“This is it? Vieri, you’ve been gone for so long, practically vanished on me, and this is all you have to offer me when you get back? I was expecting better.”
Lord Montaigne, if he really was a Lord, was a potential patron Vieri had been courting, an art collector and enjoyer of fine things. The third one Vieri had visitted today. He was the nicest.
The objects of grievance were set up on easels. Three paintings.
He steepled his hands, brows arching to mirror them, “Is everything alright Vieri?”
“Yes, it’s just-”
“Just what?”
They suppressed a shrug, “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy? Busy? Vieri, you make time for me. Not the other way round. If your classes are too much, you fall behind, if boys and girls are turning your pretty head, disappoint them. It should be simple. And to think I was considering taking you under my patronage.” He shook his head, and left.
“Well fuck you too.”
Lord Montaigne spun on his heels, incredulity spilling across his face like milk. Then he burst out laughing.
“This is why I like you Vieri. You have attitude, fire… passion. Just show it with more nuance than, well, those… things. Maybe I will give you another chance.”
Here it was. Just another way of whoring themselves out. But they needed the money. The other venture had not gone so well.
“Would you like this?”
Fuck. You. “Yes.”
“Perhaps you can prove it when you bring your next offering then, hmm?”
Vieri nodded, if only because they did not trust their tongue.
Four glasses of red down, oils on palette, and one canvas halfway ruined.
The other three paintings were tatters in a corner of their student room, knife glinting in the pile. This one would soon be joining it.
Was this really how they’d deal with it? By making abstract and angry art?
Yes, yes it was. Cheers to that, and on with the fifth glass.
Vieri had been hiding. From a set of people, fellow students, heroes. They would dodge them in the hallways or streets, and get lost down so many corridors of drink that even their own thoughts couldn’t find their way. This is because Vieri was a coward. Vieri had hid then and Vieri was hiding now.
They might not be able to hide much longer. Money was in short supply these days. Gods knew why. They swirled their glass, aromas heady and rich. Rich indeed.
“To Lord Montaigne,” Vieri toasted the empty room, “Fuck you.” A swig. “Fuck me.”
As Vieri lay half off their bed, room spinning faster and faster, brain floating in its own pickled juices, a thought bobbed to the surface.
This had to stop. No more. No more. I will stop this. I will face them. I will.
Tomorrow, came the answer, perhaps mumbled, perhaps thought, perhaps both. Tomorrow, tomorrow, always tomorrow.
Tall Trees, Long Shadows II Loriindton Interactions: Lyen @Tackytaff and Dyric
Murder. It fell into their laps, a Parrence-allied Yasoi caught with blood-red on their hands, except…
The mette'stiroi, Loriindton itself even, hit Calitan with a brick of emotions. They were mostly positive.
Calitan drank, he gambled, bartered with what little he had. He gave stories of the fighting to those who he thought might value it (surprisingly few), and for the story about the frog who jumped into the water to get back his voice that the fish stole, but ended up tearing it in half, which is why the frog talks without moving its mouth and the fish moves it mouth without words, he got a nice meal.
But even Calitan knew where’d he end up. Everything else was just him circling it, flirting. Mez’Qadurat, an old love.
He hadn’t meant to fight. He was here with another purpose, or two, depending on who you asked. Yet somehow he had found himself in the ring that climbed all the way skywards, soft dust and hard rock underfoot. This was the trouble when you had such an ugly face: people tended to recognise you as an old champion.
Blood was iron on his tongue, sweat salt. He added an ear to his collection. And then another. Perhaps there would have been another again, if not for the hornmaster, singalling the mockery. Mockeries were always fun, and two of the Vyshta possibilities would be there.
Then… murder, it fell into their laps, a Parrence-allied Yasoi caught with blood-red on their hands, except she was innocent.
Calitan had been paying attention. Adrenaline still rushed, his senses read the mess of magic around him almost instinctively. So when the woman from the rhyming game the night previous, a non-ally, spoke, he sensed, focussed on this not-stranger. When she touched Merit he didn’t notice anything. It took him a second to process: that was wrong. There should have been some draw, some trace. There was nothing.
What a golden opportunity this was for Eskandr.
But she was innocent.
“It was not her,” Calitan shouted, as much to Dyric as the crowd, essence amplifying his words, as he shoved through to her side, “she did not draw, did you not notice?”
He had no idea if his words were useful, but maybe the support of an opposed Yasoi would stop the crowd becoming a mob. Those had a way of resolving things rather suddenly. Not that this worried Calitan; he had probably just earned himself a knife in the back anyway.
Tall Trees, Long Shadows I Loriindton Forest - Night's Camp There are tales that are told many times.
Tales of which mushrooms are safe to eat, which frog will stop a heart if you touch its poison skin. Cautionary tales for the the children, the tribe.
There are those raucous tales that braggarts so enjoy, about such manly things as muscles and where the prize always seemed to be some poor soul’s maidenhood. There were the subtle stories mothers told.
And there were the tales everyone knew, about the rock that jumped, or the first fire, or how six gods became five.
All these would be told at the mette-stiroi. As they had been told many times before.
Calitan had now killed for stories, caught up in one, a side apparently chosen for him by circumstance. The Yanni had been novel, gone now, as had Lyen, when she had spoken at all. He knew what stories would be told, yet Calitan went for that special chance of a new story, one told only once.
Thus he sat there in the hollow bough of a tree, silent as the game was played around him. He would only lisp with his scarred lips, so saved himself the mockery as the drink soured in his stomach.
Then there was the lady, Talit. Yes, there had been tales of her. Calitan nodded his greetings, let the drink wag the other’s tongues because it had taken his legs. Perhaps he mumbled his name.
Vieri hated crows. When a crow came with a letter one day, Vieri actually had reason to. (See collab with Pirouette and Tackytaff) The heat was not the most oppressive thing in the refuge. That came forth in the quiet spaces, when you could hear the ghosts.
