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In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Alys

&
Mathias



The low stone palisade of the city of Azanta came into view, as the Carnival walked along the road.

Well, not all of them were walking.

Alys was seated in the back chariot, in a luxuriously padded seat. A single driver sat up front, steering the two quillats which pulled them. As she set her eyes upon the city’s walls, she yawned, and then brushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. “Mathias,” she called out in a light tone.

The avatar appeared from somewhere else in the Carnival’s traveling group, his footsteps light and nearly silent, he walked up alongside the chariot Ays had chosen as her mount to travel with constantly. ”What is it Alys?” he spoke, his voice still harsh as ever.

“The city up ahead. Do you know anything about it?”

Mathius looked far ahead at the low walls, thinking long and hard for a few seconds. ”I believe that is the city of Azanta, a smaller lesser city, i don’t know much else beyond that, seems like a good place to hunker down at least for a bit.”

“Hm,” Alys mused. “I’ve heard some interesting things about these cities, you know. That the men and women are all so clean and beautiful, and there’s no shortage of admirers for entertainers.”

”Both things which could greatly assist us,” He looked up to Alys sitting on her cushions ”I think our little group will be more than welcomed there.”

She nodded. “Let’s see what it has in store, then.”

They reached the gate a few minutes later. The guards questioned them about their business. As usual, they claimed to be a travelling group of entertainers, which was technically true. And the guards seemed to have heard of them. Eventually, they were let through.

But only a few moments after entering the city, Alys recoiled, as the stench of thousands of people living together struck her nostrils. “Ick,” she gagged in disgust.

Mathius chuckled ”You know, after a while I was sure you’d get used to the smell.” This, despite the fact Mathius had no nose, and couldn’t smell a single thing.

She frowned. “So, what do you think we should do next?”

”I’d suggest first finding a place to set up, a nice public place for our performances.”

“There’s usually space in the market,” she pointed out.


And so they had gone to the market, and found a place to set up. A number of those in the Carnival began to perform, playing lyres, flutes, and drums. Alys stood among them, but had decided to hold off displaying her magic just yet. As a crowd began to form to observe and listen, two members of the Carnival walked among them, stealthily picking the pockets of wealthier looking citizens. Mathius meanwhile, stood in the shadows, keeping an eye out but not revealing himself, as he could never be too sure on how a crowd would react to him.

Eventually the market closed, and they set about the task of finding lodgings for themselves. They performed again the next day, which more or less went the same, although at the end a servant approached them and revealed that his employer, a high-ranking nobleman, wished to hire entertainment for a feast in three days.

“Hm. I accept,” Alys smiled, and the messenger looked as if his heart had melted.

After he was gone she turned to Mathias. “Looks like we’re moving up in the world, hm?”

”Quite, such a venue will let us show ourselves off a bit more, of course,” He “gazed” off to where the servant was heading off ”We should be careful, one wrong move and their tragedy shall become ours.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Alys said, though her mind was clearly elsewhere, as she thought about what might be in store. She then remembered that she had been invited as an entertainer, and not a guest, so it might perhaps not be as exciting or as luxurious as she expected. She frowned. “We’ll need to think of something to perform, then.”

The avatar thought for a moment "Our host is most likely expecting something good, perhaps we get the Ashlin twins to perform some of their acrobatics coupled with some magic?"

“I could do some magic,” she nodded. “Maybe start out with something simple, like flashing lights, and work my way up to more complex spells if that’s not enough to impress them.”

Mathius nodded, his face still scanning the city "That should work, give them something to, die for, as my creator always says, of course, if you need an extra boost I'm sure I can aid"

“Well then… let’s start planning out the specifics…”


Three days passed. They spent their days performing in the marketplace, and other public spaces. In the process, they learned more about the happenings in the city. Their noble patron, the Lord of House Petrelis, was one of the most powerful men in the city, second only to the King. The King himself was a supposedly wise and just ruler. Only two years ago he had married a princess from a neighbouring city-state to secure an alliance, and already she was pregnant with their first child. The city as a whole was relatively prosperous, with the past few years offering bountiful harvests.

In the nights, when Alys wasn’t otherwise distracted, she and Mathias planned the show they would put on for the city’s nobility. A display of acrobatics, accompanied by an illusionary light show. A short play, enhanced by illusion magic. A dance. And of course, plenty of instrumental interludes. When not performing, the members of the Carnival were instructed to learn as much as they could about the city’s nobility by taking every opportunity to talk with the staff or the guests.

It was not enough to simply know the broad strokes of the city’s everyday happenings. Alys wanted names. She wanted to know who she could exploit, either for her own amusement or her own personal gain. Though, as Mathias had said, she should still exercise some level of caution.

Eventually, the night came.


The Petrelis estate was more impressive than any building Alys had ever seen. It was larger than any ruddy chieftain’s hall, and its main hall alone could hold nearly a hundred people. Over a dozen noble families were present, and to fill up the guest list several wealthy landowners and merchants had also been invited.

It was more people than Alys had ever seen in one place, and though she was initially overwhelmed, she quickly composed herself. Your far more powerful, and more important, and more beautiful than all of them combined, she reminded herself, and then smiled. She wore a linen dress, which had been dyed purple. The rest of the Carnival was not as well-dressed; despite their best efforts to wash their attire, some still had the stains of travel. But it would have to suffice.

And suffice it did. Although many in the hall looked at the stains or the faded fabrics with disapproval, others had been more understanding - they were, after all, travellers, and had only been in the city for a few days. Indeed, they had actually been last minute replacements; the troupe of bards that Lord Petrelis had originally sought to hire had changed their plans at the last minute.

Then the performance began, and the rest were willing to overlook the shoddiness of their attire. They first began with the acrobats, with the two twins in their company impressing the audience with a series of flips and sommersaults, as Alys created a show of flashing colourful lights. Then there was the dance routine, where a small group of dancers carried out Mathias’s carefully planned choreography with surprising ease and grace.

After that, they launched into a small play, about a dispute between two wizard who loved the same woman. Eventually they wound up duelling each other, which resulted in both of them being killed, before it turned out that the person the woman actually loved was one of the mage’s apprentices. Alys had used her spells to simulate spellcasting, making the duel look surprisingly realistic, to the point where the actual mages in the crowd began to tense nervously, before realizing it wasn’t real. Then the tension turned to admiration, for all had thought illusions on that scale to be more or less impossible.

The three acts had all been met with cheers and applause, and Alys knew they had done well. Lord Petrelis, who had begun the night looking somewhat nervous, now beamed with pride. Afterward, while a handful of the Carnival’s bards continued to provide instrumental music that the rest of the room could drink and dance to, the rest - the dancers, the acrobats, Alys and Mathias themselves - were permitted to wander the room and join in the festivities.

Alys soon found herself with a crowd of admirers. Some of whom, based on the glares she received from various women in the room, already had attachments. She was bombarded with invitations to dance, and, after feigning reluctance, she accepted. She wasn’t particularly good at dancing, but most did not seem to care. More than a few had made certain propositions to her - her noble employer among them - and although she found some to be rather tempting, she had instead feigned nervousness and refused. She wanted to know more about these people, and besides, she believed an initial display of reluctance made them desire her even more.

Elsewhere, the rest of her followers did their own part to charm the crowd and gather information.

In the end, the night was a resounding success, and there was already talk that other nobles might hire them for other occasions. Alys grinned as she and her followers left the estate. “Well,” she said to Mathias. “I think that went perfectly.”

"I must admit it went better than I expected, the performance most certainly gave them a show, and I am impressed they seemingly had little opinion of my or the other's dress, that Lord certainly took a liking to you" Mathius chuckled at that, he enjoyed the constant stream of suitors Alys had, and this time was no different.

“He was rather handsome,” Alys smirked. “Anyway, they’re paying us in grain, so I think tomorrow we could go to the market and exchange it for some finer clothes. At least a few nobles want some of our performers to put on smaller shows for them in more private settings. We could probably stay here a long time before we have to move on, I think.”

”It would not be a terrible idea, having their patronage for a time could help us, upgrade our appearance, no offense but our little troupe does have a habit of looking no better than poor villagers.” He looked down at himself ”Though, I must admit I am no better.”

“Indeed,” Alys nodded. “You really should find some better garb.”

”Not my fault my creator decided to choose this as my form, a mask should be sufficient to limit the amount of staring eyes, and I'm sure you will seek some more opulent outfits yourself.”

“I suppose your outfit works if we say it’s a costume for a performance,” Alys shrugged. “But still. Can you not change it? Or at the very least wear something else over it?”

He shrugged in return ”I haven’t had the care enough to attempt, admittingly my creator is loose in his use of me, but regardless, it is hard to find garb that will fit my, body shape.” He gestured to his own incredibly boney arms still covered with golden cloth, and his similarly golden cloth face that just barely looked like an actual face.

“Hmm…” a rare look of thoughtfulness passed over Alys’s face. “What does your creator want, anyway? Flattered as I am that a divine avatar has spent so much time following me around, you never did tell me why.”

[color=A52A2A]”Well, I would’ve if I knew, despite my deep connection to them, they have only informed me to keep an eye on you and, in their words ‘draw her closer’, I’ve always assumed I am here to ensure you cause as much tragedy as possible, which, is not that hard a task.”[color] The end of his words were filled with, some sense of pride.

“Oh, you’ve ensured nothing,” Alys scoffed. “I do what I want. I have power, and I use it as I see fit. Not that I’m not grateful for your help, of course.”

Mathius chuckled, ”My creator would say otherwise, but, I have no interest in arguing it, just glad I'm no longer babysitting a child who somehow managed to get more lost than she already was.”

“Hey,” Alys gave a mock-pout. “I seem to recall that I was the one giving the orders. And my infallible leadership eventually brought us here, didn’t it? It may have taken several years, but it’s progress!”

”Yes, and let us forget the several regions and villages we can never return to due to your orders.” He replied, taking a similar mock-tone of disappointment.

“But that was all part of my master plan! Those places were so awful, I had no choice but to engineer events so that we can’t possibly go back. Really, in the long-run I did us a favour.”

Mathius couldn’t help but laugh at that one ”Alright I’ll give you that, some of those places were pretty horrid, but, I digress.” He looked up at the dark sky ”We should find rest once more, not like I need it, but our group will need it, what with all the nobles in a mile radius offering us gigs.”

“Oh, I’ll rest… eventually…” her eyes flickered over to the acrobatic twins in their troupe, and lingered on them for a few moments. “The next few days will be rather busy, I think.”


And indeed, they were. The troupe was outfitted with finer clothes. Plays, songs, and dance routines were rehearsed in preparation, and Alys began sending off performers to various new patrons. It was nothing major - mostly family dinners or small gatherings - but it did serve to bolster their reputation and bring in a source of income.

Then, exactly one week after their first performance in the city’s marketplace, tragedy struck. The Queen of Azanta had gone into labour early, but her child was stillborn, and the Queen herself perished not long after. The once cheerful King was stricken by grief.

The tragic news even gave Alys pause, but only for a moment. Then she shrugged. People died all the time. What made royalty so special? So, she went back to enjoying herself, and planning for the next performance…





In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Carnelian



Abbas fumed.

Nearly two hundred men were dead. Over a hundred had deserted in despair. Of the mighty host he had first set out with, less than half remained, and those that did were in a state of panic. They had just been broken by a force that by all rights should have been able to do no more than scratch them. Was it magic or skill that allowed them to shoot with such accuracy? The work of the gods, one of the bowmen had kept insisting.

“Neiya is the only goddess we need,” the Lord-Captain had insisted, glaring at the man. When setting out from Ketrefa, three hundred of the men in his host had dedicated themselves to Neiya and Neiya alone. After the yesterday’s slaughter, however, he had no way of knowing how many faithful truly remained.

It was not supposed to go this way. When the barbarians got unruly, a host was sent forth to crush them. The barbarians, with their inferior numbers, equipment, and discipline, were unable to resist Ketrefan might. The army would be shattered, as would the defiance of generations to come. But this time, it had been different. It was a Ketrefan army that was shattered, by what couldn’t have been more than twenty men.

Now, Abbas was a dead man. The King would never accept the loss of three hundred men. No matter what story he told. The punishment inflicted upon young Milos would pale in comparison to the disgrace that would ensue when he turned home, regardless of whether he crushed the uprising or not.

There was no happy ending for him. But at least, if he kept marching, he could reduce the shame somewhat and also avenge his son. He would be mocked, cursed, perhaps even executed, but at least his soul would be able to rest peacefully knowing he had his vengeance.

Yet as he looked upon his men in the morning light, he knew they all wanted to return to Ketrefa. He could see the fear in their eyes. Some, he suspected, had only refused to flee because they feared the savages would pick them off one by one in the wilderness.

It was one of his surviving subordinates who made this concern audible, during a meeting they held that morning, in Abbas’s tent. “My lord,” the young nobleman said - he was barely twenty. “We must fall back.” Most of the other lords in the tent nodded their agreement.

“Do you want to tell the King how we were beaten by twenty men armed with sticks and stones?” Abbas snarled.

