Irradiant

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

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.

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

Needless to say, OOC Altina is unhinged to the umpteenth degree.

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

NPC sheets go!

Crispin Alcott

Crispin Alcott

25 | Human, ♂ | 5'8 ft, 140 lbs

"I mean... If there's smoke, there's usually fire, right?"

---

Description:

A talented pyromancer, Crispin was recruited into the Sparrows precisely due to his aptitude for magic. Despite the casual, and often lackadaisical, way that he speaks, Crispin is — in truth — the son of a noble: Julian Alcott, formerly Duke Julian Alcott. The Alcott family used to preside over the duchy of Fyrdhaven, a territory adjacent to Hathforth that swore allegiance to the former King Ludwig II. Although the duchy of Fyrdhaven was a relatively small territory compared to Arrowfell's superpowers, it possessed rich deposits of coal, which it leveraged as an export against other territories. Access to this sought-after resource also enabled the duchy to advance technologically faster than its neighbors. In particular, they developed the gunpowder that is used in Arrowfell today. Rising both in wealth and renown, Fyrdhaven was on track to becoming a major player in Arrowfell's political landscape.

However, Fyrdhaven's good fortune would run out the moment the Wizard Queen declared her usurpation. Caught unaware, the duchy of Fyrdhaven could hardly have prepared for the storming of Hathforth Castle. And with the violent ousting of King Ludwing II, to whom Fyrdhaven pledged its loyalty, the conflicted Julian Alcott would bow his head in submission to his new master. At least, that was the duke's plan for the moment. To play along, all the while scheming behind the scenes. The flames of revenge still burned in the duke's eyes.

Ultimately, the flames would consume the duke, and his scheming soon turned into action. Under the guise of a peace offering, Duke Alcott would invite the Wizard Queen to one of his estates in Arrowfell. Then, he would stage a break-in, hiring assassins from the underworld to take the monarch's life. In the end, however, his plan would fail. The Wizard Queen managed to link the assassins to Duke Alcott, sweet-talking one of them through bribes. This admission, whether coerced or not, provided the Queen with enough ground to order the duke's execution. His family, too, who she framed as his co-conspirators, would be executed not long after. Among his brothers and sisters, only Crispin would live on, successfully escaping to the East, away from Hathforth.

Like a stray pup, Crispin wandered the streets of Tarin, homeless and with not a penny to his name. Worse, he would eventually learn that Fyrdhaven, his home, was no more, with the Queen annexing it upon his father's death and then subsequently absorbing it into Hathforth.

All seemed hopeless, and Crispin teetered closer and closer to despair, until one Roland Corrin approached him with an offer.

"Serve under me."

The man was curt but sincere.

"Alright. As long as you give me a roof over my head." A wary acceptance. Considering his current predicament, Crispin couldn't have refused even if he wanted.

Now, Crispin fancies himself a member of the Sparrows. With the Sparrows' help, he hopes to restore Fyrdhaven to its former glory.

Magic:

• Sapphiric Eruption: Crispin gathers heat energy into a ball and directs it to a target, subsequently exploding it at will. The ball takes on a blue color due to its high temperature. It is dyed a deeper blue the more energy that Crispin accumulates.

• Inferno's Wreath: Crispin produces a region of intense heat, forming a circumference around himself. At its hottest, it can melt even through metals if given enough time. As a means of keeping himself and his allies safe from its effects, Crispin maintains a small zone at the center of the conjured region that serves as a buffer zone. Aside from heavy objects, the region inflicts a slowing effect on most things that enter it.

• Blazeveil: Crispin manipulates the heat around him into a wide-ranging sphere that refracts light, granting invisibility to those within. Crispin himself lies at the center of this spell's range, and it moves along with him.

Brutus

Brutus

31 | Human, ♂ | 6'7 ft, 250 lbs

"Move. Or you die. Choose which."

---

Description:

"A beast in human skin" is what most consider Brutus as. And in some respects, he is. Unruly, uncivilized, and lacking in decorum, Brutus initially struggled to assimilate with his fellow Sparrows. It also didn't help that he wasn't familiar their language, making communication all the more difficult. Though, as with most things, given enough time, he eventually learned how to get along with them — from the stern and serious Islara, to the jokester Raiden and his pet wolf.