Jo seemed in control, old beyond her years. Vieri was seen to their room. It only took half an hour to make everything as it should be. Getting the angle of the bed right was hardest, as always, but as a final groaning nudge aligned it, the room became a place Vieri could relax.
So of course the mealtime bell called them away.
A Blank Canvas
A collab with @Ti featuring Ayla and Vieri In which there are misunderstandings, the past is spoken of, a good excuse is found to paint, and Ayla is tempted by a Dockhand at the end
Introductions had been perfunctory and… morbid? Maybe that was just the atmosphere, the stories told poisoning Vieri’s view. Suffering had long since steeped into the walls and now the sun was baking it out, a miasma. Five Names, it was miserable.
Something needed to be done about it.
In a shaded passage of the Refuge, Vieri stared out as the midday sun set the air shimmering and leached all colour from the world.
So the idea formed.
Ayla was already a step ahead as she was painting the walls of the Refugio. Out with the old as the decadence and corruption that has run this place has been scraped away, leaving behind a blank canvas for the Tethered to start painting their own story. The drab red and sand bricks being coated with the colours of the rainbow, the void filled with the paint strokes that reflects the hope and ambition of the residents, creating inspiration for a bright future. Such gestures are window dressing, but the morale does rise as the younger Tethered take moments in their day to stare in wonder at the different scenes adorning their ways. Splashes of colour which show off the wider world, the dance of animals, tales and stories adorning the corridor of brave heroes and dastardly villains.
Shielding their eyes in the glare, Vieri said, “You know, I did not expect another artist to steal my idea so soon. Before I had even realised it… are you a mind reader sister?”
Ayla blinks as she gets caught off-guard by the newcomer, taking a moment to finish off strokes before putting it down to interact with them. “Been seeking a good excuse to do this since our arrival…”, she turns to glance at the stranger, taking a moment to inspect them, before clicking her fingers. “Oh, you are one of the arrivals from the academy.”, she wipes her hands down as she moves over to Vieri to take a hold of their hand in greeting, shaking upon it warmly.
“I am, I am, a good memory sister. Vieri. And you are… No, I have forgotten. Too many names and too much to do, no?”
Ayla nods as she acknowledges the offered name. “My name is Ayla Arslan, but my friends may call me Ayla.”. She releases the hand as she uses it to gesture towards the barren walls, “So you’re an artist? What do you think of our canvas then? Turn this place from a prison into a home. Some colour would not go amiss.”
“I do not think I have seen anything that is asking as badly to be painted, Ayla, as you say. Do you have a brush? I will kill this ugliness with you. Perhaps brushes?”
Ayla grins widely at the request, "Got brushes?”. She puts her hand within her saddlebag to pull a bunch of them out between her fingers like a claw. "Plenty of paint too…”, she references the buckets behind her, some seem to be filled with water. "Have you had a tour of the place yet, or have you been settled in?”.
“Only a little,” Vieri said. They took a large brush, knit their brows together, and watched as the paint shifted upon the bristles, dropping into a dark purple. A scene was already forming in their mind, pieced together from muse, memory, and imagination.
“The Great Bath, a room that is to be mine, and the few hallways in between are about all I’ve seen so far. I think… I think… I think I am a little scared of what I might find if I venture beyond, though. I cannot imagine… it’s just. A horrible, horrible place - why…”
Ayla ticks with her tongue upon hearing the words, “This is now a home and we are here to leave behind a beautiful place. We just got to solve the Sand Wyrm problem… … but you are here to help with that too.” She gives a wink as she continues to paint with her brush.
There was a lull, just the swish of brushes.
“As you say,” they glanced sidelong, “you just point the way.”
“Was thinking about themes…”, she taps the brush, “the Naranja tree is the heart and soul of this place, the tree is carved with names of those who came before. We could put shapes along the walls… leaves… adorning tree branches which follow towards the middle. This would allow for future expansion and growth, as if there is more to come, and all of these are connected together…”, Ayla looks towards Vieri as she is pitching the idea, “Any thoughts, or suggestions for the other rooms?”.
Vieri was smiling. The first smile since finding out about… this place. “It is a lovely idea, sister. I think, those children here, it won’t take much for them to cover the walls in dreams… or paint. Suggestions will not matter then.”
Ayla smiles brightly as she considers Vieri words, “Good thinking there sister,” at this Vieri twinged almost internally, “Why not, we could get the niñas, give them brushes, and get them painting their dreams. We can fill a lot of the walls in colour that way, then we concentrate our efforts on the main areas.” She takes Vieri’s hand again as she shakes it excitedly. “Any experience managing los jovenes before?”.
Taking their hand back, laughing, Vieri swapped brushes, the paint changing to pale pinks and peaches, “Only in a bordello, and I feel they might have been a more chaotic breed than those here. Yourself, Ayla?”
Ayla offers a puzzled look, then realizing it may have been her Torragonese. “Meant children, not what you were probably referring to…”
“No, sister, children, I know. When their mamas and papas work, we look after our own, see?”
Ayla comes to an understanding, not expecting her classmate to be raised in a brothel with their brother and sisters, though assumes the close kinship of the environment fosters a sibling-like family of children from different parents. “My error, no consideró…”, attempting to return to the subject, “We have been looking after these little ones for the last couple of days. Reminds me of being back in Varrahasta, the local orphanage sent out children to work on the docks. They made for good company growing up, always so lively and appreciated any gifts sincerely. inocente.”
Vieri took the chance to get the measure of Ayla, eyes down, up, back to the painting, then sneaking to Ayla again, “You dress well for a dockhand. Either you are in a truly lucrative trade, or am I speaking to nobility?”