“Over half our men are gone,” the young nobleman protested. “The rest don’t have the heart to press any further. If we order them to keep going, then if the savages don’t kill us, our own men will.”

Another lord, only a few years older, clenched his fists in outrage. “Unthinkable! They swore an oath-”

“Most of them are commoners,” a man close to Abbas’s age interrupted. “They don’t possess the same noble blood that we do. They aren’t as beholden to honour, or glory, or prestige as we are. They’ll obey us so long as obedience is preferable to disobedience.” He shifted his gaze to Abbas. “My lord, if we don’t withdraw the campaign, they will turn on us.”

Abbas grit his teeth. He knew they were right. But if he listened to them, there would be no chance to avenge his son, and he would have to face the mockery and contempt of an entire city. Yet… should he place his personal quest for vengeance above the lives of his men?

Soldiers had always seemed an expendable resource to him. Just numbers. Send twenty men on a raid. If two died, then so long as the raid made enough profit to train and equip two more soldiers, it was a good trade. But now? He had seen his men fight in battle. He could see the fear in their eyes as dozens of men fell around them. He had heard the desperation mixed with raged as they carried out the doomed charge uphill. They were lesser creatures, who would never be his equals, but could he truly call them expendable now?

His subordinates awaited an answer, and he had none. He was interrupted then, when two soldiers came into the room, one of which was dirty and bruised.

“My lords!” the unwounded began. “My apologies, but… the barbarians captured one of our sentries.” He nudged the disheveled warrior. “Tell them what happened.”

“I heard a sound, and went to investigate…” the other soldier said. “It was a trap. They knocked me out, and carried me away. When I woke they told me they had a message. Then they took my weapon and sent me back.”

Abbas’s eyes narrowed. “What is the message?”

“Their leader wants to talk to you. To negotiate your surrender.”

“Surrender?” He had not expected that.

The soldier nodded. “He asked for a meeting, on the condition that both sides swear by Tekret that they will offer safe conduct.”

Abbas ruminated over that idea for a few moments. “If he wants a meeting so badly,” the Lord Captain decided, “he can come into our camp alone, and talk to me face to face. I’ll meet him nowhere else. Go tell him that.”

The soldier blinked. “Tell him, my lord?”

“Who else is going to?” Abbas snapped. “Go!” It would be rejected, of course, but at least it would give him more time to think.


The soldier returned an hour later. “My lord,” the soldier bowed. “He agreed to your terms, but insisted that he be allowed to bring a weapon.”

Abbas was, quite frankly, surprised that the barbarian leader was open to the condition at all. “A weapon?”

“His sword, my lord. Said he was already going in alone, so taking it away won’t make a difference.”

Abbas was almost tempted to refuse. But then, he thought about it. If he refused, then this barbarian commander might abandon the prospect of a meeting entirely. If he accepted, however, then the barbarian might be lulled into a false sense of security. There was, of course, the danger that the barbarian might try to kill him, but Abbas would have guards, and was confident enough in his own skills that one man with a sword couldn’t best him.

He had sworn by Tekret that he would offer safe conduct, but an oath made to a barbarian held no legitimacy, and Neiya was the only goddess in his heart anyway. The important thing was that fate had given him an opportunity to avenge his son with no further losses, and he meant to seize it.


Abbas stood in the center of camp, as the figure approached - alone, as promised. Though he could make out the silhouettes of the surviving skirmishes. His men could too, and they were frightened by the sight.

As the leader came closer, his features became apparent. He was tall, and handsome, with snow white hair. “Hello there!” the barbarian greeted him as he passed by the tents. He was flanked by a pair of guards - two of Abbas’s more loyal men, but even they seemed afraid of him. “I am Carnelian. Champion of Cadien.”

“You’re the one who killed my son?” Abbas asked, in a surprisingly calm tone, but he could feel the rage building up.

“That I did,” Carnelian nodded without remorse. “And all of his men. And most of the men who were with you yesterday. We have enough stones and arrows to finish the rest of you, but I think enough blood has been spilled for now.”

Abbas clenched his fists, and a vein bulged in his forehead. The gall…

“So, my conditions,” Carn said, not seeming to notice. “I want you and all your men to throw down your arms, and swear an oath to never march against me or my followers again. In return, I’ll let you all head back to your city, alive and unharmed. Though… I can’t make any promises on behalf of the people you robbed and looted on the way here.”

It was a generous offer, if one were to look at it impartially. But Abbas was not impartial. He felt the eyes of the entire camp on him. Most of his men seemed hopeful. Unfortunately, their hopes would soon be dashed. “Here’s my counter-offer,” he said, then drew his sword, while the two guards on either side of Carnelian did the same.

With lightning-speed, Carn’s own blade was out. He swung it across one guard’s throat, ducked under the swing of the second guard, then followed through with his initial swing and sliced off the warrior’s leg. As both men fell, Abbas had rushed forward - not even processing what had happened - then Carn’s shining blade came up and cleaved Abbas’s bronze weapon in two.

The shock stopped Abbas in his tracks. Then Carn lashed out with a fist, punching the Lord-Captain straight in the nose, before seizing him by his shoulders, turning him around, and putting the sword’s blade to his throat.

The entire camp was on their feet, and every man drew a blade, but none dared move. Their leader was held hostage, and the menacing silhouettes of Carn’s skirmishers were still visible on the horizon.

“He promised me safe conduct, and yet he tried to kill me!” Carn declared. “By my reckoning, that makes all of your lives forfeit. But I’m a generous man! The terms I offered to him can still apply to you. Just throw down your weapons, and go back the way you came. Leave everything else behind. Including him.”

Abbas shouted and struggled with rage, but Carn clamped a hand over his mouth and pressed the blade so close that it broke skin. “Well?” Carn asked. “What is it?”

There were several tense moments of silence where the guards exchanged nervous glances. None of them wanted a fight. They had seen what happened when they fought Carnelian and his men. They thought of home, and families.

One man threw down a spear. Then another. Then four more. Then ten. Then dozens. Soon, nearly the entire army had disarmed themselves. Only a few dozen stubborn holdouts remained, but they too yielded when they realized the supposed hopelessness of their situation. “Now go!” Carn ordered.

And go they did, filing out of the camp one by one, as they made their way back west. Some were ashamed. Others were relieved.

Once they were gone, eleven of Carn’s skirmishers came into camp, all of them grinning wildly. Carn passed the livid-looking Abbas into the hands of two of his men, and then, after taking one last look to ensure the remaining Ketrefans were out of sight, began to laugh.

Several others joined in. They laughed for a good long while, ignoring Abbas’s threats and curses, before eventually settling down. Carn turned to Abbas - who had now been gagged - with a smile. “You’re probably wondering what’s so funny,” he said. “You see… what we did yesterday, that wasn’t normal. None of us can shoot that well. It was a blessing, you see. A one-time blessing, which we learned the hard way when we engaged some stragglers. Lost some good men too,” he sighed.

“Thing is, though, at least we knew that. We also knew that you and your men didn’t know. Might as well take advantage of that. And you made things even easier, when you broke your word and tried to kill me.” He shook his head. “So, congratulations Lord-Captain. Your five hundred men were defeated by twenty.”

Abbas attempted to launch himself forward, and Carn’s men were barely able to hold him back. The Lord-Captain thrashed and raged in his grip. “I won’t kill you, though,” Carn decided. “Not yet. I don’t like oathbreakers. Too many stingy bastards refused to give me what they promised, back in my mercenary days, and far too often I was sent to go deal with someone who refused to pay what they owed.” He shook his head. “So, for now you get to live. You’ll live like a caged criminal, because that’s what you are. You’ll follow my army as it grows and expands. You’ll watch me attack your city, and you’ll watch it fall. Then, and only then, will I allow you to die.”

The thrashing and muffled screaming continued. Carn wasn’t entirely sure the Lord-Captain had even heard him. “Shut him up,” he ordered. “I won’t listen to that for- oh what’s this?” He turned his gaze westward to see a new group approaching. They did not wear the armour of Ketrefan soldiers, or of a countryside militia, but the rough clothes of simple peasants. They came from the nearby village, Carn had realized. The one that was sacked.

Most ignored Carn and his men, and began to move around the camp, searching for loot. Others stared at him and his men with awe and fascination. One of their number, a blonde-haired woman in her late twenties, who wore leather armour, stepped forward. “You… you’re Carnelian?” she asked him.

Carn nodded. “That I am.”

“We… we heard of your uprising, but… we didn’t think it would work. Where are the rest of your men?”

“These are all I brought,” Carn answered.

The look in her eye made it clear she didn’t believe him. “How did you win?”

“Through cunning, luck, and a bit of divine aid,” Carn answered. “You know who I am. So you know I’m the Champion of Cadien.”

“I did not believe it. But now… forgive me,” she cast her eyes downward.

“There’s nothing to forgive. I wouldn’t expect you to follow someone who has done nothing to prove themselves,” Carn assured her, before shifting his gaze west. “The Ketrefans sacked your village, didn’t they?”

She nodded. “They did. My father was the Chieftain. He tried to resist. Said it wasn’t time for tribute. They killed him. Then they set fire to his hut to make an example, but it spread to the others. They just took our food, and kept moving.” She gestured to the looting all around them. “We’re taking it back.”

Carn nodded. He had been hoping for some loot, but if this conversation was going where he thought it would be going, then goodwill was more important. “Of course. I won’t stop you. But where will you go now?”

She looked back in the direction of her village. “My father wasn’t the only one who died,” she said. “There were many losses. Some of my people will blame you - say it was your actions that brought the wrath of the Ketrefans upon us. But others… they’ll look at you and see a chance for justice. Some will stay and rebuild, but others… do you need more people?”

Again, Carn nodded. “Of course. I’ll not turn away aid,” he smiled. “I’ll accept all who wish to join. Though I have to ask, do you count yourself among them?”

“Yes,” she said. “I do.” She hesitated for a moment. “My name is Ingrid.”





In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Carnelian



Carn slipped a stone into the sling, and took a deep breath.

Then, he let it fly.

The stone struck the target just a few inches off-center. Not too bad, given he had only recently started practicing.

He had picked up the sling out an idle curiosity. Then he couldn’t hope but admire the simplicity of use and the ease to reload. He had recalled the siege of Jalka, where he had stood powerless on the wall until the enemy began their ascent, and only then had he been allowed to start killing. With the sling, that would change. It provided some much-needed versatility in combat, so that he might be able to down one or two foes before being forced into a melee.

He wasn’t wearing Titania. Instead he had left her in his hut, under guard. Wearing armour all the time was frankly uncomfortable. Even more so when that armour was sentient and capable of speech. It felt as if his every action was being observed and judged. Furthermore, a rumour was spreading in the village that the armour was beginning to control him. So, with all those factors in mind, he tended to avoid wearing her unless it was necessary. That said, he still conferred with her for advice, or simply to see how she was doing. It would not do to end up on sour terms with a divine avatar.

“Lord Carnelian! Lord Carnelian!”

His head turned, just in time to see a man running toward him, face red and sweating. The sweaty man came to a stop before him, trying to speak but unable to form words. “Take a moment to breathe,” Carn advised, placing a hand on his shoulder.

A few moments passed, and at last, the man was able to regulate his breathing to a point where he could finally speak. “The scouts… are back!” he huffed. “The Ketrefans… they’re coming!”

Carn’s eyebrows rose. Already? He had sent scouts westward to watch the city and take note of troop movement, but still, he thought he would have had more time… “How many?” he asked.

“Five… Five hundred…” the man breathed.

Five hundred. Carn had expected a large number, but when he finally heard it, he was only now being hit by the reality of his situation. Between Thyma and the few villages that had allied with him, he had maybe less than a hundred warriors - assuming all the villages answered the call, which might not be the case. Of those hundred warriors, only forty were at Thyma right now. If all the scouts would back, that meant they had fifty. The rest would have to be summoned.

How was he to kill five hundred men with only one hundred? He had assumed he would rely on divine intervention, but would that be enough? Even with a sword and an unbreakable suit of armour, he was only one man.

He looked to the wall. That would give them an edge. Then a dark thought occurred to him. What if the commander didn’t assault the wall? What if instead, the commander burned and slaughtered the neighbouring villages? Villages which most of his army hailed from - they would not stand idly by while their families were slain.

Which meant Carn would have to take those families into the walls. But Thyma did not have space for them all, and even if they did… the attackers could simply surround the village and wait for them to run out of food. Then let starvation do the rest. The walls were not a shield, he realized in horror, they were a tomb. And in that moment he cursed Titania. The avatar of a goddess should have known better!

The man saw Carn’s expression and seemed alarmed by it, no doubt having expected Carn to already have a plan.

Carn let the worry fade from his face, and steeled his heart. It would not do to let his worries show. His followers had to believe he was confident in their victory. Otherwise, they would not hold. And if they didn’t hold, they would die.

But what to do? Fight them in the field, and they would use their numbers against him. Fight them on the walls, and there would be no fight at all - just a long gruelling wait while his forces slowly turned against him. Then he looked at the sling in his hands, and he had an idea. A desperate one, but it might work.

