He had wondered briefly, what would have happened if he had chosen to recall his sword back into the World Between Doors.
But alas, Otis preferred Ciara over Iraleth, and an overt betrayal with no follow-up meant nothing. He was happy enough to sit back and relax, his amber gaze having only settled upon the Leuvalt scion once before the start of the match. The rest? It was spent on observing the leylines, recording the doorframes, seeking out what arcane security measures were present. That environment-manipulating spell that the professor used was interesting. He made a mental record to review the footage on his Adapa. The leyline flux present must have played a strong part in it, but there was a finesse present as well, perhaps one more technically impressive than simply overlaying an ascended world.
Ah, but he shouldn't dawdle. The fight was fierce and explosive; the Strigidae couldn't spend too long taking in the sights. He slipped a gloved palm into one of his belt pouches, retrieving a small clockwork construct that he cupped in his hands. At an appropriate time, Otis feigned shock at Ciara's (admittedly heinous) move. Damaging someone's prime essence through sheer essence manipulation? Damaging the very essence that determined the functionality of one's organs, the amount of years one had left on this plane? He knew she had it in her, but wow.
Otis whispered an incantation into the brass construct, then smothered it into his seat.
A poor decision by the paladin. Who knew how much the Inheritor could have degraded from this?
B A S I C I N F O [Name]Zecil Zerresian [Callsign]Refrain [Gender]Male [Age]22 y/o [Rank and Designation]Proto-Class [Place of Birth]Lishenna-48 [Official Statement]"Blippity blappity boop."
C O M B A T A B I L I T Y [Anti-Barrier Sword]#520 - Twenty-Faced [Anti-Barrier Quotient]44% [Physical Description] At first glance, #520 is a mundane AB Sword. The length of a two-handed longsword, single-edged with only a small crossguard, it boasts a single edge. When held, the handle seems to adjust to the wearer's grasp, seeping into the crevices of fingers to offer a better grip. The sheath of #520 is often secured on the wielder's back, with the blade slipping sideways from the sheathe rather being drawn out of it. A bit of an oddity, but perhaps it was simply for show.
What's definitely for show, of course, is that this iteration of #520 is painted jet-black with a mirror polish. Once reinforced by Refrain's Anomaly, the AB Sword gains a prismatic sheen, like ice dust in morning light. It's not nearly as splendid as LED RGB lighting of course, but on occasion, a subtler touch is more appropriate. [Attributes] The Twenty-Faced is a shapeshifting weapon, a marriage of human technology and its wielders' Anomaly. Rather than existing as a single conjoined part, the Twenty-Faced is built in the way that a puzzle toy would be, with parts and pieces able to detach and reform in the midst of combat via ingenious engineering, before its form is solidified with the application of Anomaly. Flames reforged. Ice constrained. Polarity locked. In the crucible of combat, #520 could become a short sword, a battle axe, a jousting lance, a bladed whip, or even just a regular longsword, confounding Aberrations with its manifold forms. In such transformations, the sheath of the Sword itself serves as extra material when necessary.
Though its greatest wielders could freely manipulate the AB Sword's form, and though it possesses 20 standard forms, its current wielder, Refrain, utilizes three forms beyond the default longsword form: glaive, scimitar, and rope dart.
[Anomaly]Cocytean Companion - Deviant Strain [Origin]Kholomica [Phenomena] Facsimiles of life, rendered by white ice.
Those who possess this Anomaly can animate their frozen constructs, psychically commandeering their creations to fight for humankind. The most potent of them can raise armies to stalemate the tide of Aberrations, risking no allies nor military hardware in the process, while artillery bombards the both construct and Aberration with impunity. Others call forth gargantuan guardians, moving bulwarks to reinforce defenses, ice melting and then reforming as directed energy weapons expend themselves against glacial armor.
Refrain's Anomaly is quaint, in perspective. His creations are smaller, rarely exceeding one ton in mass, and are fragile in comparison, a consequence of bloodline impurities. To make up for, or perhaps because of, this deficiency, his constructs have the quality of absorbing heat from their surroundings to empower themselves with. Flowers drain warmth and scatter their petals an explosion of ice and fire. Birds fly with ever greater speed, propelled by jets so their wings could become as blades. Wolves feast upon the heat, their forms growing greater with each meal. And his constructs forms are protean as well, shifting shapes easily, eagerly, at his command.