Ayla confirms the latter, “Ayla Arslan, daughter of Duque Duarte Arslan, Protector of Varrahasta and the Arapor river… the titles can start getting long”. She pokes fun at how long winded the various titles can be, and how some of her kin do enjoy rattling them off. “Though the temptation to say ‘Dockhand’ was there.”
“Perhaps I will tempt you one day. You are much nicer than most of the nobles I’ve met. Some don’t even understand the concept of payment, let alone gifts.” Vieri took a step back, brush tipped with sapphire. There, against a swath of purples and fleck-white stars, was the painterly idea of a young woman, pale, dressed in silks of all colours and gold and jewels. Vieri had painted the eyes last.
“What do you think, inspiring, no?”
Ayla grew rather flustered, especially when brazenly propositioned in such a manner. “You dress… very well.” the words were a somewhat muted response than what was most likely desired, though this is something she had never considered previously, taking a moment to process. “Sapphire… … that reminds me, for the pool maybe an oasis theme.” she skillfully tries to navigate the earlier conversation back towards the painting. ”Would really fit in with the surroundings.”
Vieri belly laughed. “Sister, sister, sister,” they shook their head, “not like most nobles at all.” Still chuckling, there was a swish, a flick, and the painted woman now held a brush. Vieri began on the rainbow, dripping from the painted bristles. “The trouble is I love portraits. Landscapes take too much effort, and I haven’t the eye for the abstract.”
“At the Naranja tree, Instead of leaves… you can draw their portraits on the walls!”, takes Vieri’s hand again in an excited manner, “They take much care in their carvings upon the tree, but imagine having some their portraits upon the wall, sat amongst the branches, so those who are no longer with them in person are still there to be remembered. Can start with the older ones, like Amanda. Are you up for this?”
“Of course, sister, it sounds great fun.” I just hope time does not run out.
Quiet Reading
A collab with @YummyYummy featuring Zarina and Vieri In which all debts are pardoned, limits are exceeded, the Royal Sand Worm's demise is made certain, a Chupacabra is slain in the library by children
It was an early afternoon in the middle of one of the harshest deserts of Sipenta. Even indoors, one could feel the moisture on their lips dry out in a matter of seconds. The children craved the little oasis, but the older residents knew full well the rays of the sun would be nefarious to their wellbeing with the sun gazing above the Refuge. Plus, nobody wanted to supervise them under these conditions. A siesta was very much warranted at these hours, and Zarina was definitely going to continue this daily ritual as her turn to look after the youngest among the Tethered came to be.
The choice was easy as to where she would bring them: The Library. Quiet, relaxed and remote of any high activity sector in the establishment. Of course, the kids were going to have energy to spare after a meal while others would want nothing more than to nap. The biblioteca accommodated for both much to the Virangish’s pleasure. With no librarian around- a member of the staff they had to lock up- Zaz assumed command behind the main desk that overlooked a good portion of the library.
”Raoul! No running.” she scolded one of the youngest. He seemed to be about nine years old and had long, silky and blonde hair, ”You too Janna.” her tone came with an authority the kids were used to, but also with a smile that had them giggling when they ceased their shenanigans, knowing they had a friend in their supervisor.
For a moment, the library was completely silent. A good half were asleep at the corner where kids could rest while listening to stories, while the others were either reading or whispering to one another. Zarina took this time to indulge in some literature of her own: A Bestiary with loads of images! Loads of pretty creatures she could admire while sagging her back against her seat and putting her feet up on the desk.
Vieri hurried into the room, careful not to spill what they held in a battered tin cup.
“Sorry I am late,” Vieri whispered, “If not for the heat, I might have forgotten entirely. That doesn’t speak well of me, does it?” Across their forehead: a bright blue smear of paint.
Zarina nearly dropped her book, startled by the newcomer, ”Shit.” she whispered back with a light pant, ”Thought you were one of the pre-teens with their rotting naranjas.” she eased up quickly enough and straightened her posture as she faced Vieri, ”Is that drinkable?” she nudges her chin to the other’s cup, ”You can make amends by bringing me a nice drink. Heat’s a killer, as you say.” she smiled and winked.
Vieri looked down at their drink and shrugged, “I am yet to find that out. It was a bit hectic in the kitchens, I did not want to stay long enough to get roped into slaving over some stove in this heat.” They swung up onto the desk, sat there cross-legged, a smile toying around the corners of their lips.
“I will make you a deal, if you like it I will go back and snatch the whole bottle.” The tin cup rasped as Vieri pushed it towards Zarina, setting the burgundy drink before her.
Zarina reached for the weathered container. She leaned in to see her reflection from the surface of the beverage and then took a long sniff, ”Hmmm.” she then oriented her attention up toward Vieri, ”A deal. Well you’ve already made your offering,” she took a swift and confident sip from the cup, taking her time before eventually swallowing, ”so what do you want in exchange-” she paused, eyes narrowed and head tilted, ”We’ve never properly met until now, have we? I’m Zaz.”
“Vieri,” they gestured overgrandly at themself, “and I thought I was the one making the amends? I would not rob you so blatantly, sister. You like it, I take?”
The Virangish took yet another sip, ”As good as it gets in the middle of ass nowhere.” she chuckled, her hand extended out to give her new coworker their cup, ”So, I take this deal is more of a gift? Or maybe the novel idea of getting drunk on the j-” her focus deviated instantly to something beyond Vieri’s sight, ”Jorge.” she spoke up loud enough for her voice to echo in the large and quiet library,”Don’t pick your nose.” she kept a hawkish glare in his direction until he complied, ”What was I- Drunk on the job? Sounds responsible.” she shot a complicit smile at Vieri.
“It is not my fault if you cannot control your impulses,” Vieri stretched like a cat, sliding off the desktop, “Jorge! Don’t get caught again whilst I’m gone. You have to hide it better.” They could hear a ‘Tsk’ behind them as they departed.