“Bring me Yarwick,” he ordered. “And also, every man who can use a bow or a sling.”


“They’ll think you’re abandoning them,” Yarwick had warned him.

“They won’t,” Carn shook his head. “I’m heading toward the enemy, not away. I’m taking men and women who are good in a skirmish, and I’m calling our allies to send their warriors here. If anyone still has doubts, I’ll expect you and Titania to settle them.”

Yarwick furrowed his brow. “You aren’t bringing her with you?”

Carn shook his head. “She’ll draw attention to me and slow me down. Better that I don’t stand out. I’ll thin out their numbers and slow them down. When I return, I’ll join the defense.”

“If you don’t return?”

“If I die,” Carn told him, “you will take up the cause.”


And on that grim note, Carn and his party of twenty skirmishers had set out. Eight carried bows, while the other twelve - himself included - carried slings.

There was a mixture of nervousness and excitement among them. Some had been the scouts Carn had originally sent. They had seen the army with their own eyes - its size larger than the populations of entire villages - and they could not possibly imagine how any force might defeat it.

Others, however, were excited. They were marching into battle, under the eyes of a god. They had never seen battle, but they had heard legends of glorious heroes and valourous warriors. This was their chance to become legends themselves. They had mixed equipment; whatever would serve as protection without impeding their mobility. Carn himself wore a mixture of hardened hides and leather, but his shining sword and sling were both at his belt.

Onward they marched. To freedom, and glory. Victory, or death.


Eight days after departing from Thyma, they finally came upon Ketrefa’s army.

“Neiya’s heaving bosom...” one of Carn’s men had uttered quietly, upon seeing the massive column march along the crude dirt road. Just behind the host, a large plume of smoke could be seen. The only thing that could produce such a flame would be a burning village. “Bastards...” a woman had muttered spitefully.

They watched from a high hill, some distance away. Carn had to admit, he himself was somewhat daunted by the sight. He had not seen so many fighters in one place since the war between Jalka and Merok, and this was but a portion of Ketrefa’s power.

“Alright,” Carn said, breaking the tense silence. “Load your slings. Nock your arrows.”

They stared at him wide-eyed. “Are you mad?” one of them asked.

Carn glared at him. “We loose a few shots, then we retreat before they can hurt us. Slow their march, and fray their nerves. I’m not expecting us to kill the entire army on our own. Now, make ready.” He brought his own sling out and slipped a stone into it. The others reluctantly obeyed. “Loose your weapons in your own time,” he said, then swung the sling back and launched it forward.

The stone flew, eventually becoming so small he could no longer see it. Then, a figure among the Ketrefans fell to the ground. His nineteen archers followed suit, loosing stones and arrows, and a few more Ketrefans fell. Shouts of alarms rang out.

Suddenly, Carn felt another sensation overtake him, similar to when Cadien had spoken to him in the temple. In that moment, he knew the god was watching, and based on the expressions of his skirmishers, he knew they felt it through. “Again!” he shouted, snapping them out of it.

Twenty stones and arrows were loosed. This time, twenty men fell. To Carn’s astonishment, every shot seemed to have hit. All his knowledge of warfare told him such a thing was impossible, and yet, it had happened.

This time, his people needed no prompting. They loosed their projectiles on their own initiative, and again, every single shot sent a Ketrefan to the dirt. Then Ketrefa’s archers, who had been stationed at the rear, turned toward them and drew back the strings of their bows. “Down!” Carn shouted.

His men threw themselves to the ground as one hundred arrows shot forth. The volley killed four and wounded two, but thankfully those two could still wield their slings. “Focus on the archers!” Carn yelled, and his skirmishers obeyed, loosing stones and arrows as fast as they could.

Again, they could not miss.

The archers began dropping at a rapid rate, their commander among them, and in the confusion they could not get another volley off. Instead, they broke, running for safety behind the spearmen who had formed a shield wall. Carn ordered his men to focus on that instead, and even despite the raised shields, Ketrefans continued to fall. Every single stone and arrow seemed to somehow find its way through a narrow gap in the shields, killing or wounding men, and opening up holes in the line which the others could continue to shoot into.

The Ketrefans shouted and panicked, as some men attempted to flee while others tried to close the gaps or carry wounded comrades to safety behind the shields. Bronze-clad officers shouted, and attempted to restore order. Then one voice cut above the rest; that of who Carn could only assume was the army’s commander. “Charge! Charge, you cowards! By Neiya, CHARGE!”

The Ketrefans then turned and began running up the hill. But it was a half-hearted attack. Only two thirds of them actually went forward, while the rest scattered for safety. Those who did go up the hill were more a mob than a disciplined force, and though they managed to kill over two dozen more, it was clear the rest would close the distance.

“Time to go!” Carn shouted. “Retreat!”

And with those words, he and his men turned and fled, leaving corpses and chaos behind them.


As Carn and his men made camp that night, the mood was jubilant. Although they had lost comrades, and had been forbidden from setting fires for fear of being detected by the enemy, they were in high spirits. At the cost of only five of their own, they had killed nearly two hundred Ketrefans. Those unschooled or inexperienced in tactics knew such a thing was virtually unheard of, even in all but the most fanciful legends and songs.

They helped themselves to a meal of blueberries, evening bells, and some leftover meat from the previous day. The evening bells only served to increase their spirits further, and even Carn had a few.

“They’ll sing about us forever!” one man proclaimed.

“To the death of every Ketrefan!” another shouted, apparently forgetting the fear of their camp being discovered. In truth though, it was unlikely the Ketrefans would make an attempt this night. Who would willingly seek them out after the slaughter of the previous day?

Carn smiled. He had not expected to inflict such a crushing defeat. All he had wanted was what he had said; to thin out their numbers, slow them down, and fray their nerves. Instead, he and his twenty archers had shattered half the army. Between the natural euphoria of victory and the artificial euphoria of the evening bells, he was happier than he had ever been. “Tomorrow we finish them!” he vowed, raising a fist into the air.








In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Dakari



Dakari, Jakri, and Adara returned to their village in a solemn mood. The sentries eyed them warily.

“Dakari,” one of them said, eying the black-haired angel warily. “Where’s the rest of your warband? Where is Ashara?”

“Dead,” Dakari answered grimly.

The sentry’s eyes narrowed. “And you ran?”

“Only after Ashara was killed,” Dakari glared. “But my report is for Madora. Not you. Stand aside.”

The sentry glared back but dutifully stood aside. The village was a collection of huts; wooden frames supporting mud walls with roofs of leaves and thatch. On the outskirts, makeshift shelters of branches, leaves, and animal hides had been erected, for those who had recently joined the village but had yet to have their own huts built. The largest building was in the center, and it naturally belonged to their leader; Adora.

As they neared Madora’s hut, they could hear screams elsewhere in the village. “They’re still torturing him?” Jakri asked, sounding surprised. “I thought he’d be dead by the time we got back.”

“I wonder if they got anything useful out of him,” Adara said aloud.

“They haven’t,” Dakari growled. “Torture’s a waste of time. Relying on the enemy for information?” He shook his head. “They’ll just tell you whatever they think will make the pain stop, whether it’s true or not. Better to trust in your own eyes and ears.” Another scream came, as if to punctuate his statement, and the three continued to the hut. Another guard was posted outside.

“Dakari,” the guard said, her expression blank.

“I’m here to see Madora,” Dakari told her. “Ashara is dead.”

“War Mother damn them,” the guard cursed. “Go on in, then.”

Dakari pushed aside the tent flap, stepping into the hut, as his two surviving companions followed behind him. In the center of the hut was a woman, seated at a chair, with a crude map of animal hide stretched out across the table in front of her. She looked up as Dakari entered. “What’s this I hear about Madora being dead?”

“She wanted us to ambush an Oraeliari patrol, deep in their territory,” Dakari answered. “Turns out they knew we were coming and had an ambush of their own. We were surrounded, but fought as hard as we could. After Ashara died, I rallied the survivors and we fought our way out. We’re all that’s left.”

Madora stared at him for a moment, and then her gaze shifted to the two figures standing behind him. “Is this true?”

“Yes,” Jakri and Adara both said, almost in unison. It was in their best interest to support the lie, for if word got out that they were healed by an Oraeliari, they would disgrace themselves as well as Dakari. They were his now, whether they liked it or not.

Madora shifted her gaze back to Dakari, and then frowned. “Why are you holding your head high like you expect some sort of reward?” she demanded.

“My lady?” Dakari asked, confused.

“I could hear the smugness in your voice,” she countered sourly. “You didn’t win any victories out there. You just survived. You think we can afford to award our people just for every day they go without dying?” She shook her head. “Nonsense.”

“My lady,” Dakari continued, with a furrowed brow. “For every Neiyari that was lost, three Oraeliari were killed. I managed to get these two back alive, and tell you what happened. Surely it’s better to lose nine fighters and know about it, than to lose a dozen fighters and not know? Ashara was in command. I merely salvaged her defeat. She is the one who must answer-”

“Ashara answered with her life,” Madora cut him off. “As you should have done. We live for Neiyara, we fight for Neiyara, and we die for Neiyara.”

We kill for Neiyara too, Dakari thought bitterly. Can’t do that if we’re dead, can we? But he kept that thought to himself, for to continue arguing with her would be seen as defiance, and would therefore be punished. Instead he allowed his expression to curl deeper into a frown.

“Go on,” Madora said after a moment, waving a dismissive hand. Dakari had first thought it was an invitation to speak his mind, but then she continued. “Leave,” she instructed. “When I send you into battle again, your courage will not be found wanting. Am I clear?”

He grit his teeth. She claimed he lacked courage? He who had stood against three foes at once, while she sat comfortably behind a desk? But he only nodded his head in response, as he was trained to do, and then left the building.

Dakari was sick of this. He was the best fighter here, and after the events of the previous day, perhaps the best leader. Yet his talents went underutilized, and underappreciated.

A sharp scream interrupted his resentful thoughts, and he clenched his fist in irritation.


Later that day…

The Oraeliari winced as the footsteps approached, knowing more pain was to come. His wounds had healed, but he could still recall the pain as the blades carved his skin. He could not even see his latest torturer, for it was too dark. There didn’t seem to be anyone else, either, which was rather strange: most of the time, his torture occurred in front of an audience. Still, he closed his eyes, and prepared himself for the pain that would inevitably follow.

Then a sharp blade ran across his throat. Blood surged forth from the wound, and he couldn’t breathe. He began to choke, and as he choked, he found himself growing increasingly light-headed, until finally, darkness took him, and he knew no more.


“Who did this!?” Madora demanded before the assembled village, as she stood before the Oraeliari’s corpse, still tied to the post with a slit throat. “I will find who did this. If they come forward now, their death will be swift. If not, they’ll take his place,” she gestured to the corpse.

None spoke. Dakari noticed Adara and Jakri were eying him somewhat nervously, correctly suspecting that he was responsible, but they said nothing.

It was Dakari who spoke next. “Why didn’t you have a guard watching him?” he asked.

Madora’s gaze rounded on Dakari with a stone-cold fury. “I do not need to justify myself to a worm like you,” she snarled. “Was it you?”

Dakari shook his head. “It was not. I’m just saying, though, if you had a guard watching over him… this wouldn’t have happened. To tell the truth, I don’t think you’re fit to lead us.”

Time seemed to stand still as Madora stared at him. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Everyone’s full attention was fixated on the two. Then, finally, Madora broke the silence by gesturing to two Neiyari next to Dakari. “Kill him.”

They hesitated, but then reached for their weapons. The hesitation killed them, for Dakari spun and swept his glaive across the throat of the one on his left, then thrust the butt of the weapon into the stomach of the Neiyari on the right. “Kill me yourself,” he spat toward Madora, as he began to advance. “I challenge you for leadership. Unless you’re too cowardly to accept?”

Her rage returned, and in a flash her sword was out. She rushed toward Dakari, and swung for his head. It was an impressive swing, all things considered; fast and powerful. Madora was no slouch in swordsmanship. However, it had been some time since she had last fought on the field of battle, and Dakari had seen the attack coming. He parried it, and then thrust his weapon into her gut.

But even with a blade in her stomach, she still put up a fight, swinging her sword at him again. Dakari’s left hand let go of the glaive and seized her wrist, stopping it before it could land. Madora glared at him with hatred, before suddenly losing her grip on the sword and slumping to her knees. He kicked her off his glaive, and turned to face the crowd.

“I have slain our chieftain, and claim leadership over the tribe!” he declared. “Does anyone dare contest me?”

Three did. One by one, they challenged him. One by one, he cut them down in single combat.

When it was over, he stood over the three bodies, and thrust his glaive into the ground. “It is settled, then. From this day forward, you answer to me! Unlike her, I’ll not throw your lives away on pointless skirmishes. When we battle, it will serve a purpose. I’ll have no more pointless torturings either, and when we make a deal, we will honour it. I’ll stand with you on the field of battle, and I’ll not sacrifice a single Neiyari without purpose. By the War Mother and the Consort, this I swear!”

