JohnRoleplay

The Land of Skara: and the Songtale of the Breaking

Hopefully the RP still lives.

@Argetlam350

On RPGuild?

The Land of Skara: and the Songtale of the Breaking

~~~ Vildrel Könire ~~~

The village was a daft existence of isolation. Yorahal had the character of a husk, a humble existence of astonishing forgetfulness that aptly persists despite all protests of time. Each soul subjected to its tormented existentialism was unbothered, filtered out by a fog that sounded like the batting of gull wings. Few smiled for the entrance of the Trespassers. The fact of it all made Vildrel frown but a small amount, for it was the only place they weren't truly trespassing on.

Iskra handled the delivery without much grace. He spoke the tongues of tradesman better than she did, as did most of her sect's own skillset surmount to. Her ways were in the eyes of her beheld patience. Something bristled in the wind, in the trees and gentle brooks that had gotten lost on their way to the river. Marshes vanished behind a mirage of hills and mildews, whilst the rolling passage of time seemed to tread around the village as though a stain on a city's pavement. Yorahal welcomed them with a silent stare, but it wasn't unfriendly. That much she could be grateful for. Eventually, an echo seemed to bellow through the fog - a herald which drastically called her without even saying Vildrel's name.

"Festival...of Breaking..." The words left her mouth like liquid fascination. Of course she knew the name. In a life before a life, she'd heard it as a dream of elders' part time stories. There was endless dreams in the frost that it promised to glisten. Wherein the thoughts, she found her fingers become delicately warm against the frostbitten shroud. She tightened her cloaks and indulged in her furs evermore.

She left with a note on Iskra's lap, detailing that should she have returned, the venture of her lifetime may never have been worth it at all. She had every intention to return home, to the homeless nomads, but in her sense of endangered curiosity, she had ventured into the fallows with un-neat white hair, with her heart alight and a golden glisten in her eyes. Somewhere out in the world, a figure prayed for her, and she felt the breath of each verse make for her soul. How beautiful, it said, and she agreed wholeheartedly.

The Land of Skara: and the Songtale of the Breaking

~~~ Vildrel Könire ~~~

The Pale - a colloquial impression of the gulf - swallowed the sunlight as the morn braced for itself. A fluorescent nimbus hung itself out to dry, casting a great tone of grey across the path they'd been taking. It was a fantastically numb expression that the gulf had made mere mention of. Elsewhere in the mist, there were mechanisms of sail-ships and the beating drums of fishermen oars wading towards their delightful existence; a flotilla of colourless drabs, departed from time to remain in their endless repetitions. Thus, it'd been titled The Pale - and nothing else, disregarding the aeons of geographical nomenclature given to the great northern gulf - by many a weary Trespasser. Where said faux-tradition had stemmed from was quite incomplete. There weren't any records of who'd first titled the watery expanse, and so it was often declared that it had always been The Pale: that hollow body of water, where Trespassers had let their memories be swallowed whole on far too many occasions.

Vildrel Könire laid eyes on the mist from atop of a coastline hill. Faintly did her eyes glint in the misty morn, and as such, she was easy to find by those in her walking pack. Adorning a brown cloak, she sat with her hands folded between her crossed legs. The softness of the grass cushioned her as the grey sky was willowed by the peaks of valleys and hilltops. The great trees promised her shelter should the day turn to rain, but she was confident otherwise. A grey sky is but itself. It was in the winds where she could feel the skyward sea come close.

Of course, she was no natural druid. Such guessing games were simply fun to speak of.

"Könire!" Came the tendrils of the wind, a chastising voice that disturbed the morning prayer. "Könire - bloody hell...Könire!"

"Here!" After a ghastly sigh, she'd given the familiar voice the beckoning retort. Further downhill, awaiting for her arrival, the hobgoblin Harao Iskra maintained his juvenile sense of authority, placating their endless time for company. "What's the fuss, Iskra?"

