The Otter
Estylwen
Fetzen
Noctis
Izurich
Lildear18With the size of those anglerfish, the Wizard Queen can practically solve hunger province-wide :D
Could be good for image-making. Rule the people by their stomachs and all.
Could be good for image-making. Rule the people by their stomachs and all.
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Sir Sawyer Hayworth
At sea on the Battle-Blood Minstrel, during the Athius voyage
XI: The Beast, Awakened
The bedlam that unfolded before Sir Hayworth's eyes was one he could not have predicted. From the arrival of the envoys from Ravenfell to yet another attack from that "Sparrows" fellow atop the emerald dragon, it seemed that the strings of fate were poised to intersect here, on the Queen's prized vessel.
The residue of mana, as well as the familiar scent of iron, steeped the air with the aroma of battle.
"Intercept the intruders!" Sir Hayworth called out, his voice rising above the chaos. Immediately, his platoon drew their weapons and swarmed the Ravenfell insurgents in a circular formation. Escape would not be an option, unless it was hard-fought. The casters among the group began to whisper their incantations, while the rest rushed forward with their swords and spears. Their armaments shimmered with a menacing crimson, and so too did their bodies. Their physical capabilities had been amplified.
Loathed as Sir Hayworth was to leave them on their own, he was confident in their skills. He had another part to play, after all. Having been entrusted with Her Majesty's safety, he turned to the Wizard Queen, and her command to follow along jerked his muscles to action. Diving from one of the ship's jumping boards, Sir Hayworth entered the ocean, his free hand clutching the Seed meant for subjugation.
As soon as the bubbles that were kicked up from his descent subsided, the sleeping monster that lurked in Athius' depths finally came into view. A leviathan... It embodied the word, truly, and though Sir Hayworth had faced — and cut down — many a large monsters in his day, he had yet to encounter a monster of this size. His blade roared a fierce blue, accumulating mana. Then, he slashed forward. One slash turned to two, which no sooner turned to four. A total of seven blasts of mana would leave his blade, seemingly in the blink of an eye. The energies were aimed at various lengths of the beast, and Sir Hayworth was careful not to harm the Wizard Queen's familiars.
He swam closer and closer to the beast, his sword still suffused with his mana. Should the creature choose to thrash around or retaliate, he was ready to repel it.
The residue of mana, as well as the familiar scent of iron, steeped the air with the aroma of battle.
"Intercept the intruders!" Sir Hayworth called out, his voice rising above the chaos. Immediately, his platoon drew their weapons and swarmed the Ravenfell insurgents in a circular formation. Escape would not be an option, unless it was hard-fought. The casters among the group began to whisper their incantations, while the rest rushed forward with their swords and spears. Their armaments shimmered with a menacing crimson, and so too did their bodies. Their physical capabilities had been amplified.
Loathed as Sir Hayworth was to leave them on their own, he was confident in their skills. He had another part to play, after all. Having been entrusted with Her Majesty's safety, he turned to the Wizard Queen, and her command to follow along jerked his muscles to action. Diving from one of the ship's jumping boards, Sir Hayworth entered the ocean, his free hand clutching the Seed meant for subjugation.
As soon as the bubbles that were kicked up from his descent subsided, the sleeping monster that lurked in Athius' depths finally came into view. A leviathan... It embodied the word, truly, and though Sir Hayworth had faced — and cut down — many a large monsters in his day, he had yet to encounter a monster of this size. His blade roared a fierce blue, accumulating mana. Then, he slashed forward. One slash turned to two, which no sooner turned to four. A total of seven blasts of mana would leave his blade, seemingly in the blink of an eye. The energies were aimed at various lengths of the beast, and Sir Hayworth was careful not to harm the Wizard Queen's familiars.
He swam closer and closer to the beast, his sword still suffused with his mana. Should the creature choose to thrash around or retaliate, he was ready to repel it.
Crispin Alcott & The Sparrows
The plaza of Hathforth, on the day of Duke Willowsteel's execution
X: Swan Song
His heart raced inexplicably.
Crispin could feel a sinking dread starting to tear into him, with claws as sharp as a Dremora’s. Instinctively, his eyes lingered on the piece of jewelry that hung from a particular elf’s ears. It lit up with a mysterious glow, as if some mechanism within it had roared to life. He knew it was the advisor’s Seed, a nefarious Seed that can impose on one’s emotions.