A few actually voiced their approval at that. In truth, Dakari was not an unpopular man among the village. They respected him. It was part of why leaders such as Madora and Ashara had disdained him. He was popular, competent, and willing to question them when they misstepped. That made them think he was dangerous. And they were right, because Madora was dead and he now led in her place.

The rest accepted the decision as well. They might not have been particularly enthusiastic about Dakari, but they weren’t particularly loyal to Madora either. They cared little about who led them, so long as that leader was capable. A few, however, appeared resentful, and Dakari knew he would have to keep his eye on them.

Dakari was just about to order them back to their stations, when the sound of clapping could be heard within his mind.

Well done, well done! a deep voice boomed, and from the startled reactions of the other Neiyari, Dakari realized it was speaking to them as well. Though, I would thank you not to call me ‘The Consort.’ I am far, far more than that, the God of Perfection spoke with clear annoyance.

Anyhow, the God went on, You’ve made an oath in my name, and I expect you to honour it. In the meantime, I think I’ll name you my champion.

Dakari’s eyes widened. He had not expected this little coup to attract the attention of Cadiri. He was not the War Mother, but still… to have drawn the eye of a god? He fell to one knee, and the rest of the village quickly followed. “You, you honour me, my lord…” he said.

I do indeed, the God said, and Dakari felt the God’s blessing wash over him. The glow of his glaive turned from a golden light to a bright purple. It is rather uncommon to find such integrity among your kind. Many, in their shortsightedness, fail to see the purpose. Now go forth and lead your people to glory.

A small smile appeared on Dakari’s face. In just one day, he had gone from a common warrior to the leader of a tribe and the champion of a god. And in that moment, his mind swelled with ambition. He could become a Saint… or, failing that, an equal to them in all but name. The Neiyari would flock to him, and he would lead them to victory against their greatest enemy. Perhaps he might even rival Aveira…

He thought of the Oraeliari leader he had met earlier… Allura, was it? You should have tried to kill me, he thought. You had no idea…

He rose to his feet. “The God has spoken,” he declared. “I am Chosen. The rest of you, though, you still have work to do. Get back to it!”







In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
The Council of Acadia


Eighteen years after Antiquity…



Queen Avelina of Acadia sat at her council chair with a disdainful expression, and brushed her blonde hair behind her merelli horns. These council meetings were tedious. They were necessary, and she always tried to give them her full attention, but they were still tedious. Her gaze briefly flickered toward the open balcony doors, where a cool breeze flowed in.

She looked at her human counterpart, King Hugon. The heads of state of Acadia were the King and the Queen. The King was always human and male, while the Queen was always a merelli female. The King and Queen were not actually married to one another, and kept their own consorts, but it was not uncommon for affairs to occur between the two. She had considered it, upon first rising to her title, and she knew he considered it too. Hugon had once been a handsome man. But now, he had aged. He was nearly forty, and his hair was beginning to grey. She no longer had an interest in him, and he recognized that.

She looked to the rest of the table, where the Pontiffs were debating about whether or not they should elevate the lesser Goddess Gibbou to the status of a major Goddess - and thus create an additional pontiff. Unsurprisingly, most were against it, for they did not want to create another political rival.

Yet a handful were insistent, and raised this issue at every meeting. There had been a recent incident where a garrison had been granted strange new equipment by that same goddess, and it was far more durable than any metal they had seen before. “If we show her more devotion,” the Pontiff of Oraelia, a human woman in her fifties, had argued, “she may grant us additional boons.”

“Such a thing would distract from other more worthy gods,” countered the Pontiff of Neiya, a Merelli with black hair. Avelina could not recall her age - it was always hard to tell, with a Merelli. The only way to be certain was to ask them directly, and the older ones were always reluctant to provide a truthful answer. “If we dedicate time and resources to praising Gibbou, that is time and resources which could instead go to the others, and they may take offense.” She took a sip from a goblet of wine.

The debate carried on, with each councillor voicing their opinion. Except Avelina. It didn’t matter. It was three against five. Even if she added her own vote in support of elevating Gibbou’s status, they would still be one vote short.

Eventually the matter was dismissed, and they moved on to other matters. Such as where they would deploy the soldiers Gibbou had supposedly equipped. Or to which units the strangely-waterproof weapons from the blessed forge should be given to. There was also the matter of a village which had been late on tribute payments. And finally, an update on the search for the daughter of the Pontiff of Aurius - she had still yet to be found.

These matters were traditionally considered to be under the purview of the King and Queen, and Avelina nodded along with Hugon’s suggestions. She was no puppet - far from it - but in this particular case the King’s advice had been sound, and the Queen saw no reason to dispute it beyond the occasional question for clarification.

It was better not to speak unless necessary, Avelina had long ago decided. They would think she was not paying attention. Or that she was accepting of what was going on around her. And thus, they would underestimate her. But, just like in war, the best way to lure your enemy into an ambush was to feign weakness. A few inexperienced pontiffs had already fallen for that trap, being caught off-guard by a sudden and unexpected barrage of rebuttals and criticisms from someone they did not even realize had been paying attention.

Eventually, the meeting came to a close, but before they could rise from their seats, there was the sound of a pair of feet striking the floor. They all turned.

Standing at the balcony was a silver-haired man with purple eyes, a bright purple traveller’s cloak, a white tunic, and an oaken staff. The Councillors leapt from their seats and took a step back.

“Who in Tekret’s name are you?” challenged a Pontiff, who represented the very god he invoked.

Overcoming her initial shock, Avelina quickly noticed another detail about the man. He was attractive. It was a struggle to tear her eyes away from his figure, and when she did, she found herself looking at the Pontiff of Neiya, who was also eying the stranger with a look of deep interest. That was rather surprising, since the Pontiff of Neiya had once told her in private that she never once found a single human to be attractive. The Pontiff noticed Avelina’s stare and flushed. Meanwhile, the Pontiff of Evandra - a man - had also been taken in by the stranger’s appearance, which seemed to fall in line with a rumour that had been going around for some time.

Avelina shook the thoughts off. He was an intruder! He shouldn’t be here! Her hand fell to the sword at her hip, and in the same moment both she and Hugon drew their weapons. “What is the meaning of this?” Hugon demanded. Two guards burst into the room shortly afterward, their own weapons raised.

The stranger smiled reassuringly. “I am Mekellos. The Avatar of Cadien.”

Whatever answer the council had expected, it was not that. “The only one in this room who speaks for Cadien is I,” the Pontiff of Cadien, a round-bellied man with greying hair, countered defiantly.

Mekellos frowned. “Is that so?” he asked. “Tell me, when was the last time you ever heard from my master? If you heard from him at all…” The Pontiff was about to issue a retort, but Mekellos continued speaking. “Pontiff Julien,” he went on. “You claim to speak for Cadien, yet he has never spoken to you a day in your life. You claim to embody his ideals, yet since taking his office you have grown fat and complacent.” Then Mekellos’s eyes narrowed, as he stepped closer and closer. “You poisoned your predecessor.”

Pontiff Julien’s face paled. Then Mekellos’s hand launched forward, closed around his throat, and lifted him a foot off the ground. King Hugon rushed forward and swung his sword at Mekellos, only for Mekellos to grab the weapon by the blade - it didn’t even break skin - wrench it from the King’s grip, and jam the pommel into the King’s stomach. The guards rushed forward, but Mekellos raised a dismissive hand. Suddenly they were out of breath, and too weak to even lift their spears. They collapsed to their knees.

The Pontiff’s eyes bulged, and his face turned red. “You’ve committed other crimes too,” Mekellos went on, in a cold tone. “You thought they were secrets. But I know…” Then the avatar tightened his grip, crushing throat, bone, and veins in a single squeeze.

He dropped the Pontiff to the floor with an expression of contempt. Then he waved his hand, and suddenly the guards were no longer wheezing for breath. He turned to regard the rest of the council. “Some of you are good,” he said after a moment. “Some of you… are not. Know this: your gods are watching. They always have been. If you are guilty, then I leave your punishment up to them.”

The Avatar approached Julien’s old seat, pulled out the chair, and sat down. “Now then,” he said lightly, as if the grisly sight of the Pontiff’s murder had not just occurred. “What’s the condition of the city?”



In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
The Lord-Captain


Twenty-six years after Antiquity...



“Lord-Captain? A soldier has returned from Thyma, with a report.”

Lord-Captain Abbas Narek looked up at the aide, and frowned. “I would have expected my son to give me the report himself.”

They were in the Lord-Captain’s office. The Lord-Captain himself was seated at his desk, while the aide was in the doorway. As the Lord-Captain set a fresh piece of papyrus on the desk, and readied a quill, the aide gulped nervously. “My lord…” he said slowly. “He said your son is dead.”

The quill fell from Abbas’s hand. For a few moments, there was an agonizing silence, as he slowly looked up from the paper and he met the gaze of the aide who had spoke. ”What?”

“I… I’ll send the man in. He can explain it himself.” The aide bowed quickly and swiftly exited the room. A few moments later the soldier stepped in, looking just as nervous.

The soldier bowed awkwardly. “My lord.”

The Lord-Captain only stared at him.

The soldier gulped, and then hesitantly went on. “We went to Thyma, as you ordered us, my lord. We searched it. Standard practice. Then this man appeared. With white hair, and a strange sword. He attacked us, and the way he fought… I swear he was one of them vampires, but it was day. There was a mage with him too. Didn’t get a good look, might have been a witch, but ‘e was a man. After they attacked us, the village turned on us. I’m… I’m the only one left.”

“You are certain my son is dead?” Abbas asked in an icey tone.

“I am, my lord.”

Abbas’s hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist. “Explain to me,” he began coldly. “How thirty armed and disciplined men were killed by a bunch of unwashed savages in a village less than a decade old.”

“They had a vampire. And a witch, my lord.”

“In the day? Nonsense!” Abbas exploded, slamming his fist into the desk. “Tell me. Why didn’t you stay and fight with your comrades? With your commander? TELL ME!”

“I… my lord… there was nothing I could have done…”

Abbas fumed. But once again, the rage on his face seemed to settle into a cold malice. “No. There was something you could have done. Something you should have done. But you were too cowardly to do it.” Then he shouted, summoning the aide back into the room. “This man is a coward and a deserter,” the Lord-Captain said, gesturing at the soldier with his quill. “Take him outside and hang him.”

The aide shouted a command, and two guards who had been standing outside stepped in to seize the soldier by soldiers. He began to shout and protest as they dragged him away, begging for mercy, or forgiveness, or redemption, but Abbas was deaf to the pleas. Instead, his focus remained on the aide.

“Someone seeks to defy us,” he said, returning to his tranquil fury. “My son… must be avenged. Raise an army. Five hundred men. We march at sunrise.”

“My lord,” the aide protested. “It’s a long journey. Those men require supplies. It will take a few days at least to secure enough…”

“We’ll take what we need on the way there!” Abbas snapped. “We can’t give this insurrection time to fester. Sunrise, I said!”

“But the King…”

“Damn the King!” Abbas’s fist struck the table again. “He’s a puppet. The army is mine!” It was not an entirely accurate statement, but Abbas didn’t give a damn. He had sent his son to raid the rebuilt Thyma as a political move, to succeed where the son of the last Lord-Captain had failed, and prove that his house was better-suited to the title.

Instead, his son and an entire warband had been slaughtered by savages. To let that go unanswered would be to shame not just his house, but Ketrefa as a whole. The King might be angry that he marched off to war without permission, but Abbas knew the fallout would be even greater if he did nothing to avenge this insult. Besides, he yearned for vengeance. The animals killed his son. And they would pay.

The Lord-Captain slept poorly that night, thoughts of vengeance keeping him awake. In the morning, he arrived at the gate to find five hundred men assembled. The only supplies they had were what they could wear or carry. They attempted to exit the gate, but the local gate commander refused. Neither the King nor the Captain of the Gates had provided notice that an army would be leaving the city, and word of the incident at Thyma had yet to spread.

In the end, the gate commander eventually yielded, after sufficient threats had been issued. And. The gates were opened, and the column of soldiers marched out.

For the first time in decades, a Ketrefan army was on the march. No mere warband, but a proper army; five hundred strong and with a Lord-Captain marching at its head. Thyma would burn. His son would be avenged. The killer would be flayed alive. Inch by bloody inch. “By Neiya, I swear it…” he vowed.



In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Brundt


Twenty-five years after Antiquity…



Although Brundt had lifted the hammer, he was too young to wield it. And so, it became a secret.

The boy began regular visits to the House of Perfection, who took over his education. He soon began spending more of his waking hours there than Milos Karras’s own manor. There had been talk of moving him to the temple permanently but Brundt himself had refused.

They put him through rigorous physical exercises as well, where Brundt quickly amazed him with his unnatural strength. They taught him to fight with hand, blade, and staff. He mastered several different exercises, and learned to play a number of different sports. Inevitably, word began to spread throughout the city about the scarred barbarian boy with the strength of ten men, and how the temple had taken him in. Brundt’s unnatural strength had once terrified him, but the temple taught him it was a gift, and so that as long as he used it respectfully and responsibly, there was nothing to fear.