In the heat of battle, Refrain's constructs could match, perhaps even exceed, that of a purer-bred Constellation. [Limitation] The problem, of course, is that Refrain is paradoxically one of the Kholomica lineage that performs worse in a cold environment. The answer, perhaps, would be to 'incubate' his constructs upon a Pilot's mech, replacing their cooling system with the benediction of an Anomaly, but his constructs have fixed forms, even if they can freely shift between those forms. They cannot stay long upon a mech while engaged in high-speed battle, their brittle forms knocked off by G-forces that their roots, claws, and talons cannot withstand.
Without heat to consume, Refrain's constructs are thus sluggish and brittle. Flowers do not bloom, birds cannot fly, and wolves are starved, leading to creations that are only good for a momentary distraction. The size limitation of his Anomaly become a problem in and of itself: you can still bury Aberrations with snow if you had enough quantity, but with just one ton? That would delay a Bishop for a half-second, at best.
[Surface-level Impression] Zecil is not just a Constellation, but an idol. He puts his best foot forward, the picture-perfect facsimile of a gallant hero for Humanity, his multi-faceted AB Sword shining in the light of daybreak. He smiles beautifully, and his glares are at once heroic and arousing. He is princely in conduct with civilians, a stout-hearted companion to his comrades. For those who desire genuine connection, Zecil is too artificial, too fake to ever love, as if his movements are calculated to maximize the affection of an audience light years away. For those who seek only a dream, a fantasy, however? He fulfills it to the tee, possessing the elegance of nobility to such an extent that even in the midst of battle, it appears as if he is perpetually aware of the camera, showing only his good side within a quagmire of ash and human viscera.
There is occasion where he zones out, his expressions blanking over. But those moments don't last for long.
[Public Knowledge] "Zecil Zerresian is a male Lishennan Constellation-Idol, currently affiliated with 0048 Productions. He debuted as a member of PZ-0's third generation of talents, before breaking out as a solo talent during his second year as a Proto-Class Constellation. A princely individual with a sadistic side, his distinguished vocals have landed him on a multitude of Stellar System Top 50s over the years."
That is what his article reads on the wiki, and that is all there is to him, for as a Constellation and as a human being, there's nothing about Zecil that's particular.
Those of the Zerresian bloodline were a branch diverging from the glacial might of the Northern Sect, the animation of the constructs at odds with the Absolute Zero of the main family, and within that, Zecil himself was a product of a short-lived love, rather than a union meant to birth a warrior. Muddied blood, if his half-siblings spoke the truth, ended with an Anomaly that was just potent enough, a physique that was just capable enough, for Zecil to be drafted as a Constellation.
Poor bastard, really. Amongst prodigies, there remained tiers still, and Zecil was undeniably near the bottom. His ice constructs were so piss-poor that they needed external sources of energy to move, and his physical tests came out as average at best. His intelligence wasn't stand-out either, basically about what one would expect out of an eight year old child, except with perhaps a higher tolerance for stress and an uncommon degree of emotional maturity for his age. The Zerresian patriarch had shrugged on that day, then turned his attention on a more promising heir. Zecil himself was too young to understand, but doing what adults told him to do came naturally, so he left his home and was brought out beyond the stars.
Some trainees were brought up to be warriors, their physical capabilities pushed to break through limit after limit. Other trainees honed their supernatural gifts, bending and breaking reality until their surroundings hardly resembled what once was. Most followed a standard track of lessons, with the understanding that even if they did not reach the bare minimum of Stardust-class, they would still become fine soldiers, pilots, officers. But there wasn't just a need for great warriors or career soldiers. There was also a need for propagandists, idols that could be propped up for the masses to admire, for the ignorant populations of the Core Planets and the Sol System to reassure themselves with. Capable enough to perform superhuman deeds on camera, incapable enough that they can afford to split their time between combat operations and idol activities. And Zecil, obedient but with low potential as a proper Constellation, yet still possessing the wintry allure of the Northern Sect's youths?
His mentor shook hands with his manager, and his path deviated once more.
He debuted at 13, with four other attractive, but potential-less trainees. They established themselves as a group of childhood friends, 'secretly' filming the training activities and daily lives of humanity's future Constellations. They performed cover songs with artificially-bloated engagement to get the ball rolling, then gradually transitioned into original songs that they 'personally' wrote. Two years later, they 'officially' signed with 0048 Productions, an entertainment powerhouse headquartered in Lishenna-48, balancing out their Day-In-The-Life-Of content with an increasing number of virtual and in-person collaborations with other talents and even some media-savvy soldiers. Puberty sharpened their features (as did corrective-gene therapy and plastic surgery), and their personas changed as well, gradually shifting away from a group of mischievous kids training to be the best to simply being a knightly order that was, in fact, the best of the best.