Minutes passed. Then five more. And another. By then Zarina was nose deep in her animal book and feet were back on the wooden surface before her.
When Vieri came back, they held another cup, and slipped a green bottle out from the folds of billowing cotton. Both clacked onto the table. A triumphant smile.
“Amends made, no?” They hopped back onto the desk, peered over at the book.
Zarina nodded with an exaggerated expression to show how impressed she was, ”All debts pardoned. Wowie.” she claimed her cup and presented it to Vieri with an expectant look.
“Very good, madam,” Vieri rasped. They made their face long as they poured Zarina a drink in a manner both wooden and proper. It would have sold better had they not been seated. “ I did not take madam as a connoisseur of picture books.”
”Hey, this is an- whatchamacallit-” she checked the cover of the book she kept on her lap, ”Encyclopaedia.” she pronounced it a tad wrong, especially with the ‘ae’ sound, ”Kinda boring to just read descriptions of all these weird animals. It’s so much cooler to see them too.”
She sifted through the book and found a page on Froabasses, ”Hey, see what I mean? By the description I’d imagine, like, giant chickens that fly.”
“You’re right, they look much more like flying lizards - Jorge, if you’re going to keep doing that just hide behind a bookcase, you’re embarrassing me little brother.” The boy stopped. It was oddly quiet, much too quiet for children their age.
Vieri seemed close to saying something, then lost the nerve and drained their cup. They’d poured another before finally speaking, “For now, I will believe that you can read.”
Zarina scoffs, ”Hmph! I can also ride a horse. AND I can read like, a page in a minute.” her eyebrows raised, daring Vieri to one up here as she drank from her cup, and, perhaps wisely, they didn’t. It looked as though the few drinks earlier were already getting this one uncharacteristically playful and happy. Then, after a few pages were skimmed through, the Royal Sand Wyrm came up, ”Huh. And here’s what’s gonna ea-” she peered up, checking to see if any of the children were close enough to hear, ”Have its good yum yums with us.” the book was set over the desk so they could both see it without straining themselves, ”Spooked?” she shot a quick glance at her fellow babysitter.
“Spooked? Have you seen the size of that thing?” They used their hands to measure it on the page, then clapped them together, softly, “I don’t get why anyone is worried, just squish it.” They raised their cup to their lips, and a sip turned to a shaky swig, set it down on the table, empty, “I’m terrified.”
”Shit, you’re right.” eyes wide and lips pursed, it was hard to say if she was joking or not, ”Glad we have you on the team, we could never do it without you, Vieri.” she even raised a wordless toast in his honour before finishing her cup. Zarina, with all her willpower, did in fact gesture in dismissal if there ever was an offer to refill, ”Which means … The only scarier thing than a Sand Wyrm … Is you!” she pointed an accusatory finger in their direction and dramatically rested the back of her hand over her forehead, feigning (badly) deep distress.
Vieri jumped up into a squat, hands clawed, “Boo.”
Zarina pushed her seat back with her rear and stood up, ”Mireille, gather the others! We have a wicked Chupacabra here!” she grinned a toothy smile at Vieri. The young Mireille nodded in excitement and gathered her fellow warrior-friends, ”Gonna make sure they sleep through the whoooooole afternoon alright.” and then she vaulted the desk to gather her legion of little monsters.
What noise did a Chupacabra make? Probably not the mess that Vieri came up with.
“I’m coming for you first Jorge, you and your nose!”
Let the screeching begin. The big, scary Vieri ‘frightened’ the kids, although only until they returned from their napping base with pillows to smack the monster with, ”Yes! Careful Jorge, it’s coming to the side!” and then the kid fell on his butt. Most were content with just laughing and cheering on, while the most courageous charged in with their negligible strength, ”What is the beast going to do now?! The Refuge Champions are just TOO STRONG!”
The beast ran. Around bookshelves, over and under desks, at the children, away from them. And at the end, panting, lying on the floor after the children pummelled them with pillows and then dogpiled, as Jorge did a victory dance, Vieri shut their eyes and pretended to be vanquished. And hoped and hoped until their heart hurt.
Victory! Well, for Zarina anyway. The little fanfare and celebratory dance from the kids were about enough to seal their fate as soon-to-be nappers. The mastermind behind the ploy clapped and even cheered as well before eventually plucking the dogpiling critters one by one until her sacrifice was freed from their torment. She offered a helping hand, ”Guess we’ve really got nothing to fear with these ones around, huh?”
“Truly the most terrifying of them all,” Vieri took the hand up, and was hoisted to meet a giggly Zarina.
”Good work.” she turned to look at the increasingly sluggish children. A job well done indeed, ”I’ll get ‘em to sleep. Wanna power-nap and we take turns? I feel like I’m gonna keel over with the fucking heat.”
“Sleep then sister, sleep. I will eat the ones that misbehave. I’m sure it’s just the heat.”
Tortured Artists
A collab with @Wolfieh featuring Kaspar and Vieri In which lessons are learned, lessons are offered, an assumption does not have its toes trodden on, and home is missed
In the shade of the walls, dew drops still clung to the Refuge and it was blessedly cool. This is where Vieri hid with a handful of children in the interstitial time between breakfast and lessons. They were painting. Most of them, at least.
“I can’t do it!”
“Do what?” Vieri picked up the brush Bos had thrown into the dirt, crouched to be level with him.
“Paint!”
“No? Why not? It looks good to me.”
“It’s not good! I made a mistake.”
“We don’t make mistakes, just happy accidents.”
“You’re wrong, it's bad, look.”
Vieri sighed, “Would you like to try again?”
Bos nodded. His face was flushed and at the corners of his eyes welled tears.
“Then I will show you a trick. Watch closely,” with a large brush, Vieri washed white all over whatever it had been Bos was trying to paint, “Just wait a bit for it to dry, and it’s good as new.”
