And deep apologies, but I didn't happen to catch your name?"
Certainly sounds a lot more likely than besting the vampire. Unless this is a lie and Serenity struck a deal behind our backs, that sounds like this necromancer and his cronies aren't entirely put together.
"Went with yours, actually; Stab the guy till he stops moving." Lein shrugged. To the extent that Lein knew, that was actually the best way to describe the 'plan' anyhow. "Really, without you shouting at me to fall in line it was quite the bore. Missed you so much I hopped up here as soon as I could."
Lein skipped down the stairs following Serenity's lunging pace, occasionally jumping down a couple steps to keep up with the knight. "Did see something interesting. Not sure if suddenly sprouting horns counts as demonic, but there was a guy hiding behind the tentacle monster that retreated after we gibbed his pet. Human male, red gem on a necklace, leather armor. Maybe a couple daggers at his waist. Ring a bell?"
As they continued down the passage, Lein picked up a sizeable brick from the floor, tossing it up in the air to get a feel for its weight. He was not out of arrows yet, but that last skirmish reminded him that maces as a fallback was very much putting him in danger of getting grabbed. So he'd put some bar brawling tactics to good use: a mug on a rope, for those shrewd ones that always ducked behind the countertop. In this case, a brick on a rope for a necromancer.
"...Wlyner's latest work, in spite of all these criticisms, has responded comprehensibly to the weaknesses of his previous publications, but in such a characterization I am wary that I run the risk of implying that his bibliography had any meaningful merit above the entertainment of idle philistines..." A messily written sentence snarled up against the page it rested upon, nestled closely with a combination of unfinished notes and rough drafts of the surrounding landscape. The occasional breeze fluttered the pages of the small leather-bound notebook before being pushed back and straightened out by an ink-blotched hand.
"And I thought the breeze would do me some good." Melanie murmured, lifting her head to regard the tent she had used as a support. Beside her, a large paper sculpture of a soldier stood next to her, frozen in its dazed pose and slouching under its own weight. It was as if someone had drawn a rough sketch of what a 'soldier' was supposed to look like, and built a facsimile with bound paper by memory alone. Its featureless face stared incuriously toward the rest of the military camp. With a flick of Melanie's wrist, the sculpture animated momentarily, lumbered and adjusting its posture until its body came to loom over the elven writer, then froze once more. Simply insufficient. Melanie snapped the notebook shut and annoyed, waved her hand once again. This time, the sculpture shuddered as its structure unraveled from complicated interlocking patterns and stacks into pages, pages into strips, and finally folding unto itself into nothing.
Where was she? That was a question that Melanie seemed to ask herself frequently, both of her curiosities and of her person. She fumbled back into her memories as she gained a visual purchase of her situation once again. It was the Hraesleg camp, on the verge of readying themselves for war. War? War. Melanie retracted her choice of words. The conflict had not yet escalated into open skirmish, but she had seen how both sides had geared themselves for such a confrontation well before she had arrived in Velt. And now she had placed herself betwixt the rising hostility, riding on her paper golems alongside the march of the Veltian banner. She briefly proffered a consideration that she may have made this particular expedition a degree too deep, but swiftly cut that line of inquiry. No, no. If there was anywhere a witness had to be, this was such a place - whether or not Melanie had to make good on the promise of providing 'arcane support' where-ever possible.
Before her, the camp was lively with the camp's preparations. Oh, and was that a gryphon she spied in the distance? And a lamia warrior too! Quite the eclectic bunch! Melanie had known the Steel Princess had been quite indiscriminate in her recruitment process (in fact, it was perhaps for this very grace that the elven historian dressed in academic robes could remain here), but both were quite the rare sight indeed. Gryphons, gryphons? Griffins, was the more common pronunciation. Melanie stared at Shortclaw with a ferocious fascination as she dug through her notebook. Male, one of the western breed yes, well-kept... The griffin's bonded and the lamia warrior were exchanging intelligence it seemed, and Melanie knew to not interfere. Not yet. But the first chance she got, she was certainly going to ask after him.