Although two or three nobles withdrew their support from the temple in disgust, for the most part the men and women of the surrounding district were unwilling to distance themselves from Cadien’s holy order, especially over the fate of a mere boy. The tales of Brundt’s strength were eventually dismissed as exaggeration, and the sight of him at the temple became common enough that those who once loathed him learned to ignore him.

In the meantime, Brundt enjoyed his time at the Temple. Grandmaster Varsilis had always been kind to him, and the temple acolytes, though cold at first, had eventually warmed to him as well. They told him tales and histories. They told him of Cadien and Evandra’s Gift of the Berries. He learned of the creation of the Purple Moon, and the irregular lunar alignments. They spoke of the crusade against the Iskrill and the founding of Acadia. They told him of short men who lived in the mountains of the south, and of winged beasts in the plains to the west. Milos had also taken the time to personally educate him on strategy and tactics. He listened to it all with fascination.

Under escort, he would walk around the city, marvelling at the architecture of the Cadien’s Quarter, and at the distant royal palace. It was truly like nothing he had ever seen, and even after he had gotten used to it he still found the walks to be peaceful and relaxing. Gelos, the guard who had once held Brundt down and been ready to execute him, accompanied him on most of these trips, and couldn’t help but grow fond of the boy as well.

As the years went on, Brundt had also begun to notice a change. The nobles of Cadien’s Quarter no longer snubbed him or Milos. The House of Perfection’s endorsement, it seemed, was enough for them to give him the benefit of the doubt despite his status as an outsider. Even then, he still found it somewhat difficult to connect to those outside of the House of Perfection or the Karras Household.

The same could not be said for the rest of the city, however. They had tried to hide the conflict from him, but it was clear something was amiss. He would overhear talk of incidents in other districts, of ‘territory’ and ‘support’ being lost or gained. It worried him, but there was little he could do, for he was still too young and the order still too secretive. It frustrated him, knowing that there was a growing threat out there, but being unable to act.

It all weighed on him, and although he did his best to meet what expectations and challenges were put before him, it became harder as the years went on. He was strong and studious, yes, but he also became grim, stoic, and serious. He was not without a sense of humour, nor was he above harmless-yet-amusing distractions, but more pressing matters always lingered in the back of his mind. How was he supposed to be the hero they expected him to be?

Eventually Brundt had become a man in his own right, and although he could now walk the district freely, they still had not told him much. Other than that the city was divided between the Houses of Cadien and Tekret, and a Cult dedicated to the love goddess Neiya. But he knew very little of the cult, other than that they rejected all gods save Neiya and were hostile against those who did not do the same. If he was to stand against them, he needed to know more.

Some part of him felt it was a bad idea, but he decided he had to see for himself.

He was a tall man. Seven feet in height, and he still bore the scar from when he was nearly burned as a child. A few years ago, during a lunar alignment occurred, and he could have simply washed the disfigurement away… but he refused. Now he was paying for that, as it meant there was no way he could disguise himself to leave the district, and he was not one for sneaking. But perhaps he didn’t need to do either of those things?

Brundt donned a cloak and a simple tunic. They were of fine quality, but ultimately rather plain. And with this rather unassuming-looking garb, he belted a sword to his hip and made his way out of the district in the middle of the afternoon. Unsurprisingly, there were guards posted at the district’s entrance - guards in the employ of the local nobles, rather than the city - and they recognized him on sight.

“Lord Brundt Karras?” one of them asked. “What brings you here?”

“I’m leaving the district,” Brundt answered.

The two guards exchanged a glance. “Why?”

“That is my own business,” Brundt replied.

For a moment they only stared at him. Then, reluctantly, one of them nodded. “Very well, my lord.”

That had been far easier than expected.

The next district was also under the control of the House of Perfection. Its inhabitants were considerably less well off than the nobles of Cadien’s Quarter, but still respectable. Blacksmiths, jewellers, butchers, merchants, sculptors, painters, architects, and some exceptionally poor nobles. Men of some wealth and distinction, but no impressive birth. He passed through without incident, no one here willing to question or challenge the burly intimidating man who wore the finery of a lesser noble.

He had been here before only a few weeks ago, when his fath… Milos… took him to a blacksmith to be fitted for his own suit of bronze armour, and so the district’s layout was relatively fresh on his mind.

Eventually Brundt reached the next set of guards which marked the entrance to the next district. They had been far more reluctant to let him through, but also far more yielding to his authority. The area he entered next was for the lower classes - mostly labourers. The buildings were smaller and more worn down, while the people were dirtier and wore frayed tunics or rags. It was a rather shocking contrast to the finery of Cadien’s Quarter, where he had spent most of his life.

This district, he understood, was supposedly under the House of Perfection’s control, but to his knowledge the cult was making a recent push to convert the locals. From time to time he would see the symbol of the Horned Goddess or a message about Neiya etched into the wall of an alleyway. Later, as he entered the district’s square, he saw a man preaching about the love of Neiya. Then he noticed men and women in the robes of the House of Perfection approaching. Fortunately, their attention was set solely on the preacher, but Brundt decided it would be best if he moved on before he was recognized.

The borders between the poorer districts like these were supposed to be far less defined, with guards rarely being posted at the edges. And yet the House of Perfection had sent acolytes to watch the main road, with a makeshift barricade even being set up. Brundt frowned, as he considered how to get past this.

Fortunately, it was rather easy, for there were a number of lesser roads and alleyways which also led to the next district, and it was simply impossible for the House of Perfection to observe them all. Brundt simply found one of these side routes and followed it, slipping back onto the main road once he had passed the makeshift checkpoint.

He was in dangerous territory now, for this next district was entirely under the Cult’s control. It did not take many steps for it to become a wholly different experience than that of the previous poor man’s district. Debris had been stacked along the pathways in zig-zagging patterns, creating small labyrinthine walls of dirt, broken furniture, and discarded rags. Almost like walking into some barbaric display of tribalism, he came face to face with a simple wooden pole jabbed down into a refuse pile, and at it’s tip rested a guardsman’s helmet, battered into disrepair and smeared with paint like the rest of the area. Navigating this small walkway of refuse proved more tedious than difficult, but it could be assumed to serve a basic function of slowing down any larger patrols.

Passing out on the other side and into the district proper left behind much of what one could consider normal, and replaced it with what could only be said to be an otherworldly sight. Effigies of straw, wood and discarded metal had been raised, and decked with several horns jutting from it’s head. The walls of buildings were like murals, a scattered and chaotic pattern of graffiti where words mingled freely with archaic symbols, weird or unfinished drawings, and the symbol of the Love Goddess. Many of them were crude, even vile, in nature. For all the preaching of love, the images depicted could only be said to coax out the vilest thoughts in humanity. Ragged men and women littered the district, languidly sat around with nothing much to do, or caught in the midst of defacing yet another wall. On most of them, Brundt could see a medallion hang around their neck, worth more than the people by the looks of it; it was a simple design, a heart, surrounded by horns.

Brundt had regarded all this with disdain. He had been taught that one should rarely have cause to stand idle. And while art was something worth pursuing, this was nothing more than defacement; it was illegal and ugly to look upon. Yet he had also noticed a distinct lack of guards, and more than one suspicious look. He was a tall man with purple eyes and a burned face; no doubt at least a few of them had already guessed his identity.

But he pressed on, going deeper into the district, wondering what else he might find.

The main path wound around a few houses - none of which looked to have seen any maintenance in the last few years - and then began to properly open up into a square of dilapidated market stalls, old merchant’s quarters, and warehouses. A mostly untouched brass sign hung on a single of its hinges welcomed him to the Golden Row, a once reputed market area that was now but a former shadow of its former glory. Most stalls had been abandoned, their cloth stolen and requisitioned for other purposes. Others had been converted into what looked like squats for entire families.

Here too the trend continued, open areas defaced with symbols of the goddess and crude drawings. The disaffected littered the streets, talking amongst each other, going about business that could probably be considered criminal, or staked out Brundt as he passed through from perches in windowsills above. Here too, the medallions were prevalent, as were the stares. More so than before, he could see people shushing when he wandered into view, following him with their eyes and talking amongst themselves. They did not seem particularly keen on confronting him, even turning away when he looked their way, or quieting down at the very least. Still, it was no doubt word would spread quickly at this point.

Trawling through the old market district brought a shift in the established disrepair as a procession of people came into view on the far side of the square. Dark-dressed men and women, with Neiya’s insignia sewn into the fabric, stood before a larger building that looked at least a little more well-tended than the others. Though they did not seem to carry weapons, a few of them had done a poor job of masking the copper protecting their upper arms beneath the clothes. A line had formed in front of them, and each ragged commoner coming up to face them displayed the medallion Brundt had seen so many times. Those who did were ushered inside, those who could not were quickly dismissed.

Brundt stood and observed the proceedings from a distance. He did not have a medallion, and did not feel like stealing one, so it was clear they would not let him in. He watched a few people enter, and then turned away.

"A little out of your element, aren't you?" a scraping feminine voice cut from one of the nearby stalls that had stood the test of time and looting. It belonged to a worn woman with hair the color of flax. She too wore a medallion, and like the others she was doomed to be unremarkable and unkempt without it. She leaned on the old woodwork me, watching Brundt with tired, but curious eyes.

Brundt turned and eyed her warily. “I go where I please,” he replied, after a moment.

She smiled at that, but it was a smile that suggested he was not in on the joke. "We are all equal before the Goddess, friend. Welcome. Come to participate in the summoning, then?"

“The summoning?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

She nodded over towards the procession, still admitting people into the old merchant's building. "That's what they call the service. We join together and send our love to the Goddess, in hopes she will respond with her warmth. The clerics say that if all of us have only love in our hearts, Neiya will come to us and walk Ketrefa." She sniffed idly, eyeing Brundt up and down once more. "Guess some of us are not faithful enough."

“Indeed,” Brundt nodded coldly. “Some of us have chosen to only acknowledge one god, and disregard all others.”

The woman sighed softly, but retained her smile. "The Goddess' messengers teach us about the vices of the old ways. By ignoring the Goddess word, we have let ourselves become impure and unworthy. Perhaps a summoning would do you some good, friend."

“And who are these messengers?” Brundt asked her.

"Why, they're right there," she proffered, and lifted a hand to point at the dark-dressed men and women taking in people. "I heard a rumour they're all nobles from up by the Archway Garden, but you can't get anywhere near there these days without sponsorship from a cleric. The one who does summonings for us is called Naros. Nice man."

“And how do you know their messages comes from Neiya?”

The woman scoffed at that, and pulled a mocking grimace. "They came with food and blankets when the nobles let this place go to the pits. They support you, as long as you keep your faith in the Goddess. Where else would such love come from?"

Brundt looked around, at the shabby buildings, the impoverished citizens, and the desolate marketplace. “It looks to me like this place has seen better days,” he remarked.

She did not appear to like that, and her tone changed to reflect that, just as her building frown did. “My belly is full each day, and the trials of the Goddess keep me working for the good of all. What good is jewelry and finery if it does not bring us closer to Her love?”

“I have eyes, you know,” Brundt answered drily. “I see people wearing rags and families living in shacks. I speak not of jewelry and finery, but of clothing and shelter. What of those?” He shook his head.

“Those who show dedication, and faith, are allowed to live in the Court of Flames, with all the majesty that entails. To appreciate comfort, you must learn to live without it. To truly know love, you must be free of your distractions,” the flaxen-haired woman replied with growing fervor, watching him with an intensity to her eyes. No doubt others had taken note by now, or indeed, never stopped watching in the first place.

“How many are chosen, then?” Brundt asked. “And how many are left behind?”

She shook her head, lifting a hand to wave it dismissively at him. “Simply by asking that, you show you cannot let go of your distractions. We are all equal before the Goddess. Were the poisons of Ketrefa not so rife in our bodies, we would all live in splendour.”

Brundt’s frown deepened. “The gods help those who help themselves,” he told her. “You’ve allowed yourself to become dependent on faceless nobles from another district. Hoping they deem you worthy, when they don’t even know you exist.” How could they? Nobody could memorize every name and faith in an entire district. “You’ve turned your back on four gods to please one. No surprise then, that those four have turned their backs on you.”

“Look at you, spitting lies as easily as a sermon,” she began with a restrained tut. A moment’s thought, and she leaned down into her stall to fish out a small knife, and stabbed it neatly into her wooden barrier. “As if what you describe is anything different to how it was before. The four are what allowed this to occur in the first place. We will restore the natural order, and bring Neiya’s love to all.” She kept her eyes on Brundt intently, seemingly unfazed by the absolutely massive difference in size. Indeed, her eyes carried their own flame, a spite that only seemed to grow for each moment.

“You’ll restore nothing,” Brundt countered. “All around us, there is only decay. Instead of the solution, you’ve become the source.” And with those words, he turned and began walking out the way he came. The woman muttered something behind him, and he heard the sound of spitting, but no further trouble seemed to come of it. The path back towards cleaner and saner worlds was long, and though no one had really eavesdropped on their conversation - as far as he knew - the atmosphere on the walk back was rapidly turning from tense and disdainful to outright hostility. Men and women alike stared at him from the gutter, from behind doorways, and from window sills. Perhaps they’d done so the entire time, and he could only see the madness now.