The boy's lower lip stuck out. Still not happy.
“I’ll just do it wrong again.”
Vieri shrugged, “That’s fine, you can just paint over it again. Experiment, go wild with it, little brother. You will have more fun in not caring.” Hypocrite. The boy did not seem entirely convinced.
Kaspar was working on his own section of wall nearby, sketching broad strokes with sticks of charcoal that left splotchy marks of dust on his fingers and up his arms. He wasn’t good with children, but the boy knew more than something about art.
“Art is about what you put into it,” he offered, trying to help his classmate encourage Bos. “Mistakes happen. Charcoal is smudged, lines are wrong… But if we put fun and joy into it? That is what others see.”
He shot a small, uncertain smile towards Vieri and the child, hoping his words helped at least somewhat; the kid might not grow up to love painting, but perhaps he could enjoy it today.
Vieri returned the smile, “And whatever you do, it will always be better than a blank wall.”
The boy, having two not-quite grown-ups encourage him, pondered the wall, then attacked it with colour. It was not much different to before, but this time, the boy laughed.
“Nice advice, by the way brother,” Vieri said. They stood behind Kaspar now, watched his sketch, bottom of their brush tapping against their lips, “You are good. Very good. You should paint with me when we are back at the school.”
Kaspar glanced towards his classmate, a hint of blush coloring his cheeks. “I’m just glad my advice could help,” he admitted. As they complimented his art, the blush deepened incrementally. It endeared him incredibly to Vieri.
“I’m more at home in charcoal than paint, admittedly,” he started, “But I was once out of place with charcoal, too. I work sometimes with Ayla already, but I would be willing to work with you as well.”
Ah, so it was like that.
“I would not step on Ayla’s toes so, brother!” their mouth made an ‘O’ in faux horror, “I like her too much for that. Although… Perhaps I could model for you both? Yes, I think I would make a fine form to practice from! And I know how dreary some models can be. I don’t think art would be half so lonely if they did not think they had to be statues. And I am so very good at keeping secrets,” at this they tapped the side of their nose.
“I do not think you would be stepping on anyone’s toes,” he offered, “We often spend time working on separate pieces in the same space. Though I’m sure Ayla would love a chance to work with others as well, as artist or model. My human forms could certainly use the practice.” Kaspar smiled, something subtle but reassuring at Vieri.
“In these matters it is better to be safe than sorry. Perhaps when Ayla has covered the… hmmm… fundamentals… we could work on portraits. I know Ayla is less fond of them. They are what I should be really doing at the - what is that tree in the middle of this place? - I should be painting the portraits there for Ayla, but…” Vieri shrugged, “I have no excuse beyond these ones.” They gestured at the children, who were busy painting or slapping the paint onto the walls with their hands, or each other. Jorge was picking his nose.
“They remind me of home. It is silly, no, to have this, this power afforded to you, this golden chance, and to still yearn for what you have left behind?”
Kaspar was quiet in thought for a moment, the soft sound of charcoal on brick briefly dominating the conversation. “I don’t think it’s odd to miss home,” he said after the silence. “The appreciation for this opportunity can coexist with the bittersweet nature of leaving something behind.” He glanced back at them, eyes softening, and said, “I miss the plants and the cold of Helbahn. Not just because it was comfortable, but because it was familiar. Ersand’Enise does not feel like the home I’ve known for so long, but it does offer something that home could not.”
And what if that something was unwanted, the opportunity a poison apple?
“Good job, Bos, little brother,” Vieri called. The boy positively beamed. Vieri sat in the dirt forearms over knees, “Why did you come to Ersand’Enise brother Kaspar?”
“My parents wanted me to learn how to utilize the Gift—more control, and more power. Not many schools teach Binding, and that is what I and my tutors thought I would be best in,” he explained, glancing to see the progress on Bos’s painting. “And what of you, Vieri?”
“Ah, now that would be telling, brother, and I am so very good at keeping secrets,” they tapped the side of their nose, “Maybe you will find out, if Ayla allows it.”
Kaspar raised a brow, but didn’t press the question—nor ask any that occurred to him at the response. “That is fair. Perhaps in the future I will be worthy enough to learn,” he joked lightly.
Me too, Kaspar, me too.
It was worse at night. It was always worse at night.
An oil lamp made an island in the clotted shadows: a bed, Vieri, kneeling on bunched sheets.
Before Vieri, a book and a knife, sharp enough to cut like submerging your head in icy water. If they had noticed that on the knife was a rust-brown fleck they would have cleaned it off, oiled the knife with a rag, made it shine until even the memory of the filth was scrubbed clean, and that ritual might have replaced the one that happened instead.
Eyes shut, hands clasped together so that the fingertips went white, Vieri mouthed their prayers.
Have I been good enough? Was I right to make friends with a heretic? Am I really helping, or just hiding?
And the question they always prayed.
They knew the answers to all but the last, and when they finally lay down to sleep, they felt like they had submerged their head in icy water.
(for you visual folk, vibing something like this, one eye only)
46 | Male | Yasoi | Force and Essence | Dervish__ _ _ _ _
C H A R A C T E R I S T I C S__ _ _ _ _
What is seen in silver waters? A scar puckers from forehead to jaw bone, a trench of red-raw flesh that shortens the left side of his mouth and drags it upwards in a perpetual sneer. Where the wound crosses the left eye, Tetsoi circle its absence in praise. These cover lots of his skin, point out smaller scars, tell a story.
If it is important to you, the remaining eye is orange.
Apart from this, Visz is a typical Yasoi. Perhaps his hair is longer, perhaps the odd way he tilts his head is a quirk of having only one eye, but he also does this at listening parties, when eyes should be shut.
Chains and leather thongs and strips and straps cover pseudo-armour that is much more a weapon, designed to come apart. Browns and greens. The uniform of a Dervish. Around his neck he wears a necklace of pointed ear tips. Count them. There are thirty and four.