Worse, it was also the very Seed that helped to take the lives of the Corrins.
Though he’d already been briefed on its effects by Islara, still, the Seed was no less potent. His fingers trembled out of reflex. His mind, clouded by thoughts of fallen allies. Yet, even under the influence of the Seed’s power, there remained a sliver of his will. And it would remind him of all that he’d lost.
His father and mother.
His brothers and sisters.
His home.
“You won’t get the best of us, craven!” Crispin yelled with a crack.
In the next moment, the air around him would begin to sizzle.
As the daggers of ice whirred, intending to rain destruction, an invisible blaze would consume them, reducing them to mist. With each shard, the mist would grow thicker and thicker, until a backdrop of pure white would swallow everything whole.
"Don't let them escape!" Sir Hayworth didn’t miss a beat. A violent energy swirled on the edge of his sword as he raised it, and he gathered the haze in a makeshift cyclone.
But once he could finally see, neither Crispin nor Islara could be found. The three Sparrows had vanished.
Crispin could feel a sinking dread starting to tear into him, with claws as sharp as a Dremora’s. Instinctively, his eyes lingered on the piece of jewelry that hung from a particular elf’s ears. It lit up with a mysterious glow, as if some mechanism within it had roared to life. He knew it was the advisor’s Seed, a nefarious Seed that can impose on one’s emotions.
Worse, it was also the very Seed that helped to take the lives of the Corrins.
Though he’d already been briefed on its effects by Islara, still, the Seed was no less potent. His fingers trembled out of reflex. His mind, clouded by thoughts of fallen allies. Yet, even under the influence of the Seed’s power, there remained a sliver of his will. And it would remind him of all that he’d lost.
His father and mother.
His brothers and sisters.
His home.
“You won’t get the best of us, craven!” Crispin yelled with a crack.
In the next moment, the air around him would begin to sizzle.
As the daggers of ice whirred, intending to rain destruction, an invisible blaze would consume them, reducing them to mist. With each shard, the mist would grow thicker and thicker, until a backdrop of pure white would swallow everything whole.
"Don't let them escape!" Sir Hayworth didn’t miss a beat. A violent energy swirled on the edge of his sword as he raised it, and he gathered the haze in a makeshift cyclone.
But once he could finally see, neither Crispin nor Islara could be found. The three Sparrows had vanished.
Needless to say, OOC Altina is unhinged to the umpteenth degree.
NPC sheets go!
I lied as naturally as I breathed... Friday it is!
Needed to make sure I had Est's blessing with the NPC sheets first.
"You know, Callum, if it was Lady Furino yapping at you, you wouldn't hesitate."
Will have a post up by tomorrow or Wednesday!
I lied as naturally as I breathed... Friday it is!
Needed to make sure I had Est's blessing with the NPC sheets first.
"...Do you normally go shoving things in little girls' mouths?"
"You know, Callum, if it was Lady Furino yapping at you, you wouldn't hesitate."
Lmao. I'm Islara's never gonna live that down...
Will have a post up by tomorrow or Wednesday!
*proceeds to shove a Snickers in her mouth*
Better?
Better.
Will have a post up by tomorrow or Wednesday!
Get something in your stomach and maybe you'll be a bit less irritable, too...you're not you when you're hungry.
*proceeds to shove a Snickers in her mouth*
Better?
Better.
Islara Yelren & The Sparrows
The plaza of Hathforth, on the day of Duke Willowsteel's execution
IX: Budding Flowers Over Graves
The stirred pot was now starting to boil over.
Stone-faced, Islara observed the display of ice magic from the Queen’s advisor. The biting blizzard would soon rid them of their only advantage. With her plan essentially foiled, one can only imagine the anxiety that gnawed on the woman. But she felt no such thing.
She turned to Duke Willowsteel, her free hand urgently ushering him up the dragon. “You must depart. Now.”
A steely gaze landed on Raiden. Islara would give him a solemn but firm nod. “Go. I’ll buy you time.”
She’d made her peace long ago, before this mission. She swirled a pellet on her tongue, tucking it underneath.