It was not long before he found a reassuring sight. Over a dozen household guards, and half a dozen temple acolyes marching toward him. At their head was Gelos, though the usually calm and professional retainer bore a furious look. “By Cadien’s Grace, what were you thinking!?” he demanded, before quickly looking around. His tone quieted, and he put a hand on Brundt’s shoulder. “Come. There’s no time to argue.”

Brundt did not argue, and instead followed his escort out.



“What were you thinking?” Milos demanded, echoing Gelos’s earlier words.

Brundt stood in a room in the House of Perfection, with Varsilis, Milos, and Gelos standing before him. None were pleased. “I had to see it for myself,” he said.

“What if they had killed you?” Milos demanded. “Or captured you? Or…”

“...or convinced me to take their side?” Brundt interrupted. “Have you so little trust in me?”

“Did they?” Varsilis suddenly asked, and Brundt’s head turned to face the older man, who was still as fit and vigorous as a young adult. “Convince you to take their side?”

Brundt shook his head.

“What did they tell you?”

So, Brundt relayed the story of his encounter in the ruined marketplace, as well as everything he had seen. Varsilis nodded; it all seemed to be more or less what he expected, and there was a look of approval whenever Brundt claimed not to believe or agree with one of the woman’s points.

“It’s true,” Varsilis nodded. “The cult has provided food for the areas under control. But little else. It’s all a ploy, you see. Give them the necessities to keep them dependent, then take away the luxuries and tell them they have no need for anything else. Have them do naught but wallow in their own filth or deface their own homes in the hope that they can rise higher. They don’t know it, but they’re little better than sheep.” He shook his head disdainfully.

“If they’re sheep, then wouldn’t that make the cult shepherds?” Brundt found himself asking.

Varsilis shrugged. “There are different types of people in this world, Brundt. Sheep, Shepherds, and Wolves. Sheep do as they are told, or what they see everyone else doing. Shepherds lead the sheep. And wolves? They live outside this system, and prey on those within. So yes, you’re right. The cult are shepherds. But there are different types of shepherds, Brundt. There are those who genuinely care about their flock and wish to protect them. And there are others, who only see them as a means to an end. That’s the cult. They say they care, but everything they do only serves the ends of the few who are in charge. I don’t even know if they serve the ends of their goddess, for they haven’t done anything truly special.”

“But what if they do?” Brundt asked next. “What if… what if Neiya truly does speak to him?”

Varsilis stared at him, and chose his words carefully. “Neiya is a goddess,” he said. “She deserves respect, worship, and devotion like the others. But if she asks us to disregard the others… we cannot. Cadien and Evandra created us. Tekret made our walls and gave us law. Oraelia made the sun which provides us light and warmth. To reject an order from Neiya would be a blasphemy, yes, but to reject all other gods on her behalf?” He shook his head gravely. “That is a far worse crime.”

Brundt nodded in understanding. “I see,” he said. “Perhaps it was foolish to think they could be reasoned with.”

“It was,” Milos agreed. “We cannot afford to lose you.”

Suddenly, Brundt frowned. ‘We cannot afford to lose you’ or ‘you are chosen.’ He had heard such things his entire life. “Why?” he demanded. “Why am I so important?”

“There’s a poison in this city,” Varsilis told him. “The woman was right about that. The way we have treated outsiders, or those of lower birth… our fellow humans… it’s intolerable. But you were right too. All the cult is doing is adding a poison of their own into the mix. If not stopped, these poisons will spread throughout the city, and choke us out from the inside. That is why you are important, Brundt. It’s your destiny to stop them.”

“How?” he asked.

“It is time we figure that out. If reason will not work, then more drastic measures must be taken.”




In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Alys

&
Mathias


Twenty-five years after Antiquity…


It had been ten years since Alys and Mathias had met.

Those ten years had been… not particularly purposeful. They had burned a couple more villages after that first one they encountered, but eventually that had lost its appeal, especially when people began to actively hunt them down. Such encounters typically ended with either Alys burning them or Mathias flinging them off into the far distance.

Anyhow, burning villages was no longer fun. Once the awe of watching entire buildings go up in flame wore off, all that was left was the smoke, which stung her eyes and choked her lungs. Burning people who came after her remained entertaining, but once they had stopped razing settlements, then put enough distance between themselves and the areas they had razed, those attempts came to a stop.

As the years went on, Alys learned to better control her powers, though they could still flare up with emotional outbursts. One thing she couldn’t control was that, at even the smallest use of her magic, animals in the immediate vicinity would fly into a rage or panic, bleating loudly and trying to escape their confinement. This saddened or frustrated her at times, but eventually she stopped caring, and focused on the development of her powers.

Instead of simply burning things, she focused on more subtle arts of magic. It took time, but eventually with some guidance from Mathias she figured out how to create things that weren’t truly there - illusions.

As the years passed and Alys grew, her supernatural beauty soon became apparent. She turned heads of men and women alike whenever she was seen, with some quite literally stopping in their tracks or forgetting to breathe upon seeing her. One time the lord of a town had been determined to marry her, and she had pretended to be interested, accepting many gifts before leaving the next day. Aside from her appearance, she also had her illusion magic, which she used to put on many entertaining shows in return for payment.

Their journeys had taken them all across the Highlands, with no clear goal in mind, though Alys retained her insistence that she was in charge and always knew what she was doing.

Then a strange thing happened. Alys had heard stories of a band of warriors. Led by a white-haired warrior and a red-haired mage. The mage was unfamiliar, but the warrior? After questioning further she had discovered he went by the name of Carn.

Her brother.

She had tried to search him out, following his trail by asking around and paying attention to gossip. Eventually, however, the trail went cold. No new stories were being told.

And that brought her to today. Seated in a tavern, eyes downcast, a depressed look in her eye.

Mathius sat across from her, his form still strange and people would often stare, but fewer and fewer cared to confront them about it. "What's wrong Alys?"

“We’re not going to find him,” she whispered.

"And what makes you say that? Sure he's a bit hard to pinpoint but a white haired buff man should be easy to find."

Her frown deepened. “We haven’t heard anything new in months. It’s like he disappeared…”

Mathius pondered, admitingly he wasn't that good at finding people, he stumbled upon Alys on a fluke "Well, he does have divine blood, much like you, it's possible he had to go into hiding...maybe we try asking Cadien? he's bound to know where his children are."

“He never answers my prayers.”

"Guess he's a more hands off father," He sighed, looking around the tavern "Maybe we could try to track down one of your other siblings?"

“And where would we even begin to look? They’re probably dead.” The words were spoken coldly and with resentment, as if that was somehow their fault.

"I would like to remind you that you and your siblings have cadien's blood and gods know what other help, I highly doubt they're dead, besides, my father would've heard of any of their deaths, hopefully." He tried to ignore the resentment, he wasn't much to touch on emotions, considering he had little.

She sighed. “Then what do we do? I’ve heard nothing of Brundt or Evette, and we’ll never find Carn at this point. What are we doing, Mathias?”

"Currently? sitting in a tavern, but," He leaned in closer to Alys "Maybe we try to bring them to us?

“And how do you suggest we do that?”

"We're the creations of two gods, I'm sure we can do something that'll reach their ears, y'know, like our old burning days."

She rolled her eyes. “But that is so dull. And all sorts of annoying people pop up to try to kill us.”

"Fine, maybe then we, try something else, there's gotta be something we can think of that could attract the attention of three god children" Mathius gestured around the tavern, pondering any ideas.

Alys opened her mouth to reply, when they were interrupted by the approach of a rather confident-looking young man. He came to a stop before the table, and his gaze fell on Alys, staring at her while making no move to speak. Then she turned to glare at him. He blinked in surprise, and his cheeks reddened slightly, as he remembered why he had approached them. He cleared his throat, puffed out his chest slightly, and straightened his posture.

“Excuse me, is this man bothering you?”

Her glare lingered, then she shook her head.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Looks like he is. I can get rid of him, if you want. Won’t be any trouble.”

Mathius only looked at Alys, despite the wrappings and that he had no face, it was clear he was giving a look of 'what is happening'. Alys did not reply, and instead leaned back in her chair. Mathias could have sworn that traces of a smirk suddenly appeared on her face.

Not receiving an answer, the man turned to regard Mathias. “Listen. I can tell you’re making her uncomfortable. And the rest of us aren’t too happy to have you here either, with your robes and your… wrappings. They say that only a guilty man hides his face. So I think it’s best you be on your way.” He cracked his knuckles while speaking.

Mathius sighed "Come now, there's no need to get feisty," Mathius rose from the table placing one of his boney hands on his shoulder "I'm sure we can talk this out."

The man knocked his arm aside, and gave him a shove. “Read the room. We don’t want you here.” He shifted his gaze over to Alys, clearly hoping this display of bravado would impress her. She wore a look of complete disinterest, which suddenly gave the man pause.

Mathius chuckled "Come now, if you're gonna impress her try a little harder."

The man frowned, then his frown became a scowl. “Didn’t want to hurt you too badly, old man, but if you’re asking for it…” he twisted his body, and then launched a roundhouse kick directly at Mathias’s midsection.

The attack was, in truth, harmless to Mathius, but he decided to make a show of it, reeling backwards a bit, but grabbing the man's leg, pulling him forward, hoping Alys was having her fun.

The man’s eyes widened, and he attempted to pull his foot free, hopping on one foot to retain his balance. “A truly valiant display of heroics…” Alys said drily, earning a few chuckles while the man’s face flushed in embarrassment.

Mathius was beginning to get a bit annoyed by this whole endeavor and figured he would show this man a lesson. He let go of the leg, and in the same instant he rapidly raised his free hand, his rags glowed ever so slightly and the man was thrown, not a long distance this time, only a few feet, not enough to hurt but enough to get his point across.

The man fell onto his back. It had all happened so quickly that nobody had blinked at Mathias’s display of power - it looked more as if he had pushed the boy rather than telepathically throw him.

“Alright, that’s enough,” the bartender snapped. “Break it up.” He hauled the boy to his feet. “Go home,” he barked, before turning on Mathias. “And you, no more of that.” The latter warning was half-hearted though, and the bartender quickly went back to his business. As the man walked out of the tavern in embarrassment, Alys hung her head, bored once again.

“There has to be something fun to do,” she sighed.

Mathius turned to look at her, the expression of ‘really?’ forming with his rags, before, an idea sprang into his mind, not so lightly aided by his creator. ”Wait Alys, he quickly sat down once more across from her, ”People seem to always be drawn towards you right?”

She nodded. “So what?”

He leaned in closer ”I think I just figured out what we can do, what's the best thing to draw the attention of divine heroes?” He paused for a brief moment for the flair and quieted his voice somewhat ”A cult!” he added some jazz hands for more flair.

“A cult?” she asked, thinking about it for a few moments. “Hm. Maybe one dedicated to the most beautiful woman in the world?” she asked, her lips curling into a smile.

Mathius paused for a few seconds, should’ve, should’ve expected that response. ”Indeed, that and, with the aid of a god known for some, dramatic flair?” he gestured towards himself to get the point across.

“Dramatic flair?” she asked. “Sounds more like a group of magicians and bards than a cult.”

”Well, ya, thats kind of the point, on the outside it looks nice, like a carnival of sorts so we don’t get thrown out, but behind the mask we have ulterior motives, grow our support, travel around, cause some trouble, rumors begin, your siblings arrive, besides, if word got around of a white haired woman leading a group of bizarre entertainers, that’d be sure to get their attention.”

Alys thought about for another moment. “Well,” she decided. “The people of this ‘cult’ should at least be good looking.”

"I expect nothing less, think of it, beautiful men and woman craving for your attention, leading your own cult across the highlands, performing for the world while, partaking in the more, sinful, ways of life, it’d be pretty fun wouldn’t it?”

“Perhaps it would,” she agreed. “How do we get started?”

”Well, how about we use that power of yours to start gathering a few, willing, participants? Entice them in with words of love and of the Director, get them to take oaths, that sort of deal.”

She nodded. “Yes. I think I like that idea. We can’t let in just anyone, though…”


They had found their first recruit in the capital of Merok. A rather handsome-looking singer who had been unable to keep his eyes off of Alys. By the next morning, she had convinced him to join Mathias and her as a travelling companion. As the weeks past, they travelled from village to village, making a name for themselves as entertainers - she with her magic; him with his voice and instrument.

As the months went on, she eventually convinced more to join her, starting their own little troup. The members of that troup soon began vying for her favour, each determined to impress her, which she was able to exploit to retain their loyalty. Inevitably they wound up witnessing the true extent of hers and Mathias’s abilities, but in doing so they proved themselves to truly have the favour of the gods, which if anything only strengthened their hold over the members further.

Mathius too held his own sway over the troup, his avatar powers cemented his position as a kind of second in command. He would aid in the performances with a Yamatian flair and would defend them in case any trouble arose. Of course he would also speak the mantra of the God of Tragedy to those who joined, it was subtle, but the beauty of tragedy began to worm its way into the members, making its corrupting way into their mind and soon granting them the benefits of tragedy to aid them.