Lein remained with an arrow trained on the scattered remains of the monstrosity, now headless and riddled with a mass of arrows, until he was sure that it was to move no longer. A little overcautious, perhaps, but the lack of an arm had not even phased it before. As he lowered his aim, he checked on his prosthetic, slowly moving each joint to see if they were holding up. Fingers working okay. The pulleys worked fine, letting Lein pull out the few arrows that could be lodged from the heap of bone and entangled muscle. It had survived much abuse thus far. Habit, Lein reminded himself. Nothing to worry about.
And fatigue was a minor problem in perspective. Lein looked over at Gerard steadying the small Captain, the tendons that nearly engulfed her strewn on the ground. That monstrosity was no small fry. Though they had ultimately got the upper hand by Cecilia's well placed shots, it had taken all four's focus to break its advance. Lein himself was lucky that he could find a mark that ate iron. Haste, yet again, had plunged them in turbulent territory. If the necromancer was anything worse, they'll have to hedge more than just luck and more arrows.
Lein perked his ears up, trying to rinse out the remnant ringing of Cecilia's explosive arrows and strained to catch the sound of footsteps and clashing steel. Apart from the few echos that crept around the stairways, nothing. Serenity was left alone with a vampire, and even if Serenity talked big, Lein had to land on 'probably dead'. "Gimme two. I'm checking to see if our dear Lioness is still kicking." Or more likely, kissing the ground. Should've shot that vampire putain when I had the chance. Losing her meant the group was riven in two; and worse, the advance group would have a vampire trying to nail them from behind while facing down whatever awaited them below. That was not a plan Lein would even pretend to follow along.
Hoisting his bow on his shoulders, he ascended swiftly up the stairs, steps light to disguise against whoever was waiting up above. As he approached the doorway, he lowered toward the ground, and silently knocked an arrow. Steady - pull back, swing around, shoot - Lein caught his reflexes moments before he loosed his arrow at the blonde figure around the corner. Just Serenity, still intact and standing before a disembodied hand. Seeing her not only breathing, but not a bloody mess on the ground was quite the welcome surprise. Lein grinned at Serenity's almost welcome tone of disappointment. "Just checking how your date with your vampire boyfriend was going, but now I owe you an ode to the Vampire-Slaying Lioness! We met some kind of bloated tentacle monster below, and frankly you got the better half. At least you don't smell like a rat drowned in Veltian ale."
Lein nodded toward the stairs leading back down. "Go on. You'll get more chances to stare daggers at me after we cut this necromancer and get out of this delightful place." As he let Serenity pass by, he tilted his head to look for any bite-marks on Serenity's body. Did vampires leave hands behind? He only knew Serenity survived, not slain. That could mean a lot more, though Lein didn't have the luxury of acting on suspicion right now.
An enthusiastic and voracious academician, with an endless motivation in all matters in the sciences. She distinguishes very little in what she actually transcribes or who is informing her: whether that be large, pivotal moments of a new king's coronation, village encounters with a local griffin, or a meandering ramblings of the rube. In fact, she could come off as insensitive or oblivious when she fails to read the room when bombarding her captive interviewee with questions, and aloof to the events happening around her.
She is also prone to spontaneous flights of fancy, easily swept away by the passion of the moment and swayed by praise with alarming ease. On the bright side, Melanie has near limitless amounts of energy once she's excited with something and tracking down an elusive cryptid. On the other, she has many shelves full of unfinished manuscripts when she lost focus and pursued another rabbit-hole that arrested her attention. Melanie has a very high tolerance of risky behavior and is happy to jump in head first into dangerous situations if she thinks it will get her a good scoop, only to regret it sorely when she inevitably realizes that physical exertion is far from her forte. She's a pushover to many requests of whimsy or embarrassment, simply to sate her curiosity on how people will react.