The duke’s life was important, far more important than hers. No doubt would word of his rescue quickly reach the Nordor demesne. Perhaps such news, of knowing that their ruler yet lives, would finally embolden the people of Nordor to rebel.
She brandished her dagger, the lingering smoke cloaking it in a temporary haze. It’s too early to dwell on defeat. Just one emotion streaked across her face. We haven’t lost yet.
But if she were to fall here, it would be on her own terms. She would make sure of it.
The smoke had now completely dissipated, revealing her figure, along with Raiden’s and the dragon’s. The Queen’s guards were closing in, their hastened steps grinding against the concrete of the execution grounds. One of the knights had even attempted to ensnare them in a trap.
Clever. However, the net would burn away, engulfed by a mystical flame, before it could touch them.
“Looks like we made it in time!” A familiar voice called out to her from the stands. It was a young man with brown hair. He wore a breastplate with the insignia of the Sparrows.
A blue flame hovered on his palm, gathering in size and intensity. He would toss it in the direction of the guards, and it would burst in a deadly conflagration, leaving a desiccated crater in its wake.
Contrasting the skinny young pyromancer was the muscular man emerging from the aftermath of the firestorm. He clutched a broadsword with his right hand, the tip of the blade trailing along dirt, creating lines and other patterns.
There were those among the Queen’s guards who survived the blast, and they would surround the man in a tight formation. But the giant would shake them off with nothing but a flick of his weapon.
“Damn it! Don’t underestimate us, interloper!” A lone knight would start to engage him head-on, blade overhead, preparing for a downswing.
He too would fail, bisected from the torso by his foe’s broadsword. His blood and entrails were splayed out on the ground unceremoniously. A squish could be heard as his killer continued his pace, the metal on the man’s feet pressing against intestines and other organs.
The other knights around him froze in place. So, the man quietly passed them by. After all, if they moved, twitched, even slightly, the fate that awaited them was staring them right in the face.
Meanwhile, on the raised platform where the execution would have occurred, Islara armed herself with another dagger, forming a pair.
She leveled her previous one at Duke Rhinecliff. “So, the ruler of Odonfield now licks the feet of this… ‘queen’ too? How shameful.” Scathing criticism spilled from her lips like a waterfall off a cliff’s edge.
Piercing eyes would shift towards Advisor Urimyar. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten, elf. The suffering you’ve inflicted… On me, on us… I will inflict it upon you tenfold.”
Those were the final words that Islara exchanged.
In the next passing moments, she would lunge forward with superhuman speed, intending a beheading. And she would have succeeded too, if not for another blade putting a stop to hers.
Sir Hayworth stood in front of Advisor Urimyar, his steel locking Islara in a standoff. He pushed ferociously against the would-be assassin, sparks flying amidst the struggle. “Apologies for my tardiness, Sir Vulluin.”
Islara scoffed. “Ha! Agrovia as well? Have the territories of Arrowfell grown soft?” An obvious taunt.
But Sir Hayworth would ignore it. Something more pressing was on his mind. How... is she matching my strength? Sir Hayworth was by no means holding back. And yet, no matter how hard he pushed, Islara, too, would push harder. The assassin had forced a stalemate: a stalemate that would not have been possible, if not for…
Prying eyes would spot a ring on the woman’s hand.
A Seed.
She was being empowered by a Seed.
So that's how it is. Sir Hayworth would change tactics.
“Guh—!” In a blink of an eye, Islara was sent flying backwards. Sir Hayworth had expelled a stream of mana from his sword, surging forth unexpectedly like a wave. Unable to resist its flow, Islara found herself ultimately swept away by it.
“Sir Vulluin,” Sir Hayworth began ominously, addressing the elven man behind him. “She is dangerous. We must not let her reach the Queen.”
Islara would soon rise to her feet, held up by her companions, who now stood side by side with her. Sir Hayworth looked them up and down, a grave expression wrinkling his face. “Not her, nor the pyromancer, or that warrior.”
Islara let a brief smile tug at her lips. Now all the attention would be on her. On them.
Stone-faced, Islara observed the display of ice magic from the Queen’s advisor. The biting blizzard would soon rid them of their only advantage. With her plan essentially foiled, one can only imagine the anxiety that gnawed on the woman. But she felt no such thing.