"What isn't - we've a delivery in thirty. Get your arse down here and we'll just make it on foot." She didn't protest afterwards. There was little point in it. The specific pluck of her wayfaring sortie waited for her at the foot of the hill. She took great, dainty care as she descended the way down, wrapping around the knolls and pitfalls of the steep, winding path as she did so. Four of them had elected themselves for the minor tradesman's journey. Short-lived, often the way she enjoyed such menial tasks, the two day journey had seen them haul a pack of cattle each cradling a rope-hooked knapsack. Inside, a series of trinket goods had found their way inside, flanking the odd gem, high quality tool or depowered tome rooted out by past Trespassing. None of them were of any use to the Crisa Sect, for any real legitimate form of economy was quite beyond them, until of course they'd visit any form of a city. Each Trespasser carried with them a handful of coins at most. Their true goal, however, was to secure another batch of food, staying ahead of the curb of a later-year's climate.

"Think we'll make it?" A short dwarf humbled his anxieties with such doubts. She disapproved of such, and had been vocal about it, but she wasn't one to press the matter so deeply.

"If there's a way, we'll be on it."

"Pragmatically speaking - not spiritually." Iskra sneered in jest. A curl enveloped her lips, but she barely made a titter out of the occasion.

"We'll be there."

The Land of Skara: and the Songtale of the Breaking

Additions to the lore by Circ

The Trespassers

The Trespassers - a disunified catch-all term for townless folk far stretched along the passages of the northern gulf. What loyalties, social structures, nomadic impurities and conventions each band of Trespassers has is their own. There is no culture to it all, though some may suggest otherwise from afar, but the groups are as they are. A crossbreed of havens for outcasts or wanderlust folk; the plains, peaks and rivers run freer in their eyes.

Though, that isn't to say Trespasser bands aren't connected to society at all. Many function simply as tradesmen in endless motion. There isn't a destination, only a life to live. For some, the Trespassers are a means to an end. A way in which one journeys between the end of one life and the beginning of another. Few live to be a Trespasser for life. It's a system that was made to bleed itself out in the end.

The ambitions of certain Trespasser groups can vary. On occasion, some may seek vitriolic thrills of banditry, should their bitterness triumph, whilst others take on the work of politicking messengers, consorts or envoys along the occasionally unreached expanses of the gulf. Most, however, have learned to steer clear of such lifestyles for the sake of their own, fundementalised existence.

Character(s) played by John Roleplay

Vildrel

Vildrel Könire bleeds the very essence of a Trespasser. The apparent half-elf stands amidst a flowing brook of Crisa Trespassers - a standard cohort of varying, nomadic wayfarers that walk in states of confusion and wanderlust. Her garbs are loose enough to act as a promise to thicken her muscle mass, though she remains modestly thin, if not by much choice. Crowning it all sits an unceremoniously cut canopy of whitened hair, unlawfully kept, that sit atop a veil of solar-toned eyes, a glint in the fabric of the dark.

The clash between her drabs of colourless cloaks and hand-threaded shirts do only so much as to blur her subtle expressions into her reserved demeanour. She speaks with immaterial wisdom, though for topics often irrelevant to herself, whilst the winds bring about a certain unease to the daily motions of her directionless life.

A reservation of ones inner-self had often created a strange parallel between her curiosity and the Crisa Trespassers' commitment to societal indifference. Beneath her sleeves, several bracelets are to be found, and they've become a point of personal expression against a world so vastly colourful.

Therein the tenderness she's sewn into her tanned skin, the world often breathes on the flow of changing minds. Should the winds favour alternative exercise, Vidrel often wanders if her inherited abilities, the burdens to subtlety, are considerable. In such cases, she carries a large scramasax for her own personal defence.

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The Land of Skara: and the Songtale of the Breaking

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The Land of Skara: and the Songtale of the Breaking

Methinks I might take a dive into this