Melanie is quite prideful of her works, her status as an academician and regards her work as an idealized, altruistic undertaking. She has great sympathy especially for those who seek to advance any kind of understanding of the world, whether that be a fellow archivist, naturalist or a lowly scribe. Unfortunately, this passion also carries into her academic output, resulting in analyses frequently interrupted by opinionated remarks and purple prose.
| BACKSTORY |
Melanie's library of her published works is long and varied, being one of the few advocates of the study of the wider continent. She was beholden to a meteoric rise in infamy by sheer volume; within a few years Melanie had to hire several scribes just to sort the several dozen boxes of references and live specimens flooding in each week. Still, she gained a loyal following for her sweeping observations, obsessive focus on the most mundane of phenomena, and 'academic' studies filled to the brim with poeticisms. She was particularly known for getting into an open fist-fight over the color of Reon's dress during a public debate (of which Melanie would proudly proclaim she won, though it is unclear whether she is referring to the debate or the fist-fight). Many fellow academicians had a much more critical reception of her studies, viewing her as a hack and lacking in the appropriate skepticism one must apply in academia, though she was still respected in her studies of humanoid animation theories. Nonetheless, Melanie has not let up in her indefatigable pursuit of knowledge. Her most recent obsession has taken in the form of social history, and in a characteristic abruptness she dropped her work on the fundamental theories of alchemy to take an extended trip to Velt. She quickly latched onto the Lions as a rich source of insight into the brewing political conflicts as well as a security detail, in exchange for a wellspring of information on golemancy and alchemy.
| EQUIPMENT |
Enchanted Journal - An small leather-bound book filled with ink blotches and hasty scrawls. Melanie's magic allows torrents of paper to come flooding out of the book to take whatever form Melanie requires. The paper's durability is far stronger than usual parchment paper, which lends its strength to Melanie's constructions. The foremost pages of her book contains details on Melanie's most frequently crafted golem archetypes.
Haphazard Alchemy Set - Contained in a large box full of esoteric instruments required of any high level alchemical studies, with long slender brass measuring sticks, flasks of all sorts of sizes and several leather satchels of common ingredients. Unfortunately, Melanie's lack of rigor in organization has resulted in many of these containers being completely mislabeled.
Overpriced 'Ancient Relic' Dagger - A common dagger with a large fake jewel inset into the handle. Melanie got swindled into buying this. Still, she keeps it as a personal defensive tool in case she is cornered.
| SKILLS |
Though luck played a large part, Melanie's persistence through her danger-prone expeditions has been largely thanks to her undeniable talent in creating magic constructs and temporary transmutation on the fly. She can summon temporary mimics of creatures to assist her in various activities; birds carrying teacups, horses to ride on long treks and orcs to thump ignoramuses who insult her work. The duration and accuracy of these constructs depend on Melanie's focus on the construct and the strength of Melanie's memory of what it is mimicking, so outside of her usual assortment of ingrained helpers she often simply bases the paper golems off of an ally or enemy she's observing. The solid, defensive elements of her constructs are made of paper, while the more fluid joints or components that emulate certain elements such as fire is made of ink.
Melanie's knowledge on many wild creatures and physiology is extensive, giving her insight into treatment, both mundane and magical. Unfortunately, she has a tendency to be very clearly biased, confuse two of her many studies or simply get things wrong. It's safe to say that her written works are much more reliable than her recalled knowledge, given that it's not a very high bar. Though zoology is her main arena of study, Melanie's eclectic habits have sent her into anthropology, history, sociology and geology, swinging wildly each year as she pursues whichever field suits her fancy.
Melanie's more practical knowledge in the natural sciences such as alchemy and transmutation has shown its use in many cases during her travels, synthesizing comforts such as acids, soaps and nightlights. Her most frequently used combination is making sweet cakes, and she will debate anyone who questions whether baking counts as alchemy.
| TALES |
Water marks have blurred the opening lines of this letter. The following is a transcript of the legible components.
...I have long since learned that one must always be prepared for darker shores should they delve into the depths of man's atrocities. Though each time I write of these wars, scorching plains of undivided pain, I find myself increasingly disturbed.
Melanie, should a good, moral man who lofts a banner of evil be considered a victim or perpetrator? I should say my initial considerations incline me to see them as little more than hapless spokes trapped under the great unseen machinery of the divine, and should they simply be freed from these circumstances their humanity must shine again, untarnished. You should know, I've had stressed as much in my works to never see even the twisted individuals as mindless monsters but a malformed blade mistreated by the pressures of their observance.