She turned to Duke Willowsteel, her free hand urgently ushering him up the dragon. “You must depart. Now.”
A steely gaze landed on Raiden. Islara would give him a solemn but firm nod. “Go. I’ll buy you time.”
She’d made her peace long ago, before this mission. She swirled a pellet on her tongue, tucking it underneath.
The duke’s life was important, far more important than hers. No doubt would word of his rescue quickly reach the Nordor demesne. Perhaps such news, of knowing that their ruler yet lives, would finally embolden the people of Nordor to rebel.
She brandished her dagger, the lingering smoke cloaking it in a temporary haze. It’s too early to dwell on defeat. Just one emotion streaked across her face. We haven’t lost yet.
But if she were to fall here, it would be on her own terms. She would make sure of it.
The smoke had now completely dissipated, revealing her figure, along with Raiden’s and the dragon’s. The Queen’s guards were closing in, their hastened steps grinding against the concrete of the execution grounds. One of the knights had even attempted to ensnare them in a trap.
Clever. However, the net would burn away, engulfed by a mystical flame, before it could touch them.
“Looks like we made it in time!” A familiar voice called out to her from the stands. It was a young man with brown hair. He wore a breastplate with the insignia of the Sparrows.
A blue flame hovered on his palm, gathering in size and intensity. He would toss it in the direction of the guards, and it would burst in a deadly conflagration, leaving a desiccated crater in its wake.
Contrasting the skinny young pyromancer was the muscular man emerging from the aftermath of the firestorm. He clutched a broadsword with his right hand, the tip of the blade trailing along dirt, creating lines and other patterns.
There were those among the Queen’s guards who survived the blast, and they would surround the man in a tight formation. But the giant would shake them off with nothing but a flick of his weapon.
“Damn it! Don’t underestimate us, interloper!” A lone knight would start to engage him head-on, blade overhead, preparing for a downswing.
He too would fail, bisected from the torso by his foe’s broadsword. His blood and entrails were splayed out on the ground unceremoniously. A squish could be heard as his killer continued his pace, the metal on the man’s feet pressing against intestines and other organs.
The other knights around him froze in place. So, the man quietly passed them by. After all, if they moved, twitched, even slightly, the fate that awaited them was staring them right in the face.
Meanwhile, on the raised platform where the execution would have occurred, Islara armed herself with another dagger, forming a pair.
She leveled her previous one at Duke Rhinecliff. “So, the ruler of Odonfield now licks the feet of this… ‘queen’ too? How shameful.” Scathing criticism spilled from her lips like a waterfall off a cliff’s edge.
Piercing eyes would shift towards Advisor Urimyar. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten, elf. The suffering you’ve inflicted… On me, on us… I will inflict it upon you tenfold.”
Those were the final words that Islara exchanged.
In the next passing moments, she would lunge forward with superhuman speed, intending a beheading. And she would have succeeded too, if not for another blade putting a stop to hers.
Sir Hayworth stood in front of Advisor Urimyar, his steel locking Islara in a standoff. He pushed ferociously against the would-be assassin, sparks flying amidst the struggle. “Apologies for my tardiness, Sir Vulluin.”
Islara scoffed. “Ha! Agrovia as well? Have the territories of Arrowfell grown soft?” An obvious taunt.
But Sir Hayworth would ignore it. Something more pressing was on his mind. How... is she matching my strength? Sir Hayworth was by no means holding back. And yet, no matter how hard he pushed, Islara, too, would push harder. The assassin had forced a stalemate: a stalemate that would not have been possible, if not for…
Prying eyes would spot a ring on the woman’s hand.
A Seed.
She was being empowered by a Seed.
So that's how it is. Sir Hayworth would change tactics.
“Guh—!” In a blink of an eye, Islara was sent flying backwards. Sir Hayworth had expelled a stream of mana from his sword, surging forth unexpectedly like a wave. Unable to resist its flow, Islara found herself ultimately swept away by it.
“Sir Vulluin,” Sir Hayworth began ominously, addressing the elven man behind him. “She is dangerous. We must not let her reach the Queen.”
Islara would soon rise to her feet, held up by her companions, who now stood side by side with her. Sir Hayworth looked them up and down, a grave expression wrinkling his face. “Not her, nor the pyromancer, or that warrior.”