Thus, the Carnival was born.




In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 5 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Carnelian



Carn frowned.

Less than a hundred men. Some of them armed only with scythes, pitchforks, and pickaxes.

This was his army.

He and Lothar had gone from village to village, delivering rousing speeches and telling them of the victory at Thyma. Not all had welcomed the news. Some had chased him out. One chieftain had attempted to capture him with the intention of selling him out to the Ketrefans. After seeing him cut down the chieftain and his guards with unnatural prowess, that had been enough to convince the locals there was something divine about him, and so they pledged themselves to his cause.

But not all of them were fighters. And in the end, his ‘army’ amounted to maybe eighty men at most. Eighty men against… who knows how many? Hundreds? Thousands? The last attempt to take down Ketrefa had occurred centuries ago, and accounts differed as to the numbers deployed by both sides.

Some stories portrayed Ketrefa as an unstoppable force with numbers beyond counting swarming over an outnumbered and under-equipped band of farmers. Other tales portrayed them as a small elite warband that took on a foe several times their number, and prevailed.

What he did know was that Ketrefa’s warriors were trained, and even their most junior soldier was better-equipped than the best-armed man in his own paltry force. “We need more weapons. And armour…” he whispered during a meeting in the chieftain’s longhouse.

“And men,” added Yarwick, the Chieftain of Thyma.

“You will need to go further,” Lothar insisted. “Find more faithful.”

“And leave our homes undefended?” Yarwick demanded. “They’ll come here first. If we’re on the other side of the Highlands making speeches and training men, we can’t protect our people. They’ll kill everyone, just to set an example, and then they’ll come after us.”

Carn sighed. “We’ll need to look elsewhere,” he decided. “But not too far. Any village that pledges fealty to us will expect our protection. If too many swear themselves to us at this stage, we’ll spread ourselves thin trying to defend them all. In the meantime, stockpile anything that might serve as armour or a decent weapon.”



“Donnie, I dunno what I was thinkin’. Oudda all the places fate takes me, she dumps me on my ass in tha middle a’ some down-on-its-luck, backwater village. Ain’t nobody buyin’ my stuff ‘ere!” “Cut-my-own-throat” Jimmy the Peddler, so named for his business practices, rested his chin on his propped-up hand in defeat as he gazed out across the empty marketplace. Next to his improvised stall was the local cabbage peddler, Donnie Crumb, guarding his cart with equal disappointment smeared across his face.

“Tell me about it, Ain’t sold a single cabbage, I ain’t,” Donnie sulked back. “Is like they don’t even want ‘em. Sure, there’s talk’a war ‘n all, but since when did that stop cabbage bid’niss, huh? Since when?”

“You tell ‘em, kehd, you tell ‘em.” Some women came running past carrying supplies, catching both their eyes. “Heh-hey! You two lovelies needin’ some fancy trinkets for the husband back home?! We got a special deal in these terrible times! Just for you aaaaand they’re gone, ain’t they?”

“They’re gone.”

Jimmy slammed his fist into his stall table. “We get no respect around ‘ere, kehd. Ain’t nobody lookin’ out for the lil’ man no more. Breaks my damn heart, it do.”

“It do, it do.”

An entourage of men in armour approached from the opposite end of the marketplace, once more snatching up their attention. Donnie gave a whistle. “What’chu bettin’ they’re here to take our stuff?”

“I bet you a copper drakma they’re here t’ -buy- our stuff!” Jimmy challenged and straightened himself up, gesturing widely to his shiny trinkets and thingy-magiggs. “Gentlemen - welcome to my humble lil’ store! Take your time lookin’ around - we’s got a very special deal today, only for our boys on the front.” Donnie rolled his eyes with a smirk.



The leader of the group was clad in bronze, with a hood pulled up over his head. Those accompanying him wore mismatched assortments of boiled leather and more bronze. There was also a robed figure, who seemed to be some sort of priest.

Carn pulled his hood down, to reveal his silver hair and violet eyes, as his gaze shifted over to the merchant who had called out to him. One of the men whispered something into his ear. Carn listened with a serious expression on his face, then looked back to the merchant, and began to approach. A light smile appeared on his face.

“Is that so?” he asked. “I don’t suppose you’d have anything that might help me win a war?”

Jimmy smacked his hands together and rubbed them schemingly. “Ho-ho-ho, do I?” He ducked down behind his stall and came back up with a bejeweled ceremonial axe fashioned from copper - its edge was speckled with quartz and its shaft was a long cylinder of smooth ashwood. The thin blade, however, looked awfully inconvenient in battle, being thin and attached to the shaft with only a thin copper rod. Jimmy softly smoothed his fingers across the metal and spoke, “This here’s my most prized possession - worthy only of a good customer, such as yaself. Neckbane ‘ere’s killed hundreds - if not thousands - ‘n legends say is blessed by the lady ‘erself! The mighty girl’a fire, Evandra. For you, though, I’ll cut my own throat - a hundred drakmas and she’s yours, kehd!”

Lothar frowned. “You’re speaking to Carnelian, the Chosen of Cadien, not some mere ‘kid.’ Show some respect.”

Carn, meanwhile, drew his sword, and casually held it so that the silvery steel shimmered in the sunlight. “I have a blessed blade of my own,” he said rather drily. “I don’t suppose you have anything else?”

Jimmy gasped. “Chosen a’ Cadien?!” He tossed the axe over his shoulder into a pile of junk behind him, making a ruckus. “Well, why didn’ ya say so? Don’ wanna sell crap t’ such an important customer! Here, check this out…” He ducked under the counter again and, with effort, hauled up a large, round shield of bronze-reinforced wood, beautifully painted with a red dragon of a white background. “This ‘ere, this is my most prized p’ssession, ‘n I want you to know, I ain’t ever shown this to anyone else - but you, you’re special, my friend, so this ‘ere, is fa’ you. Only one fifty - cutting my own throat here for ya, come on.”

Carn shook his head. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, sliding his sword back into its sheathe.

Jimmy let out a “prrt” and put the shield down. “A’right, a’right, a’right - you, mista’, ‘re obviously lookin’ for the special goods.” With that, he turned around, circling behind the pile of junk at the far back of his stall and bringing over a crate which content looked much heavier than they could be, given how easily he carried it compared to the shield. He sucked in a deep breath before tilting the crate over and pouring what amounted to a full set of silvery, gold-rimmed armour onto the counter desk, careful not to let any small parts fall down onto the ground. An empty helmet stared coldly up at Carn and sounded metallic rings as Jimmy drummed his greasy fingers around its scalp. “This ‘ere, this is my most prized possession - an enchanted set’a armour, harder than anythin’ you’s ever saw. Blessed by the gods above, by Tekret, I swears it - it even knows how ta talk.” He knocked on the helmet. “Hellooooo! Titania, you awake, sugar?!”

There came no response. Jimmy scrunched his nose. “She’s, uh, she’s a bit shy every now and then. Still, nice piece a’ work, right? Tell you what - it’s yours for three hundred drakmas - and my throat’s practically already bleedin’ out with that offer.”

Carn offered a skeptical frown. “A talking suit of armour,” he mused, as he reached forward to take the helmet from the merchant, and turned it over in his hands. “I’ve never known anyone to make armour out of silver,” he said after a moment’s thought. “All the smiths I spoke to said it was shiny but of little use.”

Jimmy wagged his finger. “Nah, not silver, mista’.” He dug out the axe from earlier, wound up a downwards cut and struck the breastplate. The axeblade visibly dulled, but the breastplate hadn’t even received a scratch - in fact, it was as thought the strike only had served to knock some dust off the metal. The peddler let out a triumphant “hah!” and lobbed the useless axe over his shoulder again. “It may look like it, but this ‘ere baby’s somethin’ else. She keeps sayin’ she’s got ties to the moon goddess.”

“Definitely god-blessed,” added Donnie next to them, who was trying to push cabbages onto Lothar in exchange for basically anything.

“Definitely. I’mma lower the price to three fifty, though, just because I’m such a good guy and you’re such a good customer.”

Carn scowled. “The original offer was three hundred.”

“Three hundred? Nah, nah, nah, I clearly said four hundred - sorry, my accent’s odd to locals. I said four hundred, right, Donnie?”

“Sure did, Jimmy. C’mon, sir, I’ll give ya six heads for that fancy dagger on ya belt,” the cabbage peddler begged.

Carn glanced down at his dagger, and he had to remind himself that it was the sort of blade only a cabbage farmer would think of as ‘fancy.’ He looked back up at Jimmy. “So here’s the thing, Jimmy,” he said after a moment. “Your first offer was an axe, which you claim to be blessed by Evandra herself, and supposedly it killed thousands. Yet it dulled after one swing, and you discarded it as if it was worthless. How do I know the axe wasn’t just terrible?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Details, details - what’s important right now is what’s in front’a ya, mista’, not that junk in the back’a my store. I’m tellin’ ya, this armour ‘ere? The genuine article. Tell ya what - if ya got a weapon ya don’t value, give it a swing. If you make even a single dent, you can have it for free - cut my own throat.”

Carn frowned at that, and placed the helmet back on the table. “A worthwhile suit of armour should be able to hold up to a weapon that someone does value.” And with those words, he drew his holy sword back from its scabbard, and swung it down at the top of the helmet. Against all expectation, however, while the weapon itself didn’t shatter or dull, it failed to make a single dent, or even evidence that it had ever struck it. It did manage to cause a mighty metallic ring within the cavity of the helmet, and Jimmy gave an almost mocking snicker.

“Ouchie, looks like the shady peddler was right afta’ all, huh?” he said and rubbed his nails on his chest. However, before he could open his mouth again, there came an uncomfortable groan from within the helmet itself, as though there was a head inside that had had to endure that terrible noise.

”Ugh, oh, by the… What was that noise…? Where am I…?”

“Eeeey! She awakens, finally! As I said, mista’ - the genuine article. Four hundred drakmas and she’s yours.”

The guards accompanying Carn gasped, but Carn himself was no stranger to unusual sights, and his eyebrows only rose in response. “So it does talk,” he said aloud. “Your name is Titania?”

“Yeah, she keeps callin’ herself that whenever I ask, anyway,” Jimmy interjected. “So, uh, how’s about that payment, since ya two’re obviously too attached ta be separated again? C’mon, four fifty, cuttin’ my own throat.”

There came a soft, metallic whimper. ”What year is this? Do any of you know where we are?”

“You’re in a village called Thyma,” Carn answered. “Is what the merchant said true? You have a connection to the moon goddess?” He immediately held up a hand to forestall any further babbling from the merchant.

”Wait, Thyma? No, no, no - that’s nowhere near where I was before I… Merchant Santel, where are you?!”

“Oh, yeah, right - forgot to mention, she sometimes passes out for months and only whimpers in fever dreams and whatnot. Santel’s the guy I bought her off of… For a second time.”

”Bought me?! I was safeguarding the villagers of Ironstone in the Anchor Mountains and--”

“Well, those villagers lost, stuff happened, and now you’s with me - unless this fine gentleman coughs up the coin ta buy ya off’a me, that is.” He turned his focus back to Carn. “About that…”

“Be silent,” Carn snapped at him, before looking back down at the helmet with curiosity. “Is this man holding you against your will, then?”

There came a metallic scoff. ”I cannot be held by anyone! My plate is the armour of creation--”

“Oh boy, ya got her started…”

”... My mail is the barrier against evil! I am the agent of Gibbou the All-Protector - Titania, the Shield Against the Darkness!” During the whole presentation, she remained perfectly still, and it was difficult to tell whether it was due to fantastic control or a lack thereof. She huffed at Carn. ”If I was being held against my will, I would’ve fixed this a long time ago, thank you very much.”

Lothat dropped to one knee upon hearing her speech. Carn, meanwhile, kept his calm. “An agent of Gibbou, you say? That’s rather interesting, considering I’m an Agent of Cadien. This can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

The armour clicked its metaphorical tongue. ”An agent of Cadien, huh? You’ll do fine as a user. Quickly - put me on. We have not a moment more to waste!” That instant, her helmet as picked up by Jimmy, who stared her into her eye-slits.

“Hey, hey, hey - don’t get ahead of yaself, sugar. The gentleman ‘ere still ain’t bought ya, got it?” He extended a hand out to Carn, flexing and unflexing the index finger. “Five hundred, mista’ - can’t go no lower.”

Lothar leapt to his feet. “You insolent worm!” the priest suddenly exploded. “To put a price on divine artifacts? To raise that price, while claiming to be lowering it in the same breath? To speak to Cadien’s Chosen as if he were a child, and to lie to his face!? You will pay for-”

“Lothar, that’s enough!” Carn snapped, before setting his gaze on Jimmy. “You can’t expect me to pay that much. I don’t even think there are five hundred coins in this entire village, yet alone in my possession.”