Though they had kept up with training throughout all this, they were still the bottom-of-the-barrel. But Zecil could bear the ridicule of his betters. They had their place and he had his. In the end, they both protected the innocents, the civilians. Wasn't that all that mattered?
Nadine thought that he was coping. Callan was happy to collect the extra paycheck and send it home. Zahir channeled his own frustration into his solos. Hana thought that online harassment was worse, because it was easier to walk away from people than it was from his phone.
Those were nice years. Busy years, for certain, but nevertheless enjoyable. You studied to pass tests, and practiced to perform. You uploaded videos and got engagement in response, then participated in shoots to serve as merchandise. Zecil had the sense that he may never even make it to Main-class, but he was fine where he was.
Predictably, graduation was the prelude to disaster.
...
At 20 years old, after surviving his first encounter with a Bishop, Zecil was brought to a virtual board room. He had expected the disbandment of the group. Three others were dead, and the cost of a complete recovery of the fourth wasn't worth the benefits. Instead, he was instructed on the new narrative: he would break out as a solo artist, while the others would continue their activities as a quartet. The contract they had signed back when they were children included signing away their likeness, and there was more than enough material to generate an AI based off of them. They would live on, because the story had to be maintained.
Zecil continued to see them on billboards, on talkshows. Saying things they never did. Performing songs they never learned. He knew that they were never so competent, so witty, so capable, and yet there they were. The light of stars continued to travel across the universe, long after the stars themselves had blinked out.
He would be the same as them. A face, a voice, a couple of defining traits. A cog in the propaganda machine that kept money flowing, kept people happy. Even if he died, so long as his brand had value, he was immortal.
In that case...what was there to fear?
Zecil would keep spinning, sharpening his teeth against others, until he bridged the gap between the real and the ideal, so that the fraudulence he peddled had enough substance that he could save real lives with it.
Though he supposed that there were other deciding factors at play when his manager approved of his request to start work proper on the Frontier Planets.
Resort planets could show off carefully curated greenery and brilliant suns, with ripe, organic produce and picturesque homes, but that didn't prevent their tourists from being glued to their phones. If one wanted to enjoy nature, simulated nature was indistinguishable from the actual thing. If one wanted to enjoy delicious food, gene-modded products far surpassed what offerings could be harvested from field and farm. And if one wanted to have fun? Where else could one find a place more filled with joy than Lishenna-48, one of the premier destinations for recreation and media?
The planet is one of metal and glass, skyscrapers and monorails interlaced in a chaos that is only added to by the flying vehicles that would drop to ground zero or rising up full kilometers into the sky. Neon lights and animated billboards fill the space, and walkways bulge with people present for work or pleasure. Intergalactic sporting events are hosted upon floating super-arenas, while grand venues are booked ten years ahead of time with hit performers from all across the universe. For those with renegade tastes, the underground scene is perhaps even more intense, a ceaseless moshpit of indies trying to make the craft stand out from a crowd, each with their own gang of fanatics. Meanwhile, agricultural towers produce meat and vegetables in abundance, fueling the buffets that could be found in every casino on the block, food the therapy for losing your house as collateral on the poker table.
The entertainment industry, of course, is interstellar, as is the political influence of the Sol System. Countless forms of media spawn from Lishenna-48, either overtly or subliminally pushing the official stance of the government towards the Human-Aberration Conflict. Meanwhile, AI-assisted researchers pore over exabytes of data collected from the steady flow of tourists, perfecting the study of human behavior to maximize the efficacy of marketing. And all that profit funnels back to mili-tech megacorporations who had funded the terraforming and transformation of Lishenna-48 to begin with.
It's only fair though. You can't have fun without big guns, after all.
[Culture]
The inhabitants of Lishenna-48 are perhaps even more deluded than the tourists.
The promise of wealth and fame is the carrot, while heavy taxes the stick. If a single day could catapult you into multi-generational wealth, then it only makes sense to pay a great price to have the privilege of being in a place of such opportunity, after all. The people work hard, upgrading their bodies with cybernetics so they could work ever harder, then spend freely to show off their wealth to those around them, so that the illusion of being a socialite may grant them the opportunity to be noticed, to become a companion of, an actual socialite.