What moonlight comes through the leaves to show a path unique? To collect. To trade. In story and song, Visz wishes to unveil prophecies concerning the return of Vyshta and trade them for the hand and bond of his saviour. And where there is war, stories are valuable, and songs old and new are sung.
That is all. Until a new focus comes.
Do your boughs creak? Confident and foolhardy, Visz might at times seem a caricature. When it comes to his focus, that is when earnest interest comes forth, and he is most like the him inside his head. Patient, generous, covetous. He likes to listen and recite, but the cheapest way to collect stories is to live them.
B A C K G R O U N D__ _ _ _ _
Father died on a mushroom binge. Mother was too busy. Lots of time spent running with other children, climbing, stealing from the humans, tipping their cows and sheep, running from them.
Next came his calling: fight until dead or too old to fight. Then would come training children to do the same. Would he make them eat bark and crawl along thorns like his own Ithi’Naa, his mentor? Sometimes he wonders.
Then death at last.
A champion of Mez’Qaddurat*, Visz never lost a combat. Perhaps he should have seen the writing on the wall, the calling of a new focus, but he did not. In restlessness, complacency grew. It cost him an eye, but his opponent their life. (*a bloodsport where you trade blows and collect ears from your opponents, often taking place at Mette'stiroi)
The festering wound healed and Visz’s life saved by Imri’Tah’Imri, a healer. Their chemistry was instant. It could have been the addled state of his mind, but one night Visz promised the where and when of Vyshta’s return for Imri’s bond. It could have been the addled state of his mind, but he did not back down from these words the next night, nor any night since.
It was, after all, an experience.
I N V E N T O R Y__ _ _ _ _
A pole with blades and a length of leather and chain at both ends. There are weights and blades upon the chains, and the leather marks break-points, offering a focal point for the Gift if the lengths get tangled and need to be broken.
Slender chains that wrap around his forearms and shins, with a pointed weight upon the end. Whistling knives. Various whips of leather can unravel from the outfit.
The outfit.
A vielle and harp to recite to. They were painted with bioluminescent inks, but they have all but chipped off from years on the road.
The necklace of ears.
Coins. Humans covet these. Actual things can practically be stolen with them.
A journal.
Mixtures for ailments various.
A promise seed to be planted upon the fulfilment of the promise.
T H E G I F T__ _ _ _ _
A dervish, he favours Force and Essence, used for explosive offense. A Yasoi, all can be called upon.
In combat their use is forward in the mind, focussed with chanted prayers of Luck to Vyshta. Force to strike blink-quick, to throw knives and make them scream, to become a dervish. Essence to quicken the mind and body, panic others. Arcane might make a strike appear to come a second early, or a second late, or not at all.
In life, it is not so clear. It can craft counter melodies to song and carry his voice, it can nudge emotions, it can heighten and deaden. When stalking he makes no sound at all. How many times has it staved off sleep, or multiplied drink? So many times it is unconscious, as much a part of him as breathing.
S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S__ _ _ _ _
❖ A memory and mind for story and song ❖ Iron will ❖ Not opposed to the idea of humans entirely ❖ Survival
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S__ _ _ _ _
❖ Unempathetic when empathy does not stand to gain. At that point it is fifty-fifty ❖ Single-Minded ❖ Delusions of Grandeur ❖ Depth Perception
@jdh97 Overall, I like him and he works. Your prose is as evocative as ever and he holds some nice nuance. A few little nitpicks below:
1) There's no 'K' in the transliteration of yasoi to the Avincian alphabet.
2) Have a look at some of the yasoi names in discoveries on the discord for some idea of the sound of them and maybe try to carry these through to the cognomen and surname. Triple consonants are rare except when necessary to make at least two different sounds that could not be made a simpler way.
3) Just be a bit wary of how you frame Vyshta. She's not so much a war goddess as one of fortune: luck, essentially.
4) Anything else about how he uses the Gift? And favoured moves, proclivities, or quirks? Feelings toward it?
1 and 2) Think I've changed these to something acceptable?
3) Shuffled things about so it's more in line with lore.
4) Added two paragraphs. Would you like more/different focus?
Everyone is fallible, everyone should know this. When you enjoy people, their quirks, their presence, it is doubtless that there will be missteps, ill-spoken words. More friends are made if you can get over your ego and move on. Grudges are only weights upon your soul. That doesn’t mean the downward spiral doesn’t lie in wait for Vieri elsewhere, it’s just so hard to tell where the ice is thin.
C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E
Imagine a statue, that is neither man nor woman, carved from not ebony nor marble. It is a beautiful statue. Perhaps this statue bears a resemblance.
And what is wrong with wearing nice things when there are those who wear rags and itch from fleas? Does it make silks any less soft? Do furs lose their warmth? Do rings weigh heavier upon pierced lobes? What if I told you they could buy bread and cheese and olives for weeks? I would say, you cannot wear these things.
And this tribal tattoo, do you think it means you belong?
L A N G U A G E S
Avincian Revidian Joruban All fluent
T H E G I F T
It is not a fitting gift. Like a ruby when you wanted a diamond, and yet it is all there is. They could never bring himself to truly study magnetism, but her natural aptitude was enough. For the school of chemicals, the converse was true. Which is the truest path? Perhaps it was a mistake that Giacinto funded Vieri’s trip to Ersand’Enise? Forever in a world of wants and needs.
B A C K G R O U N D
What ruts has time’s wheel worn into a brain? Many, too many, and covered yet more still. Stories and tales and myths and legends, of a country, a second home.
There was a time with three parents, and never a time without. Two fathers, Revidians, the question of biology never mattered. A poet, one, the other a courtesan and Avincian bordello owner. One mother, from Yabusa a model, a painter, a muse. A child: half of both, wholly neither. Marco, Giacinto, Tafari: parents. The heart swells thinking of them.