But to simply blind ourselves of these people's capacity to conduct evil, willing or not, would bury the sorrows of the victims of these evil acts. Malefactors will go unnamed, atrocities forgotten. Those who had received mistreatment would not merely have had a great sorrow inflicted upon them but their tears would go unassuaged by their families. Those who come after them would never know what had been sacrificed to build their foundations, and worse yet, what must be stopped should evil return to their loft. Whether in spirit or in memory, by virtue of our sympathetic silence a great injustice would have been conducted.
Melanie, we as the lamplighters of the history must accept too, the complicity in our actions. Our long lives, cut short or otherwise, does not exempt us from this fundamental fact. We are not separate of what we write, but are a living, breathing continuance of it. We too, are prone to whatever forces we observe in scripture and whatever side we stand on this precarious balance of right and wrong, we must rely on those who come after us to decide if we, too, are a good people. I do not know how my works will be memorialized in the years to come, and I hope at the very least, be honest in my incompleteness.
It is a hard lesson to learn, a harder balance to strike. In my long, overspent years I am yet to even grasp the pithy roots of it, let alone apply it. I hope in time, you should find peace in your own limitations.
An enthusiastic and voracious academician, with an endless motivation in all matters in the sciences. She distinguishes very little in what she actually transcribes or who is informing her: whether that be large, pivotal moments of a new king's coronation, village encounters with a local griffin, or a meandering ramblings of the rube. In fact, she could come off as insensitive or oblivious when she fails to read the room when bombarding her captive interviewee with questions, and aloof to the events happening around her.
She is also prone to spontaneous flights of fancy, easily swept away by the passion of the moment and swayed by praise with alarming ease. On the bright side, Melanie has near limitless amounts of energy once she's excited with something and tracking down an elusive cryptid. On the other, she has many shelves full of unfinished manuscripts when she lost focus and pursued another rabbit-hole that arrested her attention. Melanie has a very high tolerance of risky behavior and is happy to jump in head first into dangerous situations if she thinks it will get her a good scoop, only to regret it sorely when she inevitably realizes that physical exertion is far from her forte. She's a pushover to many requests of whimsy or embarrassment, simply to sate her curiosity on how people will react.
Melanie is quite prideful of her works, her status as an academician and regards her work as an idealized, altruistic undertaking. She has great sympathy especially for those who seek to advance any kind of understanding of the world, whether that be a fellow archivist, naturalist or a lowly scribe. Unfortunately, this passion also carries into her academic output, resulting in analyses frequently interrupted by opinionated remarks and purple prose.
| BACKSTORY |
Melanie's library of her published works is long and varied, being one of the few advocates of the study of the wider continent. She was beholden to a meteoric rise in infamy by sheer volume; within a few years Melanie had to hire several scribes just to sort the several dozen boxes of references and live specimens flooding in each week. Still, she gained a loyal following for her sweeping observations, obsessive focus on the most mundane of phenomena, and 'academic' studies filled to the brim with poeticisms. She was particularly known for getting into an open fist-fight over the color of Reon's dress during a public debate (of which Melanie would proudly proclaim she won, though it is unclear whether she is referring to the debate or the fist-fight). Many fellow academicians had a much more critical reception of her studies, viewing her as a hack and lacking in the appropriate skepticism one must apply in academia, though she was still respected in her studies of humanoid animation theories. Nonetheless, Melanie has not let up in her indefatigable pursuit of knowledge. Her most recent obsession has taken in the form of social history, and in a characteristic abruptness she dropped her work on the fundamental theories of alchemy to take an extended trip to Velt. She quickly latched onto the Lions as a rich source of insight into the brewing political conflicts as well as a security detail, in exchange for a wellspring of information on golemancy and alchemy.
| EQUIPMENT |
Enchanted Journal - An small leather-bound book filled with ink blotches and hasty scrawls. Melanie's magic allows torrents of paper to come flooding out of the book to take whatever form Melanie requires. The paper's durability is far stronger than usual parchment paper, which lends its strength to Melanie's constructions. The foremost pages of her book contains details on Melanie's most frequently crafted golem archetypes.