Islara let a brief smile tug at her lips. Now all the attention would be on her. On them.
Sir Hayworth 'bout to engage in some friendly fire hehe.
Should have a post up come weekend :D
Should have a post up come weekend :D
Just a small note.
<Snipped quote>
Fauna are animals.
She could just be fraternizing with the pigs, ERode. Pigs are grazing animals, r-r-right?
Tfw you've been using a word wrong your whole life... Extra sadge.
Flora, maybe...?
That's it! I will admit that I have used both this and fauna interchangeably before... Until now!
I also have a present!
*stares respectfully*
—
Sev (probably) from the most recent post: "What do you mean stay close to you? I can't fuggin' see you!"
Islara Yelren & The Sparrows
The plaza of Hathforth, on the day of Duke Willowsteel's execution
VIII: A Fuse Lit
Islara could hear the clamoring of the crowd, even while submerged in the shadows. Though the evening light could not reach her, their voices did. She would listen closely.
"Oh, Duke Willowsteel..." An old woman with graying hair muttered. There was a familiar sadness to her voice, which quivered with every word that escaped her lips. She was practically teetering into a sob.
"His Grace is a good man. He deserves a second chance, like the rest of us." There went the tears. Her pleas would be lost to the wind. Like the constant ebb and flow of time, the execution would go on, and the duke would number yet another victim of the Queen.
Just as Roland was. Just like the Corrins were.
Islara gritted her teeth. I've cried my share. Now, I must act.
She would dispel her magic, appearing behind the woman with an understanding smile. She held the woman by the shoulders, her expression fraught with concern. "Are you alright, ma'am?" She put on an accent. "What seems to be the problem?"
The old woman cleared her eyes. She looked up to meet Islara's gaze, her eyes glinting with surprise. "Oh, hello there, young Miss. I... did not mean to alarm you." An apologetic bow.
"It's a shame what is going to happen to Duke Willowsteel," Islara would remark with a hint of remorse.
A sniffle. "Why, yes, it is." The woman stopped her sobbing. "If you must know, I used to serve the late Duke Arthur Willowsteel, you see." A wistful smile crossed her face. "And I also served His Grace too, when he was young. Little Sev, so full of vigor..." She trailed off with a laugh. "I still remember when he would play in the vineyards of the Nordor estate. A rascal, he was..."
A grim pause.
And with that, her smile was gone, fleeting as a firework in one of the Queen's gala. "But those days have passed."
"To think it would come to this..."
Islara pondered her own memories of the Corrins. Of happier times. Out of everyone, she could make out Roland's face clearly. His expression as he told her of his plans for the Sparrows... She could still visualize it. They lay listlessly on the wet grass of the Tarin manse. It was after a hard day's work, and they were passing the time in casual conversation.
Islara did not normally go around rolling in fauna — dirty as it was. But for Roland, she made an exception. She would turn to him, resting her head on her arm.
"So, Mr. Dreamer, think you can handle Raiden and his pet wolf in a fight?" She blurted out something random.
Roland scoffed. "Ha! I would bet my sister's ashes on it!"
Islara rolled her eyes. Roland always had a way of making light of even heavy topics, something Islara wasn't accustomed to, at first. As they grew closer, however, she began to develop some endearment for these quirks of his. This was a... natural progression to their relationship, one could say.
Still, she didn't believe him. "Right." A sarcastic response.
Of all the memories she'd made with the man, Islara couldn't figure out why this particular memory came to her suddenly. Perhaps it was because of the adrenaline coursing through her veins.
More likely, it was because the mundane, day-to-day memories made her feel his loss even more.
"Dry your tears, ma'am." She offered words of consolation to the woman. "Everything will work out."
But before the woman would be able to respond, Islara would disappear without a trace.
The drums would boom a deathly rhythm, steady as a heartbeat.
The people would whisper amongst themselves, fear as a faint wisp of air upon their lips.
The Duke of Nordor would deliver his final words, as permitted by Duke Rhinecliff.
And then his end would come.
If only that were how it played out...
As Duke Willowsteel exhaled his last rites, a smoke would rise from the stands, black as obsidian. It swept through the swathes of onlookers like a fog, and it did not take long before it swallowed them whole. From within the blanket of darkness, one could hear the unmistakable melody of chaos, a chorus of panic no doubt produced by the people caught up in it.