Drug-smoke haze and sweat and sex, the smells of childhood in the rafters and dodging between legs of chairs and clientelle. Stolen fruit, stolen purses. An education.
Another memory, one upon a bed, straining. Tafari, mother, not letting the hours drag down her smile. Vieri could not manage a simple chemical change that night.
Mother again, painting, the hues and tone shifting under brush. Effortless, vibrant, alive. Vieri’s painting, dull.
Magnetism. An ugly school, brutish, loud. There is no art to it. But the school of The Lover, the god which life made sense by…
A thought: an aspiring poet, courtesan, model, painter, muse. Vieri takes after her parents strongly. They let them, encouraged happiness over all else. What direction does happiness lie?
Bright flame, burning back the night, a candle, one of many in a clump, a tumour. It listens to the prayer spoken in the night, and there is silence.
A semantic quirk: aspiring means failed.
Last memory of home, packed bag dragging shoulder down, weight on heart dragging all down. Did they want to go? Did they want them to go? Were they brave, that the tears did not come when hugging and goodbying, only after, in the carriage, alone?
M O T I V A T I O N
Vieri does not like their gift but understands what it represents. It adds to their conflict between faith and new rationality. It represents a path that diverges from Vieri’s artistic wanderings and aimless life, it gives a clear definitive purpose: to be powerful, to protect. Morally agreeable, practically just not Vieri.
It's a good thing to get away, no? Another perspective, another picture entirely.
Beauty can be found, if you look hard enough, in anything. Maybe all it takes is introspection, the guiding hand of Zenos renowned. Maybe it is just as ugly as it first seems.
To create beauty, art is life. But it still does not feel like The Purpose. Will anything?
Just enjoy the people, the vice, whilst youth still allows it.
I N V E N T O R Y
A mirror, make-up, perfume that smells of cinnamon and camphor Coins Oil paints, canvases, frame, brushes, and things required to paint The Menana Stilleto
S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S
❖ Wine tasting ❖ Empathetic ❖ Flexible ❖ Acting ❖ Recalling the composition of scenes and faces
❖ Foundations in Drawing, Converting, and Casting in the Magnetic School of Magic (MF101) ❖ Foundations in Drawing, Converting, and Casting in the Chemical School of Magic (MF104) ❖ Dramatic Performance in Tragedy, Satire, Epic, and Comedy (AR102) ❖ Painting and Drafting in Oil, Pastel, and Watercolour (AR104) ❖ Etiquette, Decorum, and Forms of Address in Polite Society (SK101) ❖ Business, Negotiation, and Money Management (SK106)
3) Be aware that, in Quentic Constantian society, there is room for quite a bit in terms of hetero/homosexuality and even polygamy in some interpretations. However, a gender binary nonetheless exists and is strongly normative, as reflected in each of the gods having two aspects: male and female. A character who doesn't clearly fit either acknowledged gender may either simply have their gender and sex assumed or, in some cases, be a point of scrutiny. Overall, we're not dealing with modern western or indigenous conceptions of gender here and I want these interactions to be played out authentically or not at all.
6) lo (place name) type names would very much mark one out as common as opposed to being among the merchant or noble classes and would close some doors. This is something that your character and their parents would be aware of, having grown up in this world.
3) I suspected this might have been the case, and saw it as what could be a good point of conflict for the character. If you or anyone else have problems with the way this plays out, I will rework the character without any grudge.
6) I was under the impression this would have shown Joruban heritage, my mistake. Could you suggest a fitting Joruban surname in that case?
46 | Male | Yasoi | Force and Essence | Dervish__ _ _ _ _
C H A R A C T E R I S T I C S__ _ _ _ _
What is seen in silver waters? A scar puckers from forehead to jaw bone, a trench of red-raw flesh that shortens the left side of his mouth and drags it upwards in a perpetual sneer. Where the wound crosses the left eye, Tetsoi circle its absence in praise. These cover lots of his skin, point out smaller scars, tell a story.
If it is important to you, the remaining eye is orange.
Apart from this, Visz is a typical Yasoi. Perhaps his hair is longer, perhaps the odd way he tilts his head is a quirk of having only one eye, but he also does this at listening parties, when eyes should be shut.
Chains and leather thongs and strips and straps cover pseudo-armour that is much more a weapon, designed to come apart. Browns and greens. The uniform of a Dervish. Around his neck he wears a necklace of pointed ear tips. Count them. There are thirty and four.
What moonlight comes through the leaves to show a path unique? To collect. To trade. In story and song, Visz wishes to unveil prophecies concerning the return of Vyshta and trade them for the hand and bond of his saviour. And where there is war, stories are valuable, and songs old and new are sung.
That is all. Until a new focus comes.
Do your boughs creak? Confident and foolhardy, Visz might at times seem a caricature. When it comes to his focus, that is when earnest interest comes forth, and he is most like the him inside his head. Patient, generous, covetous. He likes to listen and recite, but the cheapest way to collect stories is to live them.
B A C K G R O U N D__ _ _ _ _
Father died on a mushroom binge. Mother was too busy. Lots of time spent running with other children, climbing, stealing from the humans, tipping their cows and sheep, running from them.
Next came his calling: fight until dead or too old to fight. Then would come training children to do the same. Would he make them eat bark and crawl along thorns like his own Ithi’Naa, his mentor? Sometimes he wonders.
Then death at last.
A champion of Mez’Qaddurat*, Visz never lost a combat. Perhaps he should have seen the writing on the wall, the calling of a new focus, but he did not. In restlessness, complacency grew. It cost him an eye, but his opponent their life. (*a bloodsport where you trade blows and collect ears from your opponents, often taking place at Mette'stiroi)
The festering wound healed and Visz’s life saved by Imri’Tah’Imri, a healer. Their chemistry was instant. It could have been the addled state of his mind, but one night Visz promised the where and when of Vyshta’s return for Imri’s bond. It could have been the addled state of his mind, but he did not back down from these words the next night, nor any night since.