It's deeply stupid, but when there's ten thousand different lotteries running on the planet, when there's a grand winner at the slot machines every half-second, when a busker is picked off the walkways and transformed into an overnight sensation every system hour, it would be foolish to stop gambl- pursuing your dreams. Go fuck off if you want a modest, normal life. The digital sun never sets on Lishenna-48 and the fun never ends, so really, one just needs to work hard and play hard, intensifying efforts for both until the glass ceiling shatters and you ascend whilst heralded by a meteor shower.
Such status quo, of course, isn't natural, but there's nothing about Lishenna-48 that ever was.
[Warrior Family] The Zerresian Family, origin of the Cocytean Companion Anomaly, is a branch of the Northern Sect, standing guard over the outer Core Planets in the Aurs-Wyll Star Sector. Famed for their tactical brilliance, they've distinguished themselves as a potent branch during the Star-Route 77 Siege, Operation Wren Antler, and the 7th Core Incursion, but in recent years have been in the background, after the untimely demise of the family's only Red Giant-Class.
Still, the ability for their Anomaly to substitute or reinforce infantry has given them the glory of Zerresian Constellations to be placed further than most Northern Sect members within the bastion-planets of the Frontier, with the understanding that they can hold out against sheer numbers for longer than those of other Sects. Or perhaps politics is at play, and the Sect Leader would rather see the Zerresian branch be condemned to obscurity.
Notable Contacts
[Name] Millie Harbin-Amber
[Relation to Subject] Zecil's point-of-contact with 0048 Productions when he's off on a Frontier Planet doing Constellation work. In cases where inter-galactic comms are hard to establish, she's responsible for making sure he acts in a way appropriate for the Constellation-Idol that he is.
[Analysis] The life expectancy of most Lishennans is a decade or so below that of other Core Planet inhabitants, even when accounting for medical technology. With that said, Millie's a woman who took the 'always be spending' lifestyle of her kin and tacked on the 'live hard, die hard' mantra that her favorite movies push too.
She knows she's largely expendable, that she's really only there to pilot a drone so that she could catch Zecil in action so clips could be sent back to her own managers, but she's made peace with it. After all, how many other Lishennans could claim they've been to as many planets as her? How many in the Core Worlds could claim to know the truth about the Aberrants and humanity's struggle against them? And, if nothing else, her field work means that she's surrounded by strangely handsome and/or beautiful men and women, so that has to count for something, right?
Millie is an optimist by choice. She figured she wouldn't be able to keep it together for long if she wasn't.
My derpy brain just realized that just like the Hearthfire Gala, the people invited by DuMon are arriving one by one instead of all at the same time like a football team lol
Bro's gonna have like, week-long waits inbetween receiving people, considering how far away Ravenfell is from most duchies.
It was a city of ghosts, but before then, it was simply a city.
Certainly spoke of the ruler’s tastes then, to have such dark and dreary décor from the very walls of the city up to the castle’s own throne room. The Capital City of Arthroyeaux proved to be a joyless place, more of an elaborate crypt rather than a city, but it matched too the dreariness that fell upon Ravenfell as a whole. One could charitably claim that it lived up to its name…and one could say too, that Ravenfell had once simply been a kingdom light any other. A regular place, with regular people. People he had known, once.
His shoes clicked against the cold stone floor of the throne room, the dark light of the surrounding torches casting deep shadows upon his face. The Duke of Rhinecliff stood before the throne, unaccompanied by any except for two armed escorts from his territories. He bowed to the seated King, paying respect to royalty he had not sworn fealty to, then raised his head once more.
“King Lamont DuFairre, I have come to answer your summons, and have brought gifts too.” One of his knights stepped forth, presenting a beautifully illustrated tome of philosophy, penned by a scholar of Odonfield origin. “Though you and yours may have lost the cravings of the body, knowledge is a spring from which one can never draw enough.”
A sliver of a smile slipped into his features.
“Unfortunately, my changeling companion’s time is far more precious than my own, and as such, I ask for your forgiveness in her absence. As I’m certain you’ll have heard, the province of Arrowfell will soon be missing two of its Dukes, at the hands of one familiar to you. Though I would delight in extended conversation with you, please allow me to dispense with pleasantries temporarily.”
The smile remained, but his gaze was hard. Ageless and undying as the King of Ravenfell was, it had cost his nation its future, consigning them to stagnation and rot.
“What do you require in exchange for your assistance?”
Kronshi,
Sky Blue,
Majoraa,
High Moon,
Emberdawn2,
VirgoDrago,
ppppppppp,
CitrusArms,
Soldat Elf,
Estylwen