Islara would climb out of Duke Rhinecliff's shadow.
Wasting no time, she rushed to Duke Willowsteel's side. Snap. With an impressive display of daggerwork, she cut off his restraints. "If you wish to escape, stay close to me," she whispered in the man's ears.
Then, from her hands, she would detonate another smoke bomb, releasing a plume of red that clashed against black. Now Raiden would know where to land.
"Oh, Duke Willowsteel..." An old woman with graying hair muttered. There was a familiar sadness to her voice, which quivered with every word that escaped her lips. She was practically teetering into a sob.
"His Grace is a good man. He deserves a second chance, like the rest of us." There went the tears. Her pleas would be lost to the wind. Like the constant ebb and flow of time, the execution would go on, and the duke would number yet another victim of the Queen.
Just as Roland was. Just like the Corrins were.
Islara gritted her teeth. I've cried my share. Now, I must act.
She would dispel her magic, appearing behind the woman with an understanding smile. She held the woman by the shoulders, her expression fraught with concern. "Are you alright, ma'am?" She put on an accent. "What seems to be the problem?"
The old woman cleared her eyes. She looked up to meet Islara's gaze, her eyes glinting with surprise. "Oh, hello there, young Miss. I... did not mean to alarm you." An apologetic bow.
"It's a shame what is going to happen to Duke Willowsteel," Islara would remark with a hint of remorse.
A sniffle. "Why, yes, it is." The woman stopped her sobbing. "If you must know, I used to serve the late Duke Arthur Willowsteel, you see." A wistful smile crossed her face. "And I also served His Grace too, when he was young. Little Sev, so full of vigor..." She trailed off with a laugh. "I still remember when he would play in the vineyards of the Nordor estate. A rascal, he was..."
A grim pause.
And with that, her smile was gone, fleeting as a firework in one of the Queen's gala. "But those days have passed."
"To think it would come to this..."
Islara pondered her own memories of the Corrins. Of happier times. Out of everyone, she could make out Roland's face clearly. His expression as he told her of his plans for the Sparrows... She could still visualize it. They lay listlessly on the wet grass of the Tarin manse. It was after a hard day's work, and they were passing the time in casual conversation.
Islara did not normally go around rolling in fauna — dirty as it was. But for Roland, she made an exception. She would turn to him, resting her head on her arm.
"So, Mr. Dreamer, think you can handle Raiden and his pet wolf in a fight?" She blurted out something random.
Roland scoffed. "Ha! I would bet my sister's ashes on it!"
Islara rolled her eyes. Roland always had a way of making light of even heavy topics, something Islara wasn't accustomed to, at first. As they grew closer, however, she began to develop some endearment for these quirks of his. This was a... natural progression to their relationship, one could say.
Still, she didn't believe him. "Right." A sarcastic response.
Of all the memories she'd made with the man, Islara couldn't figure out why this particular memory came to her suddenly. Perhaps it was because of the adrenaline coursing through her veins.
More likely, it was because the mundane, day-to-day memories made her feel his loss even more.
"Dry your tears, ma'am." She offered words of consolation to the woman. "Everything will work out."
But before the woman would be able to respond, Islara would disappear without a trace.
—
The drums would boom a deathly rhythm, steady as a heartbeat.
The people would whisper amongst themselves, fear as a faint wisp of air upon their lips.
The Duke of Nordor would deliver his final words, as permitted by Duke Rhinecliff.
And then his end would come.
If only that were how it played out...
As Duke Willowsteel exhaled his last rites, a smoke would rise from the stands, black as obsidian. It swept through the swathes of onlookers like a fog, and it did not take long before it swallowed them whole. From within the blanket of darkness, one could hear the unmistakable melody of chaos, a chorus of panic no doubt produced by the people caught up in it.
Islara would climb out of Duke Rhinecliff's shadow.
Wasting no time, she rushed to Duke Willowsteel's side. Snap. With an impressive display of daggerwork, she cut off his restraints. "If you wish to escape, stay close to me," she whispered in the man's ears.
Then, from her hands, she would detonate another smoke bomb, releasing a plume of red that clashed against black. Now Raiden would know where to land.
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