It was, after all, an experience.
I N V E N T O R Y__ _ _ _ _
A pole with blades and a length of leather and chain at both ends. There are weights and blades upon the chains, and the leather marks break-points, offering a focal point for the Gift if the lengths get tangled and need to be broken.
Slender chains that wrap around his forearms and shins, with a pointed weight upon the end. Whistling knives. Various whips of leather can unravel from the outfit.
The outfit.
A vielle and harp to recite to. They were painted with bioluminescent inks, but they have all but chipped off from years on the road.
The necklace of ears.
Coins. Humans covet these. Actual things can practically be stolen with them.
A journal.
Mixtures for ailments various.
A promise seed to be planted upon the fulfilment of the promise.
T H E G I F T__ _ _ _ _
A dervish, he favours Force and Essence, used for explosive offense. A Yasoi, all can be called upon.
In combat their use is forward in the mind, focussed with chanted prayers of Luck to Vyshta. Force to strike blink-quick, to throw knives and make them scream, to become a dervish. Essence to quicken the mind and body, panic others. Arcane might make a strike appear to come a second early, or a second late, or not at all.
In life, it is not so clear. It can craft counter melodies to song and carry his voice, it can nudge emotions, it can heighten and deaden. When stalking he makes no sound at all. How many times has it staved off sleep, or multiplied drink? So many times it is unconscious, as much a part of him as breathing.
S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S__ _ _ _ _
❖ A memory and mind for story and song ❖ Iron will ❖ Not opposed to the idea of humans entirely ❖ Survival
W E A K N E S S E S & F L A W S__ _ _ _ _
❖ Unempathetic when empathy does not stand to gain. At that point it is fifty-fifty ❖ Single-Minded ❖ Delusions of Grandeur ❖ Depth Perception
Everyone is fallible, everyone should know this. When you enjoy people, their quirks, their presence, it is doubtless that there will be missteps, ill-spoken words. More friends are made if you can get over your ego and move on. Grudges are only weights upon your soul. That doesn’t mean the downward spiral doesn’t lie in wait for Vieri elsewhere, it’s just so hard to tell where the ice is thin.
C H A R A C T E R A P P E A R A N C E
Imagine a statue, that is neither man nor woman, carved from not ebony nor marble. It is a beautiful statue. Perhaps this statue bears a resemblance.
And what is wrong with wearing nice things when there are those who wear rags and itch from fleas? Does it make silks any less soft? Do furs lose their warmth? Do rings weigh heavier upon pierced lobes? What if I told you they could buy bread and cheese and olives for weeks? I would say, you cannot wear these things.
And this tribal tattoo, do you think it means you belong?
L A N G U A G E S
Avincian Revidian Joruban All fluent
T H E G I F T
It is not a fitting gift. Like a ruby when you wanted a diamond, and yet it is all there is. He could never bring himself to truly study magnetism, but his natural aptitude was enough. For the school of chemicals, the converse was true. Which is the truest path? Perhaps it was a mistake that Giacinto funded Vieri’s trip to Ersand’Enise? Forever in a world of wants and needs.
B A C K G R O U N D
What ruts has time’s wheel worn into a brain? Many, too many, and covered yet more still. Stories and tales and myths and legends, of a country, a second home.
There was a time with three parents, and never a time without. Two fathers, Revidians, the question of biology never mattered. A poet, one, the other a courtesan and Avincian bordello owner. One mother, from Yabusa a model, a painter, a muse. A child: half of both, wholly neither. Marco, Giacinto, Tafari: parents. The heart swells thinking of them.
Drug-smoke haze and sweat and sex, the smells of childhood in the rafters and dodging between legs of chairs and clientelle. Stolen fruit, stolen purses. An education.
Another memory, one upon a bed, straining. Tafari, mother, not letting the hours drag down her smile. Vieri could not manage a simple chemical change that night.
Mother again, painting, the hues and tone shifting under brush. Effortless, vibrant, alive. Vieri’s painting, dull.
Magnetism. An ugly school, brutish, loud. There is no art to it. But the school of The Lover, the god which life made sense by…
A thought: an aspiring poet, courtesan, model, painter, muse. Vieri takes after her parents strongly. They let them, encouraged happiness over all else. What direction does happiness lie?
Bright flame, burning back the night, a candle, one of many in a clump, a tumour. It listens to the prayer spoken in the night, and there is silence.
A semantic quirk: aspiring means failed.
Last memory of home, packed bag dragging shoulder down, weight on heart dragging all down. Did they want to go? Did they want them to go? Were they brave, that the tears did not come when hugging and goodbying, only after, in the carriage, alone?
M O T I V A T I O N
Vieri does not like their gift but understands what it represents. It adds to their conflict between faith and new rationality. It represents a path that diverges from Vieri’s artistic wanderings and aimless life, it gives a clear definitive purpose: to be powerful, to protect. Morally agreeable, practically just not Vieri.
It's a good thing to get away, no? Another perspective, another picture entirely.
Beauty can be found, if you look hard enough, in anything. Maybe all it takes is introspection, the guiding hand of Zenos renowned. Maybe it is just as ugly as it first seems.
To create beauty, art is life. But it still does not feel like The Purpose. Will anything?
Just enjoy the people, the vice, whilst youth still allows it.
I N V E N T O R Y
A mirror, make-up, perfume that smells of cinnamon and camphor Coins Oil paints, canvases, frame, brushes, and things required to paint The Menana Stilleto
S T R E N G T H S & S K I L L S
❖ Wine tasting ❖ Empathetic ❖ Flexible ❖ Acting ❖ Recalling the composition of scenes and faces
Ti