If you talk to him, you'll quickly discover that Brutus hails from a tribe of hunters known as the "Jötundrápa." It's a fact he makes known immediately upon meeting, wearing it like a badge of the highest honor. As a tribe that specifically hunts Dremora, the Jötundrápa do not make a habit of staying in one place for an extended period of time. Their exploits, often in the capacity of hired hands, tend to pull them to different corners of Arrowfell. Their community, as a result, is rather insular. Not to mention, aside from their chieftains, who are capable of speaking the common tongue of Arrowfell due to needing to interact with Arrowfell's higher powers, most members of the tribe are capable of only speaking their own made-up language. This has changed in more recent times, but there are still a predominant many who do not speak Arrowfell's native tongue.

Despite being a closed-off people, the Jötundrápa are not blind to the value of partnerships. Which is why, when the Corrins proffered up an alliance, they did not think twice. The Corrins and the rest of Tarin would provide them with lodgings and nourishment, while they would serve as Tarin's second military, intended for the extermination of roaming Dremora.

Brutus would be sent to work for Nathan Corrin as a retainer to symbolize good will between the Jötundrápa and the Corrins. As he was constantly around them, Brutus would become close with the Corrins, especially Roland Corrin. The young knight embodied the very ideals that his tribe stood for, a shining example of valor, selflessness, and courage — qualities that Brutus felt he himself lacked at the time. These qualities of Roland would be made all the more apparent after he had willingly thrown himself in harm's way for Brutus' sake. Thinking he killed the Dremora he was facing off against, Brutus relaxed his guard in quiet celebration. That would have proven to be a fatal mistake, if it weren't for Roland's timely intervention.

Brutus had always admired the younger knight. Now, he owed him his life.

With Roland's sudden and mysterious death, however, Brutus would begin to nurse a grudge against the Wizard Queen, suspecting her to be behind it all. Knowing that the souls of the murdered can never truly be at peace, Brutus wishes to mete out justice for the Corrins.

Magic:

• Garmr: A trademark magic of the Jötundrápa, its effect is simple but potent: it amplifies Brutus' strength, speed, and stamina beyond human limits. Once activated, he can wrestle — and even kill — some of the largest land-dwelling Dremora in Arrowfell with his bare hands.

Will have a post up by tomorrow or Wednesday!

@Irradiant

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?"

@The Otter

"You know, Callum, if it was Lady Furino yapping at you, you wouldn't hesitate."

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

Lmao. I'm Islara's never gonna live that down...

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.

@The Otter

*proceeds to shove a Snickers in her mouth*

Better?

Better.

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

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.

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

Sir Hayworth 'bout to engage in some friendly fire hehe.

Should have a post up come weekend :D

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

Just a small note.

<Snipped quote>

Fauna are animals.

@ERode

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...?

@Estylwen

That's it! I will admit that I have used both this and fauna interchangeably before... Until now!

I also have a present!

Open me!

@Donut Look Now

*stares respectfully*

—

Sev (probably) from the most recent post: "What do you mean stay close to you? I can't fuggin' see you!"

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

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.

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

Duchess Altina Freya Bastille, Islara Yelren, & Raiden Asher

The catacombs of Agrovia, date unknown

---

Collaborator: @Estylwen

The duchess wore a pensive look. “Hm… You bring up a salient point, Miss Islara.”

She clicked her teeth. “I must admit, I am at a loss.”

Sprawled across a wooden table was a map of Arrowfell, inked on a dirty parchment. And beneath it, crinkled slightly, was a map of Hathforth. The day of the Nordorian duke’s execution was drawing ever closer, and yet, a cloud of uncertainty still hung above the duchess’ head.

She’d yet to come up with a plan.

Annoyance would paint her face a fiery crimson. “The risks are much too great. I…” She paused, hesitation causing her voice to quiver. “The Sparrows will be stamped out if the battle persists.”

Islara scanned the duchess’ expression curiously.

So this histrionic woman isn’t so heartless after all.

She scoffed in amusement, a wry smile strumming upon her lips like a guitar, before she offered up her own thoughts.

“You are right, Duchess.”

The spymaster rose from her chair and approached, taking the map of Hathforth and unfurling it. She held it up to the torchlight. “But we need not let it persist.”