Haphazard Alchemy Set - Contained in a large box full of esoteric instruments required of any high level alchemical studies, with long slender brass measuring sticks, flasks of all sorts of sizes and several leather satchels of common ingredients. Unfortunately, Melanie's lack of rigor in organization has resulted in many of these containers being completely mislabeled.
Overpriced 'Ancient Relic' Dagger - A common dagger with a large fake jewel inset into the handle. Melanie got swindled into buying this. Still, she keeps it as a personal defensive tool in case she is cornered.
| SKILLS |
Though luck played a large part, Melanie's persistence through her danger-prone expeditions has been largely thanks to her undeniable talent in creating magic constructs and temporary transmutation on the fly. She can summon temporary mimics of creatures to assist her in various activities; birds carrying teacups, horses to ride on long treks and orcs to thump ignoramuses who insult her work. The duration and accuracy of these constructs depend on Melanie's focus on the construct and the strength of Melanie's memory of what it is mimicking, so outside of her usual assortment of ingrained helpers she often simply bases the paper golems off of an ally or enemy she's observing. The solid, defensive elements of her constructs are made of paper, while the more fluid joints or components that emulate certain elements such as fire is made of ink.
Melanie's knowledge on many wild creatures and physiology is extensive, giving her insight into treatment, both mundane and magical. Unfortunately, she has a tendency to be very clearly biased, confuse two of her many studies or simply get things wrong. It's safe to say that her written works are much more reliable than her recalled knowledge, given that it's not a very high bar. Though zoology is her main arena of study, Melanie's eclectic habits have sent her into anthropology, history, sociology and geology, swinging wildly each year as she pursues whichever field suits her fancy.
Melanie's more practical knowledge in the natural sciences such as alchemy and transmutation has shown its use in many cases during her travels, synthesizing comforts such as acids, soaps and nightlights. Her most frequently used combination is making sweet cakes, and she will debate anyone who questions whether baking counts as alchemy.
| TALES |
Water marks have blurred the opening lines of this letter. The following is a transcript of the legible components.
...I have long since learned that one must always be prepared for darker shores should they delve into the depths of man's atrocities. Though each time I write of these wars, scorching plains of undivided pain, I find myself increasingly disturbed.
Melanie, should a good, moral man who lofts a banner of evil be considered a victim or perpetrator? I should say my initial considerations incline me to see them as little more than hapless spokes trapped under the great unseen machinery of the divine, and should they simply be freed from these circumstances their humanity must shine again, untarnished. You should know, I've had stressed as much in my works to never see even the twisted individuals as mindless monsters but a malformed blade mistreated by the pressures of their observance.
But to simply blind ourselves of these people's capacity to conduct evil, willing or not, would bury the sorrows of the victims of these evil acts. Malefactors will go unnamed, atrocities forgotten. Those who had received mistreatment would not merely have had a great sorrow inflicted upon them but their tears would go unassuaged by their families. Those who come after them would never know what had been sacrificed to build their foundations, and worse yet, what must be stopped should evil return to their loft. Whether in spirit or in memory, by virtue of our sympathetic silence a great injustice would have been conducted.
Melanie, we as the lamplighters of the history must accept too, the complicity in our actions. Our long lives, cut short or otherwise, does not exempt us from this fundamental fact. We are not separate of what we write, but are a living, breathing continuance of it. We too, are prone to whatever forces we observe in scripture and whatever side we stand on this precarious balance of right and wrong, we must rely on those who come after us to decide if we, too, are a good people. I do not know how my works will be memorialized in the years to come, and I hope at the very least, be honest in my incompleteness.
It is a hard lesson to learn, a harder balance to strike. In my long, overspent years I am yet to even grasp the pithy roots of it, let alone apply it. I hope in time, you should find peace in your own limitations.