“If I may,” another man suddenly interjected, stepping forward. It was Yarwick; Chieftain of Thyma, who had been among Carn’s guard. “I’m the chieftain of this village, and it’s my job to settle disputes like this.” The burly man stroked his chin and peered down at the armour, before looking back up at the merchant. “Let’s see. You came into this village and set up a stall without first asking my permission. I reckon that’s worth a fine - let’s say, fifty of your drakmas. Then, you tried to sell false goods, so that’s another fine. A hundred drakmas seems a fair punishment. You also committed a few blasphemies against the gods, so I reckon you owe our priest here a donation to serve as recompense. A hundred more drakmas; that seems fair. And you’ve probably heard that we’re at war, so I think I’ll need to put a tithe on a sale such as this. Thirty drakmas.”

“Now, I do believe your original asking price was three hundred drakmas,” the chieftain went on, as he continued to stroke his beard. “As chieftain, I’m going to say you’re obligated to stay true to that. So, final price: twenty drakmas.”

Jimmy offered each of them a disappointed frown. “Huh… So this is what the people a’ Thyma do ta humble workin’ people? The lil’ guys? Ya make these arbitrary punishments ta get whachu want? Tell ya what - bet this village ain’t even -had- fines before. Bet this what the first time ya even heard a’ usin’ drakmas. Just my luck ta choose the literal backwater a’ the country. Should’a gone ta Ketrefa, Donnie - ‘least there they know how ta treat people right.” He lobbed the helmet back onto the pile, where Titania offered a grunt. “Fine, take her. Take her for free if ya want. Ya already ruined me. Gonna head back ta my family now - empty-handed, all my six kids. My wife’ll probably go back ta screwin’ my brother after this - ya know what that’s like, mista’ chieftain? Nah, you don’t - you just go around feedin’ off the hard work’a us folks, really just bitin’ deep into our necks like some sorta’ vampire. Can you life with yaself afta’ this? Can ya?”

Carn had ignored the monologue, instead rifling through his pockets and pouches.

“What even is a drakma anyway?” one of the guards asked.

“A currency used in one of the cities,” Carn had said, talking over Jimmy’s monologue while emptying the contents of a money-pouch in one hand. “Hm. I have thirteen coins here. Only four of them are drakmas, but the rest are either bigger or made of more valuable metal.”

Chieftain Yarwick fished into his own pocket and pulled out a few more coins, which he handed over to Carn. “Nineteen in total,” Carn declared. “One short, but some of these are worth more than drakmas, so it more than evens out.” He shrugged, before slipping the coins into the pouch and tossing it to the merchant, not paying any heed to the story. He then reached down and collected the pieces of armour. “By the way,” he said after a moment. “I wouldn’t go to Ketrefa, if I were you.”

The merchant sourly inspected the coins. “Ya do realise these’re not worth more than drakmas, because they’re -not- drakmas, meanin’ I would have ta go to the city -they- are from ta use ‘em, right? Ya know what kinda trip that is, kehd? That ain’t no small trip. I’m talkin’ -innocent- lives ‘ere that you ‘n ye goons’re tossin’ to the, to the leons’a the city, kehd. My kids’re gonna be slavin’ for soup at this rate - I can practically hear my cousins’ goin’ at my wife as we speak!”

The Chieftain’s expression quickly faded from amusement to anger. “You speak to us of slavery?” he snapped. “Have you ever lost someone to one of Ketrefa’s raids? Do you know what happens to people who are taken to that city? Count yourself lucky if you never find out, and if you already know, then hold your damned tongue before I rip it out. You have until sundown to leave.”

Carn meanwhile, had already begun walking away with the armour. “Sorry about that,” he said apologetically. “At least you’re free of him, eh?”

”What are you doing?! Unhand me this instant!” shouted the armour, though it didn’t seem to be doing much.

Carn frowned, and came to a sudden stop. “You told me to put you on.”

”Take me back to the merchant. There is something I must do.”

His frowned deepened. “Very well.” Slowly, he turned around and made his way back to the stall, gently placing it on the table.

There came a slight sigh. ”Please… Please turn my head so I’m facing him. Yeah, like that, like--... No, now I’m tilted a bit too much and-- oh yeah! There, there. Ahem. Jimmy the Peddler!”

The merchant, who had been kicking his junk angrily back into their crates, offered her a sulky frown. “Yeah, what d’you want, sugar? Bit busy right now.”

The armour sat steadfast on the counter. ”You said innocent lives would be lost, correct? That your children would be enslaved and that your wife would… Do things with… Other people than you? Is this information true?”

The sulk deepened and Jimmy brought his fingers to squeeze away some tears. “Yup, sure is, sugar. All ten a’ them - gonna be scrubbin’ streets with soapy water - not even gettin’ a bowl’a stew a day, if ya’d call -that- stew. As for Marilyn, well, my uncle always fancied her - can’t blame ‘im, honestly…”

”Right! Details! Too many… Ugh, anyway - if innocent lives are at stake, I will aid you.” Suddenly, the trash and scrap in the pile of junk Jimmy was kicking became solid gold; the drapes of his humble stall became the smoothest silk; the ashwood of his poles and counter became mahogany. The merchant choked a squeal as he fell to his knees in bafflement, grabbing some gold with quivering hands. Titania hummed. ”You sounded as though three hundred of these, uh, drak-mothers was a considerable amount. You have been compensated for your troubles. I pray this’ll be enough to provide for your family.”

Jimmy wiped away a single tear with a handful of silk drape. “... It’ll do just about, sugar.” His every being looked to be suppressing the energy of a volcanic eruption, but he managed to nod solemn farewells to Titania as he scrambled to bag and pocket as much of the gold as he could before too much attention was drawn to them.

After Carn, Yarwick, and Lothar managed to get over their collective astonishment they walked away. Yarwick was muttering about “that was far better than that lying oaf deserved”, while Lothar appeared deeply conflicted, for the man had clearly been lying but what sort of priest would question divine judgement?

Carn parted ways from the three and went into a hut which he had been using as his own quarters. In the dim hut, he removed the cloak and the bronze plate, then finally began equipping the newly-acquired suit of divine mail.

There came a grunt. ”The mail shirt goes underneath the plate. I recommend wearing a long linen undershirt for additional protection and proper drainage of sweat. I might be light, but you might not be accustomed to having your whole body covered. It will get quite hot.”

It was advice Carn already knew, but he decided not to question it. “So here is the situation,” he said, after he had donned the helmet. “My name is Carn… Carnelian, I mean. There is a city called Ketrefa. They regularly send men into the surrounding countryside to raid settlements. They take food and people. The people they make into slaves, to work their fields, serve in their minds, or act as the personal servants to their nobility. Not too long ago, they sent a warband here, to do the same thing. But I stopped them.”

”Ah, I see you are a man of protection as well,” proclaimed the armour. ”I was right to choose you as my vehicle. Together, we will make certain the innocents of this land can be free of evil’s molestation and enslavement! With me on, nothing can hurt you - not a single thing. You’ll be an invincible champion of the people, a shield against the darkness!”

“You sound like Lothar,” Carn remarked. “Anyway, this has created a bit of a problem. The Ketrefans don’t like being challenged, so now we’re at war with them. They’re going to be sending an army here soon, and if I can’t defeat them, they’ll kill everyone in this village,” he revealed with a grim expression. “I have less than a hundred fighters, and not all of them are properly equipped.”

The armour chuckled proudly. ”If they are enemies of justice, then they will be smitten like the demons they are! Take me to the edges of the village - we’ll need proper fortifications first!”

Carn shrugged, and left the building. Villagers gawked at the sight of him in his new, unusual armour. He approached the edge of the village, where a short wooden pallisade had been built. “It’s not just this village I need to defend,” he pointed out. “A few others have given their support as well, and they’re in just as much danger once Ketrefa finds out.”

”Then this will serve as the point of battle, I take it? Leave this to me!” In a blinding flash of light, the palisade quaked and twisted, growing ten metres tall in the blink of an eye and turning to solid stone. Stairways grew out of the wall, leading up to the battlements, which themselves were richly reinforced with stone shielding to protect archers on the inside. Titania chuckled another proud laugh. ”Hah! Let’s see them break through -this-!”

“By the gods…” Carn whispered in astonishment, as the village behind him was flung into chaos at the sudden change. Men, women, and children alike whispered, pointed, and yelled. He shifted his gaze back to the settlement’s interior. “I suppose I’ll need to somehow restore order, then. Maybe give some sort of speech.”

”Turn aface and let me address them. They need to know that hope has arrived!”

“Good,” Carn offered a small smile. “I’ve always hated giving speeches.” Though some part of him was concerned; what if his followers thought it was the armour giving the orders, and not the other way around? He’d have to take care not to rely on it too heavily. He re-entered the market, where Chieftain Yarwick was already shouting for order, and Lothar could be seen kneeling in prayer. Titania drew a symbolic breath and shouted:

”Be calm, townsmen of Thyma! This was the work of me - Titania, the Shield Against the Darkness and agent of Gibbou the All-Protector! There are enemies on the horizon, no doubt - had fate been any crueler, the battle would already have been lost. Fear not, however, for I have come to protect you all! There walls are my gift to you - my promise to you - that no matter what happens, no enemy will make its way inside and take even a single slave, or worse, life! This, I swear on my holy blood!” She would have raised a hand in the air if she could.

Her words caused a sudden confusion. Why was their leader suddenly speaking in a woman’s voice, by a different name? Lothar’s prayers halted, and the priest rose to his feet with concern in his eyes. Carn removed the helmet, to show that he had in fact not been possessed by the suit. “The gods have been kind to us,” he declared. “The armour I wear was blessed by the Goddess Gibbou herself, and her words are true. But do not forget! The gods may give us gifts, but it still we who must wield them. It is we who must stand on this wall and defend it when the time comes. It is we who must march beyond the wall when we are ready, for we will never truly be safe until Ketrefa is defeated. So stay vigilant! Keep training! Two gods watch over us, so let us prove our worth!”

His words were met with cheers, even if they still didn’t fully understand how the strange suit of armour functioned. “The Champion of Cadien, and the Voice of Gibbou, have spoken!” Lothar proclaimed. “Heed their words, and they shall lead you to freedom!”






In Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV → 5 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Evette


Twenty-three years after Antiquity...


Evette was back in her room in Korstone, kneeling in prayer. This was no usual prayer, however. It was a question that had always hung in the back of her mind.

"Why?" she asked aloud.

In response she received only silence.

"They said my father was your champion. That my abilities were a mark of your favour. I dedicated the last two years of my life to helping others and destroying humanity's foes. And yet, I have never heard your voice. I have met the avatar of Oraelia, and the Sun Goddess has personally spoken to me. But never you. Always silence." She took a deep breath. "Why?"

It was not time.

She perked up. Her eyes widened. "L-lord Cadien."

Indeed. You have questions. I will not begrudge you them.

She was still taken aback. And yet, it was not the first time she had spoken to a god, and so she quickly recovered. "Why didn't you protect my village?"

It is a difficult thing, to intervene in Galbarian affairs, Cadien answered. We gods are not as powerful as we once were. But rest assured, I have been watching you and your siblings ever since you made your escape.

"My... my siblings? They're alive?"

They are. Carn, Alys, Brundt. All of them.

Her heart leapt. "Where are they?"

You will meet them all, in time. You must have patience. You still have a task to perform.

"A task?"

The eradication of all abominations, Cadien answered. Vampires, Iskrill... that was what you set out to do, was it not?

"I set out to eradicate threats to the innocent..." she whispered.

Which happen to include vampires and iskrill. The ended result is the same.

"But how?" she asked. "I have been given power, but I'm just one person. I can't be in two places at once, and I can't fight entire species on my own."

That's the problem, Cadien replied. You are just one person. Find others to help you. Form an organization. Spread them out. Have them hunt the abominations on your behalf.

"There aren't many who can stand up to a vampire..." Evette whispered.

As things currently stand? No. But I can change that. I am, after all, the God of Perfection.

"Change it how?"

I shall bestow blessings and power upon whoever joins your organization. So long as they remain dedicated, they shall have the power they need to hold their own against mankind's foes. And I've already thought of a fitting way to bestow such a blessing...

"What do you mean?"

The blessing shall be transferred through blood, Cadien decided. Rather fitting, I think. Yes... mix an evening bell and a violet with some of your blood - or anyone else who has partaken in such a mixture. In doing so, they will pledge themselves to you, and will be granted enhanced skills so long as they remain loyal. They only need to consume it once. Once you have trained them, you may send them across the land, to go where you will not, and hunt abominations in your stead. Is that agreeable?

Evette considered that for a moment. In truth, the idea of getting other people to drink her blood seemed a vile prospect. Was it really any different from the vampires? And yet... it would be her own blood, which she was voluntarily giving up. And anyone who joined her order would do so willingly. And this was all to continue hunting vampires and other similarly dangerous creatures. On second thought, the process didn't seem so bad at all, even if it was still somewhat odd. But she nodded her head. "Very well."

She felt a brief surge of power flow through her, but then quickly went back to normal. Very well, Evette. You are now the first of the Night Templars. Go forth, rally more to your banner, and set them loose.






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