“What we need is to sow confusion. To throw the enemy into disarray.”

She cast a lifeless glance at the man leaning against the wall, his pet wolf licking at his feet. “Then, rescuing that hapless duke becomes a matter of subtlety, and not might.”

The gears were turning in her head. But Islara needed time to let her ideas sublimate.

The process was much like steeping tea leaves and then straining them, to rid them of impurities.

Islara would begin to pace around aimlessly, the pitter-patter of her steps echoing from the walls of the… “room” they were in, if one could call it that. This “room” was akin to a jail cell, though it was obviously regularly maintained.

Islara had heard of Agrovia’s underground passageways before, from other informants, but she’d actually never stepped foot in any of them. She didn't possess any knowledge on their layout either.

A history book she’d read helped her to understand why exactly the people of Agrovia had built them. But word on the wind was that they’d fallen into disuse long ago. Perhaps the duchess had them renovated in secret…

Tsk. She would have a stern talk-to with Joachim, a “friend” of hers from the underworld, later. That bastard sold me outdated intel.

Her footsteps would pause abruptly in front of the man with the wolf. “Raiden, you know Hathforth like the back of your hand, right?”

Islara pursed her lips, contemplating her next move. “If we were… able to pry the Duke of Nordor from their clutches somehow, what route can we take out of the city?”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “And preferably one that lets us get away without incident, yes?” She knew the man was fond of his games.

Islara would briefly recall a mission she’d gone on with the man, a memory that she would have preferred to perish in the recesses of her mind.

He’d made them crawl through a sewer slowly filling up with rot, trash, and debris. It proved to be the most efficient way to evade their pursuers at the time, but she couldn’t help but wonder if it had been the only way. Raiden had known her for a while, even back then. And what he knew about her was that she was a stickler for cleanliness.

Islara handed him the map of Hathforth, her eyes drilling holes into him as she waited for an answer.

Raiden glanced at Islara, eyes dropping to the map before cooly plucking it up in his gloved hands. He pretended to examine it, that cool demeanor never leaving them. They were thinking so hard about this. It was almost funny.

Alas, they didn't know what he knew.

“Your Grace,” He dipped his head to the duchess, before addressing both her and Islara. “If I may, we can forget about running from the fight. Or running to it.”

He smirked, giving his wolf Kai a pat before pushing off the wall, taking a step into the room. “There's a little surprise I brought with me from Tarin, one that had resided in the forested lake behind the Corrin Estate since I acquired it.”

“What would you say we could accomplish with, say… a dragon?”

His smirk widened as he laid the map on the table, pointing to Hathforth's waterfront. “It's a simple matter of flying south via the coast to their execution grounds. Then, we cause some chaos, pick up the duke, and sail on outta there. Easy as meat pie.”

The duchess met Raiden's smirk with a smirk of her own. Her previously tense expression would relax in an instant. “Well, that simplifies our escape then.”

Still, there was a question that lingered in her mind. “Pray tell, Raiden, how did you force such a beast to heel? Dragons are mighty creatures, and most of them are far from being docile.”

Raiden smiled. “You know I have a way with my words, Your Grace. The real story lies in how I acquired said dragon. You see, there was this lovely bar maiden—”

Islara cut in. “Perfect. So that matter is settled.” She gave Raiden a weak punch on the arm. “Good going there. For once.” The praise came out grumbled but sincere. Raiden gave a low chuckle.

She took back the map of Hathforth. “As for any moves on the ground,” she flashed a black, circular capsule, and flicked it skillfully between her fingers. Raiden would immediately recognize this strange contraption as a smoke bomb.

“Let me worry about that.” She caught Raiden's gaze, her voice steady and confident. “I’ll make sure you can fly away safely.”

Raiden stared for a moment, before he smirked. ”Right, boss.”

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

RIP Sev. I don't know how you're getting out of this one, bud...

Someone, stir up some chaos, stat. Delay, detract, divert!

And dang, I gotta say, that was a pretty devious move on the Wizard Queen's part. Looks like Duke Rhinecliff is gonna be lighting something other than his cigars today.

Altina's currently MIA, having Sir Hayworth to take her place on the voyage, but the old knight might just swing on by to witness the barbecue!