Lein had no chance to respond as the tendrils of muscle came flying out, spitting putrefied fluid as it snared the mace in Lein's hand. He instinctively let go and darted his hand back, moments before more of the roiling mass could grapple unto his arm. Going melee with this thing was no question. If he let it gain purchase, Lein would have no way of cutting himself loose. And it would be unquestionably, undeniably, disgusting. He was never going to wear this swashbuckling outfit anyway, but Lein would probably have to burn this jacket too. Lein retreated far back through the room, letting Fanilly and Gerard ward off the encroaching skeletons and taking a leap up unto a nearby pillar base to find an elevated angle.
It didn't need to look to actually track people. He had planned to obscure its vision if it showed signs of requiring eyes. But it did feel pain, and it looked like made of mere muscle. And Gerard's charge had actually managed to halt it, demanding its fall by crushing its leg. Resilient, but not unbreakable. Lein rattled the quiver behind him, measuring the amount of arrows he had. He was pretty conservative with his participation so far, and now would be the time to cache in.
Lein threw down the length of rope to free up his shoulder, and planted one foot back and shifted his quiver forward, the bundle of arrows leaning out for faster access. He couldn't hit its comparatively small hooded head with guarantee at this range at this pace, but he certainly could hit its oversized torso. And he'll put in his entire quiver into the thing. Cut its muscles loose or, even better - "Cecil, I'll make sure that thing's eaten its fair share of iron, yeah?" Lein said - blow it up.
Lein lined up an arrow through the quiver, waiting until the entanglement of bones and weapons cleared enough for him to take in the full view of the ugly, shambling thing. Lein sucked the stagnant air in with its rot-stench. The bone fingers of this prosthetic twitched as Lein loosened his shoulder. Three, two - "Gerard! Watch your head!" Lein shouted a warning, and only gave seconds before he loosed an arrow against the creature's torso, followed immediately a torrent of flying metal, a flash-made waterfall all crashing directly toward the soft flesh of monster's bloated body.
oh wow a relationship chart that is definitely not several months late wont include everyone and will probably be never updated ever again hurray
Cecilia A fellow archer and prankster, Lein feels both kinship and rivalry with her. On one hand, she's the first go-to whenever he needs a second hand to go along tugging at the backstage strings, and he's happy to cover for her whenever she's off slacking. There's a fine line between playful antagonism and being a headache, and Lein appreciates that the extent of Cecilia's tomfoolery has tended toward harmless quips. On the other hand, Lein acknowledges in the purest sense of the craft, Cecilia's archery is simply superior - sharper and harder at longer ranges, even capable of windward feats Lein wouldn't able to dream of. That hasn't stopped Lein from pestering her with regular challenges of marksmanship, though, looking suspiciously at the green bow she always wields.
Fanilly Lein regards the young Knight-Captain with as much respect as he holds for any other Captain: none. The title of Captain as a marker of authority means very little to him, and he would renege on his supposed oath to the Knights if he deems Fanilly to be a credible danger. And yes, she has proved herself to be at least some kind of danger - her brash decision making and nervousness has thrown him and his associates into peril several times already. Yet besides a few jabs muttered half-breath, Lein lets Fanilly alone and follows her command without too much of a fuss. His obedience is not rooted in respect, but of pity. The weight of nobility is a heavy one, and Lein knows this all too well. It's the reason why he ditched his old life, after all. Lein wants no part in the politicking of pompous nitwits that wear a crown in place of their hearts, but neither does he want to add to the burden of someone trapped under the weight of it all.
Tyaethe From 'hag' to 'tapeworm', Lein has called the vampiric paladin so many different slanderous names it's impossible to recount them all. Lein is prone to disappear whenever she appears, especially after the first couple of times she had caught him smuggling goods out the Castle. But it's unclear to many why Lein continues to antagonize Tyaethe every time he meets her despite most of their encounters leaving Lein thoroughly worse off than before. His standoffish nature is partially driven by embittered disappointment. She had all the power to affect the annals of time, and yet she has apparently done nothing but wallow in her authority. Whatever motivation the paladin has or lack thereof, to Lein, Tyaethe represents the apathetic past that plagues the present.
Fionn Between the many colorful personalities that inhabit the Knights, Lein regards Fionn as the most grounded. No family scandal to shy from view nor possessing arcane prowess to vaporize his foes - at least, no such dirt Lein could dig up. Not that such neutrality is unwelcome; when all's said and done, Lein would count the Veltian to be there when it matters. Lein's penchance for paranoia does keep him second-guessing the man. If Lein was to find out that Fionn turns out to be the secret exiled king of the unseelie, he'd not be surprised in the least. And in that respect, toying around with him does seem to bring a little too much trouble for its worth...
Fleuri If Lein had to think of the most picturesque knight, he'd point to Fleuri. Handsome, competent, a great dancer to boot. And from his brief personal trysts and the reputation that precedes the Champion, Fleuri has given no reason to doubt the legitimacy of his convictions. And indeed, the eschewing of glory in pursuit of one's personal cause is exactly what Lein is happy to praise. Yet aside from the occasional mischief and surface cordiality, Lein has put some distance between himself and Fleuri. Faith is a fickle thing, and despite having close associations with the Church himself, Lein finds suspicion in any who professes to hold Mayon too close. Who's the one calling the shots up above, anyhow?
Gerard Lein thinks Gerard is neither malicious nor stupid. In fact, Lein fully trusts that the man is married to the Knights' cause. Though Lein finds there's a tension with the man's strive to idealism and his brusque pragmatism, a tension that tends to boil over into wrath, one that Lein finds a little too volatile to handle carelessly. If he's not by the young knight's side on the battlefield on the right side of a sword, Lein would rather not be at his side at all. Still, if a problem requires power in the shape of a blade, then Lein would be more than happy to try and call Gerard in. That is - point to the danger and hide behind him.
Renar In short, someone to keep out. Renar's modus operandi is probably the closest to Lein's professed philosophy than most other knights - survive, at any cost. If it means to kick someone while they are down, then there should be no question in ensuring one's continuance. Yet something about the 'Bastard of Brias' chafes at Lein. He hasn't bothered to dig into why, simply concluding a vague notion of untrustworthiness to be handled at least at an arm's length.
Serenity All things considered, Serenity should be the antithesis to Lein. the Lioness is the most stalwart knight, consumed entirely by their sense of duty that exudes its own sort of arrogance. And one would be right, with Lein throwing jabs at the Lioness whenever a good enough chance presents itself. Though there is a certain romance to having someone so numbingly dedicated to the craft that they seemingly perfectly replicate the speeches of old Hundi knightly tales by sheer bad attitude. And even if he does buck every order Serenity barks at him on the battlefield, he's willing to at least entertain her sense of command every once in a while out of curiosity. But beneath following the Lioness with a detached sense of amusement, Lein feels a pang of concern for all the regrets that Serenity may be setting herself up to have.
Sergio The man has far too much patience for Lein's shenanigans and Lein is more than happy to seek the end of his limits. He's fine to string along for a little bit, but Lein has since learned to keep him out of the loop lest he invite too much unwanted attention to the deeper circuits of his plots. Sure, Sergio alone may not do anything to compromise, but his two eyes can easily turn into hundreds if Lein isn't careful.
Steffen Seemingly a prime target to tease. Lein's experiences of Ingvarr warriors and their fearsome culture have taught him some valuable lessons one picking the correct battles, and Steffen's insistence on trying the diplomatic approach in a decidedly hostile environment has both surprised and fascinated Lein. He's not yet decided if the Ingvarr's idealism is borne out of naivete or determination, but he's happy to stick around to find out. Especially if that means Lein gets to push all his paperwork unto Steffen in exchange for an odd change of hands here and there.
Lein Lenivicius ves Estouls. Lady Cteline. Two-Tongue Cashmere. Sister O'raven. The Archer-Knight 'Lein' is but one of many names the one-armed Hundi has went by, as monikers are used and discarded like a raincoat against a storm. To the many enemies he's made over his globetrotting days, he's a boisterous braggart who swoops in without warning to make an uproar at a nearby tavern and leave with the wealthiest patrons a dozen coins short. Lein knows enough to exploit this reputation to either make others underestimate him, or paint a target on his back to divert attention away from his other schemes. And when he's done with the Roses, the wandering Hundi is happy to let 'Lein' die so he may once again, be set adrift into the world.
